The rain, which had drifted on the wind for most of the evening, was falling heavily now and he paused beside the old newspaper man who was swathing himself in a groundsheet. Brady picked up a newspaper and opened it at the sports page.

‘Ben Garvald, Micky. Remember him?’

The old man’s voice was hoarse and broken, roughened by disease and bad liquor over the years. ‘Couldn’t forget one like him, Mr Brady.’

‘Has he gone in the Flamingo tonight?’

The old man ignored him, pretending to search for change in one of his pockets. ‘Not a chance. There’s always Manton’s private entrance, mind you, beside the staff door in the alley. There’s a stair straight up to his flat.’

‘Good man, Micky.’

Brady dropped a couple of half crowns into the old man’s palm, received a copper or two in change for appearances’ sake and moved away. At the corner of the alley which cut along the side of the Flamingo, he paused and glanced back. There was no sign of the commissionaire at the entrance and he moved into the narrow opening quickly.

There was a row of overflowing dustbins, and an old gas lamp bracketed to a wall illuminated two doors. One was marked Private – Staff Only. The other carried no sign and when he tried the handle, it was locked.

At the other end of the alley, he could see the main road and the sound of the late night traffic was muted and strange as if it came from another place. He checked his watch. It was a little after eleven and he didn’t have to return to the office till midnight. He went back along the alley towards the square, found a doorway, moved into the shadows and waited.

It was bitterly cold and time passed slowly. He leaned in the corner, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and time crawled, minute by slow minute, and no one came. He was wrong, that was the truth of it. You must be getting old. Manton had said that and maybe it was true. Was this all he had to show for twenty-five years?

A strange nostalgia gripped him. If only he could start again, go back to the beginning, how different everything would be. As if from a great distance, he seemed to hear voices. He took a deep breath and came back to reality with a start, realizing to his annoyance, that he had almost fallen asleep.

A man had moved from the shadows and stood beside the staff entrance lighting a cigarette. Brady recognized Chuck Lazer at once, and also remembered that the American was employed as a pianist at the club.

As the staff door closed on Lazer, Brady leaned back again, shivering as a cold wind moved along the alley, lifting the skirts of his raincoat. He was wasting his time, that much was obvious.