‘Martha?’ Julian asked, looking just as happily surprised, stopping in front of them as Matty stepped forward. As their marketing person, she was the only one to have had direct contact with him, calling him back just the once after his preliminary approach to confirm they were going ahead. Any communications since had been on guarantees of access to Kit and logistics in Austria when Ari’s emails suggested otherwise. Julian had been very keen to discuss everything further but Matty had politely but firmly demurred; for reasons of integrity, it would be ‘inappropriate’ to confer, she had said.

Judging by the look on her face, though, it didn’t seem so inappropriate now.

‘Julian, finally – a face to the voice,’ Matty beamed as they shook hands and a moment passed that felt longer to Johnny and Clover than it seemingly did to them.

Johnny gave a not-so-subtle cough.

‘And Clover, the famous, the remarkable Clover Phillips,’ Julian said, turning to her next. ‘I’m not sure whether I should be excited or terrified that I’ve managed to get you to come for dinner.’

‘Oh, I hardly think I merit either of those responses.’

But he made a small sound of disagreement. ‘You’ve got a way of making people talk, Clover. I know that only too well. I wonder if I should stick to water tonight.’

Clover laughed. ‘We’ll keep it light, I promise.’ And hopefully quick, she thought to herself.

‘And Julian, this is Johnny Dashwood, our cameraman and editor,’ Matty said, staring again at his t-shirt of a dagger dripping with blood and entwined with roses. ‘As you can probably tell.’

‘Johnny.’ Julian shook his hand vigorously, appearing oblivious to his attire. ‘You are as discreet as Clover is direct. That footage of Cory at home, when he was having a dark episode . . . You handled it with great respect.’

‘Thanks,’ Johnny said appreciatively. ‘Not many people notice.’

Clover spotted a hotel manager hovering at a discreet distance. He was holding a navy blazer.

‘Ah,’ Julian said, turning towards him slightly and discreetly waving the jacket away with a tiny movement of his hand. ‘Thank you, Otto. It looks like our table is ready. Come, let us get out of the draught and into the warm. You must be tired after your busy first day, yes? Was the snow good?’

‘Amazing!’ Matty trilled, walking beside him as Otto led them through to a dining room that was again both grand and gracious, yet cosy: pale oak panelling, dark European School oils on the walls in gilt frames, white linen napkins with scalloped sage green embroidered edges. Almost every table was taken, people sitting in pairs and talking quietly, dinners that looked like artworks served on Meissen plates, tall arrangements of flowers bursting from Medici urns.