‘I can’t join the Time Police,’ I said. ‘I have . . . responsibilities. Commitments I must honour.’ The old man was very big on honouring commitments. Now was obviously a good time to make a start. ‘I’ve got Glastonbury. And Wimbledon. A fortnight at a mate’s house in the Caribbean. There’s the test match next month. I can’t let people down.’

‘Mr Parrish has instructed me to say that letting people down is second nature to you. And that you have never shown the slightest inclination to shoulder any of your responsibilities. The Tannhauser affair was the last straw, I’m afraid. Responsibilities are about to be imposed upon you.’

‘I know the Time Police,’ I lied. ‘You can’t just waltz in and sign on the dotted line. There are tests and interviews and . . . things.’

‘All of which have been completed on your behalf.’

I scoffed. ‘They wouldn’t take me sight unseen.’

‘They know you by reputation. Everyone knows you by reputation.’

Ten minutes ago I might have thought that was a compliment.

‘I am sure your vanity will be happy to hear it took a very great deal of persuasion and an extremely large sum of money to induce the Time Police even to contemplate the idea. You are not cheap, Mr Parrish.’

Time to switch on even more Parrish charm and get myself out of this. I pulled my chair closer still, smiled into her flint-hard eyes and said, ‘I’ve never been cheap, Ms Steel, but I can assure you I am extremely good value.’

Not a flicker. Not a bloody flicker. I was obviously a lot more hungover than I thought. Or she was a lesbian. Yes, that was far more likely. Typical Dad to send a lesbian.

‘Officially, your father has made a very generous contribution to their Widows and Orphans Fund. They were extraordinarily grateful.’

The net was closing. ‘I’ll bet they were.’

‘To the extent they would take even you.’

I noticed we were back to the ‘even’ again. Lesbian, for sure.

‘So,’ she said, indicating the dead trees strewn across the table. ‘It’s all here. Travel documents. Joining instructions.’ She paused for the kicker. ‘Contract of employment.’

I leaped at a perceived opportunity. ‘I haven’t signed a contract.’

‘Haven’t you?’ She pushed a document across the table and I peered at it. The throbbing behind my eyes now quite bad and getting worse by the second, because there was my signature. Quite definitely mine. The clouds of alcohol grudgingly parted to make room for the airbus of memory. I had vague memories of signing an enormous number of bar bills. This must have been among them and I hadn’t noticed.

I pushed it back. ‘Signed under the influence of alcohol. And a couple of other things as well. Probably not legal.’