Her hair was down and her body poured into the turquoise shantung dress I’d bought her at Dior a few weeks earlier on a spree. She’d embellished it with a cream organza shawl and a necklace of ivory bones that showed off her tan. Her eyes were a little hooded, and one shoulder sloped oddly: she was either drunk, or high, or both.

I felt the tension leave me. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ I said, raising my voice so I could be heard over a saxophone solo. She laughed gaily and offered me her hand. I took it and she led me away from the stage, towards her table.

‘Yes, well, I’m sorry, too. Where on earth have you been? Killing Russians again?’

I forced a smile. ‘Not quite. But something came up.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’ve been quite happy, really. I bumped into one of Daddy’s friends and he’s been entertaining me in your absence - such a charming man, and so knowledgeable. I believe he’s also in your game?’

The tall, slender figure was seated at her table between a half-finished bottle of chilled Riesling and a plate of chicken curry, his jacket resting on his knees and his eyes fixed on me.

‘Why, hello, Paul,’ said Pritchard, with a wintry smile. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

IV

IV

Monday, 24 March 1969, London

I woke to see the word ‘BECHEROVKA’ swimming in front of my eyes. My first thought was that I was still at Chief’s house, but then the ringing in my ears and the coating on my teeth brought it all back.

Pritchard had left the club soon after my arrival. He hadn’t mentioned that he had been at Chief’s, though in a way I’d found that more troubling. But strangely enough, despite the fright he’d given me, I had almost been sorry to see him go, as I hadn’t had much to say to Vanessa. I’d hung on at the club with her for another hour, wearing a death’s-head grin and sweating inside my coat as the music spiralled out of control, before finally feigning tiredness and suggesting we leave.

I’d hailed her a cab - the longer I spent with her, the worse it would be. She hadn’t been pleased, of course, but she’d taken it reasonably well and hadn’t asked any questions. I had told her I’d call her in the morning, then I’d hopped in the car and driven back to South Kensington.

After parking near the flat, I had taken the bag from behind the back seat and thrown it into the bins behind an Italian restaurant. On impulse, I’d fished out the bottle of Becherovka and taken it up to the flat with me, hiding it under my jacket so the porter wouldn’t see.