I had no idea. It was just a word on a matchbox. But the Russian had only written the name of the club - no date or time. That suggested he was confident he would meet his contact whenever he turned up there, which in turn pointed to that contact being either a regular at the club or, more likely, someone who worked there.

Isabelle was looking at me expectantly. ‘There might be a story,’ I told her. ‘I’m not sure yet.’

She eyed me keenly and told me to take the next left.

We arrived at the club just before midnight. A ramshackle two-storey house, it looked like it was hosting a private party that had got out of control. An overpowering smell of marijuana wafted from the doors, along with the muffled sound of frenetic music. There were a few dozen people by the entrance, talking and dancing in the fug while they waited to be let in. A hand-painted sign announced that tonight’s performance would be by ‘the magnificent Black Chargers’.

As we approached the door, the Nigerians in the queue looked us up and down. A young man wearing a wide leather belt and an open-necked dress shirt shouted something to his friends, who all laughed uproariously.

I glanced at Isabelle.

‘You don’t want to know,’ she said.

I asked her if she could try to find a way through the queue. If this was a dead-end, I didn’t want to spend the rest of the night on it. She walked over to one of the doormen and started talking in very fast pidgin English with him. The man listened to her solemnly, then gave a nod and let us past, much to the chagrin of some of the crowd.

‘I told him we are press,’ she whispered to me. ‘He said the intermission is coming soon and we can interview the owner. Is that okay?’

As there was a chance that the owner himself might be the Russian’s contact, I told her it was fine. A group of heavies frisked us, Isabelle paid the entrance fee and I followed her onto a tiny but packed dance floor.

‘Let’s dance!’ she shouted into my ear and, before I could answer, she had whisked me into the centre of the floor, where we were absorbed into the crowd of young Nigerians flailing their limbs around. The music was now deafening. On stage, at least a dozen musicians were playing trumpets, guitars and several sets of drums, all at a feverish pace. Every once in a while, a blast of notes emanated from a trombone attached to a small, wiry man in an iridescent suit, who seemed to be the chief Black Charger. It was like listening to a big band accompanying a voodoo ceremony.