The Flamingo certainly had more class, but still looked a little out of character in the old Square with its striped awning and garish neon lighting. A few yards from the entrance, a small wizened man in tweed cap and army greatcoat sat on an orange box, a pile of Sunday newspapers spread out beside him.

The old man knew Brady and Brady knew the old man, but no sign of recognition passed between them. The policeman mounted the steps to the entrance and passed through the glass door that a commissionaire in red uniform held open for him.

A dark haired Italian in a white dinner jacket moved forward at once, an expression of consternation on his face. He tried to conceal it with a brave smile, but failed miserably.

‘Mr Brady. What a pleasure. There is something I can do for you?’

Brady stood there, hands in the pockets of his cheap raincoat, ignoring the man, distaste on his face as he took in the thick carpets, the cream and gold décor and the cloakroom girl in her fishnet stockings.

‘I want Manton. Where is he?’

‘Is there perhaps something wrong, Mr Brady?’

‘There will be if you don’t get Manton down here fast.’

A party of three or four people, newly arrived, glanced at him curiously and the Italian stepped to a door marked Private and opened it.

‘I believe Mr Manton is at the bar. If you’ll wait in here, I’ll go and see.’

Brady moved inside and the door closed behind him. The office was little more than a cubbyhole, with a desk and a green filing cabinet taking up most of the space. There was a half-completed staff duty list on the blotting pad and he turned it round and examined it idly, noting a familiar name here and there.

The door clicked open behind him and closed again. When Brady turned, Fred Manton was leaning against the door, lighting a cigarette. He was a tall, lean man with good shoulders that showed to advantage in the well-cut dinner jacket. The blue eyes and clipped moustache gave him a faintly military air which went down well with the customers, many of whom nicknamed him the Major and imagined him the product of one of the better public schools.

Nothing could have been further from the truth as Brady knew well and he dropped the duty list on the blotter and looked Manton up and down, contempt and open dislike on his face.

Manton went behind the desk, opened a drawer. He held up the duty list. ‘Some people might say you’d been sticking your nose into things that didn’t concern you.’

‘You’re breaking my heart,’ Brady said. ‘Garvald – Ben Garvald. Where is he?’

Manton seemed genuinely surprised. ‘You must be getting old. Last I heard he was in Wandsworth. I thought everybody knew that.’

‘He was released yesterday. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?’