My turn for a silence as I replaced my receiver. How did he know that I was dark-haired and that it did, indeed, curl? James, I suppose, or Millar? Someone had probably warned him. Be aware! The brother is hunting his sibling. Take care. If care were needed.

I had taken a risk in my modest bedroom under the roof. I had, however, not lied. Implying is not the same as lying. Although one can hope that it has the same effect when needed.

Downstairs by the desk Eugène was sorting out the menus for the evening.

‘Tomorrow evening my son will join me. He’s nine.’

‘Certainly. Madame Mazine has told me. Room number 5.’

‘He likes food. Amazingly. When he has the chance to eat anything decent.’

‘Ah. There is something particular? You think of a celebration dinner?’

‘Well, in a way, yes. He, I remember from our last holiday in Normandy, loved a really good poule au pot. Is that possible? Just for two?’

‘Quite possible. De la béarnaise? That is rich but delicious.’

‘Or …? I’m not worried about the richness. Strangeness. My son hates baked beans, detests fish fingers and won’t look at an English sausage. He knew a boy at his school whose father was a very respectable butcher who told him that they mixed sawdust, anal refuse and finger-stalls in the blender. It rather put him off.’

‘It would. Sure. Or’ – Eugène suddenly gleamed with pleasure – ‘a Navarin of lamb? Spring vegetables, the new broad beans, baby onions, carrots as thick as your smallest finger, potatoes like pearls! A gloriously garlicked gigot – he will eat garlic?’

I may have lost track of life in general, but I knew the way to the bar, which I most desperately needed at that moment. I remember that I agreed to the poule. If Giles refused it I’d eat it all. I went determinedly to the bar and Claude with his bottle of Haig. Tomorrow was going to be a difficult day one way and another.

At that moment it was as well that I didn’t know just how difficult.

Ignorance is sometimes bliss.

I recognized him immediately. I really don’t know why. Possibly because I was a little over-aware. Perhaps it was just the way that he had placed himself, right in front of the entry to the bar, sitting quite alone in an alcove of buttoned-black-leather and steel walls. And he recognized me: there was a slight hesitation, then a smile, a languid arm raised, inviting me to sit beside him, across the little round table on which stood a bucket of ice, two glasses, and, above all, a bottle of Kristall.

I sat, he offered his hand. ‘I am Solly Aronovich and you have to be the older Colcott. Right? I don’t actually remember your Christian name. I do remember it is very English.’

‘It’s William.’