‘Never met anyone with that name.’

Emily could practically see the lie: there it was in the lights of his eyes. Why would Lucky lie, of all things, about her father? She reached into her bag. In a pocket of her purse was a photograph of Asquith; the photo had been buried in the minor compartments of consecutive purses. Years had passed since she’d showed her father to anyone.

‘Definitely, the resemblance is clear as can be,’ Lucky said. ‘That’s nice to see, the likeness between parent and child.’

‘I needed to ask whether you knew him,’ Emily said with too much emphasis, swallowing forcefully.

‘I’m sorry that I didn’t, but I’m pleased you’re here,’ said Lucky. ‘Now, about the shooting—I’m sure you’ll want to address that event in your article. It goes without saying that what happened was a terrible business. It’s tragic what happened to my franchise. But the whole truth, the full story, the entire sweep of its history, in many respects, is a happy thing indeed and I hope you recognise that. See, we need each other. You need me to cooperate for the article, and I need you to tell the totally true, evenly considered and comprehensive story of the franchise. The final word, in a high-profile magazine.’

‘I’m not eulogising the business,’ said Emily.

‘And it’s too early for a eulogy! I’m going to revive the franchise,’ said Lucky. ‘I’m going to give that business a good ending.’

‘How do you intend to do that?’

‘I’ll explain soon. A few details must be worked out. But I can’t talk long today—I should have mentioned that on the phone. For now, here’s a souvenir.’ And Lucky reached into a linen bag on the kitchen table and handed Emily a rolled-up T-shirt. She held it up and read the slogan printed with a Hellenic-style font: lucky’s for us.

Chapter 3: 1945

1945

1.

Lucky Mallios pretended to be someone else. Pale and clean-shaven, his hair parted on the other side, he sat dressed in another man’s uniform, inside a military jeep nosing out of Railway Square. On the back seat next to him lay the most important prop—a clarinet. In the front passenger seat was his accomplice, Gregor, and behind the wheel sat a US Navy pool driver, a nice guy, who’d asked Lucky and Gregor for a cigarette and then offered them a lift. Lucky had a round face, wore spectacles, and fell outside what Yank Down Under magazine described as the ideal weight-to-height ratio. People said he resembled the big band musician Benny Goodman.

When the car reached speed, the driver passed back a slip of paper and Lucky signed a counterfeit autograph, his hand shaking. He always kept a Dixon pencil in his shirt pocket.

‘Nice to have a bona fide genius in town, Mr Goodman,’ said the driver.