The red silk curtains were closed but, as a single spotlight lit the stage, they opened up: a five-foot martini glass complete with an outsized stuffed olive occupied centre stage. Dita von Teese had a lot to answer for. Every stripper in the world now thought they were in a classy profession that required them to climb out of or onto things every night. A girl reminiscent of Rita Hayworth strolled on dragging a simple wooden chair behind her. Renee Smith had aged well. Joe sat up straight and I kicked him. The silver lamé evening gown was held together with Velcro and, in no time at all it was ripped off and lying round her feet. Six-inch silver platform shoes, a nude-coloured satin basque and stockings were all she wore as climbed onto the chair. In one deft move she climbed into the martini glass, which had a chair as well as an olive in it. Joe wore a frown, which I assumed was for my benefit.

‘Let’s go round the back to see her when she gets off stage,’ I said, trying to distract him as much as trying to find Renee. A bouncer stood at the stage with the precise purpose of stopping punters jumping up on the girls, but he took one look at Joe’s size and backed off as we pushed through the curtain. We had to traverse the wings, which were a small corridor of curtains. The next artiste stood waiting to go on, and I could hear that she was on her mobile to her mother while she passed the time. She was a vision in ostrich feathers. I assumed she would be doing a fan dance. Backstage proper was dingy. There was a battered brown door with a star on it, and I knocked and walked in. A long mirror with lights round it dominated the room; women’s clothes hung everywhere and the stench of hairspray was so intense it activated my gagging reflex.

‘Does Lola d’Amour change here?’ I asked a girl with red shiny tassels on her nipples. ‘No,’ she shook her head and the tassels swung. I turned round to find Joe who was waiting outside the door. ‘Lola’s dressing room is along here.’ He pointed up the corridor. ‘Are you sure that’s her, Brodie? She looked awful young. Isn’t she meant to be loads older–like thirty or something?’ Joe realized his faux pas just as my foot made its way to his shin again. ‘Thirty isn’t quite the ancient age you might think,’ I told him. ‘You didn’t seem to be complaining last time you were close to it. Anyway, it fits in with what I’ve been thinking–not only has Renee been in contact with Graham Marshall, it looks like he may have done some work on her. Old pals stick together, after all.’