“Stella came with the samples. Half a dozen films, American and European versions. Orders before Monday.”

“You forgot the crucial bit,” she snarled. “Tell him I get seriously pissed off with men who stand me up.” She zipped the bag up again and stormed out. Lindsay couldn’t see any point in following Stella any further. There was no need for overkill. Why bother hunting for a rifle when you already had an Exocet missile, Lindsay wondered.

She abandoned her pretence of studying the repulsive magazines and walked out of the shop. She felt like she needed a shower and a change of clothes, least of all because of the heat. But most of all, she needed a drink. Before she could do that, though, she had one more task to perform.

Glancing up and down the street, she saw a pair of telephone boxes on the corner. She walked up there and shut herself into one, seeing to her surprise that, like American pay phones, it took credit cards as well as money. “Nice one,” she said appreciatively, swiping her card through the slot and calling directory inquiries. A voice worryingly like that of Margaret Thatcher gave her the number of Media Masters and she keyed it in. “Media Masters, Julie-Anne speaking,” a woman’s voice chirruped.

Time to play a hunch. “Hey,” Lindsay said, going for Californian. “My name is Catherine Parvenu and I’m an independent film-maker out of Los Angeles. Now, I’m in town for a few days, and I need some video facilities. Can you tell me, do you have editing suites for hire?”

“Well, yes, we do, but I’m afraid they’re fully booked until early next week. I can put you on stand-by, if you like, but I can’t make any promises.”

“Gee, that’s a pity. I really need something right away. Never mind, I’ve got a couple other numbers I can call. Tell me, do you also do video copying?”

“We do, madam. Single and multiple copies, US and UK format, overnight express facilities available.”

“And do you have spare capacity this week? I’m looking for fifty copies of a one-hour VHS, US format. Can you do that?”

“One moment, madam, let me check the diary . . . Yes, we can accommodate you. When will the master be available?”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that. Thanks a lot, Julie-Anne, I’ll be back to you tomorrow, okay?”

“We’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

“You have a nice day now.” Lindsay intoned the West Coast mantra without obvious irony.

Now she’d confirmed her guess at what Media Masters did, she really needed that drink. Leaving the car where it was, she headed off into the heart of Soho and soon found a café bar where women who were enough like her for it to feel like home sat round a horseshoe-shaped bar drinking beer out of long-necked bottles. She ordered a Rolling Rock and savored the moment’s anticipation before the first swallow. She twirled the bottle, expecting to read through the drops of condensation the legend “Brewed in the glass-lined tanks of Old Latrobe.” Instead, she discovered it was brewed in the tradition of Old Latrobe somewhere in the south of England. She sighed so hard the woman next to her asked what was wrong.