He switched on the light and looked around the cluttered, filthy room to the narrow bed against the far wall and the half naked man who sprawled on it face down. Garvald opened a window wide, drawing the damp, foggy air deep into his lungs, then lit a cigarette and turned to the bed again.

On top of a small bedside locker were littered the gear which told the story. A hypodermic with several needles, most of them dirty and blunted. Heroin and cocaine bottles, both empty, a cup still half-full of water, a small glass bottle, its base discoloured from the match flame and a litter of burned-out matches.

The bare arm hanging over the side of the bed was dotted with needle marks, some of them scabbed over where infection had set in. Garvald took a deep breath and turned Lazer on his back.

The American’s face was fleshless, gaunt from malnutrition, a dark beard giving him the appearance of an emaciated saint. He stirred once and Garvald slapped him across the face. The eyelids fluttered in an uncontrollable muscular spasm, then opened, the dark eyes staring blindly into an eternity of hell.

‘Chuck, it’s me,’ Garvald said. ‘Ben Garvald.’

Lazer stared blankly at him and Garvald placed his cigarette between the man’s lips. Lazer inhaled deeply and started to cough in great, wrenching spasms that seemed to tear at his entire body. When he finally managed to stop, he was shivering uncontrollably and his nose was running.

Garvald threw a blanket over his shoulders. ‘It’s me, Chuck, Ben Garvald,’ he said again.

‘I read you, loud and clear, Dad. Loud and clear.’ Lazer started to shiver again and pulled the blanket up around his neck. ‘Christ, I need a fix. Oh, sweet Jesus, I need a fix.’ He took a great shuddering breath as if making a real effort to get control and looked up at Garvald. ‘Long time no see, Ben.’

‘Thanks for all the letters.’

‘There was never anything worth saying.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. What about Bella?’

‘A harlot, Benny boy. A lovely whore, dancing with tinkling cymbals to the tune of whoever tossed the largest gold piece.’

‘They tell me she got married again.’

‘The pot of gold, Benny boy. The end of the rainbow. Didn’t you know?’

‘Who’s the lucky man?’

‘Harry Faulkner.’

‘Harry Faulkner?’ Ben frowned. ‘He must be pushing sixty.’

‘And then some, but he’s a big man these days, Ben. A big man. He has a finger in just about anything that pays off and he isn’t too particular. He and Bella live in a replica of Haroun al Raschid’s palace out at St Martin’s Wood in the gin and tonic belt.’

‘Is Fred Manton still around?’