As J. J. and his band settled into another of their numbers, and Isabelle started twisting and turning round the floor, I considered the encounter. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but it hadn’t materialized: I was no nearer to discovering who the Russian had wanted to meet here. J. J.? One of his musicians? One of the bouncers? It could be almost anyone. Or perhaps he hadn’t been due to meet anyone. Perhaps it was just somewhere he had heard about and intended to visit, or had visited, as recreation. Because it was a terrible choice for a meet. Any cover that might be offered by the crowd was completely offset by the fact that, apart from Isabelle and me, everyone in the place was black. Not ideal if you were a Russian looking for a secret rendezvous. If I were the contact, I’d certainly not have agreed to it.

Unless, of course, the contact wasn’t actually supposed to make contact. What if the Russian had instructions to come here to find something rather than someone? That would explain why he hadn’t needed a date or time - whatever he was after would simply stay here until he came to collect it.

I was suddenly wishing I had paid more attention in the green room.

I looked over at the entrance we’d come through from backstage. Two of the heavies were meant to be guarding it, but they had both advanced into the hall too far, and were now out of visual contact with each other. I shuffled round the back of them, waiting for my chance. It came a few minutes later, when J. J. had the crowd moving their arms up and down with the horns - the heavies got swept up in it, and I quickly slipped through the curtain and into the corridor.

There was no answer when I knocked on the green room door, so I stepped inside. Empty. I got to work at once, pulling out drawers, looking in bags and boxes, scanning every inch of the room as I moved around it. I found a collection of J. J.’s garish stage outfits, a sizeable stash of marijuana, and a few bottles of whisky and rum. The papers on the table were either posters for upcoming concerts or set lists. I didn’t even know what I was looking for, and God knew what I would do if one of the heavies were to walk in now. In desperation, I turned to some larger cases for instruments that had been propped up against the wall, shoved in a small space behind a rickety bookcase. I squeezed past the bookcase and ran my finger down the line clicking open their latches one by one. Empty. Empty. Empty . . .