It was hot for late May, an excellent day for driving a convertible even with the rush-hour traffic fumes. Beverley was as averagely terrible a driver as you’d expect in someone who’d passed their test in the last two years. The good thing about London traffic is that your general motorist doesn’t get a chance to pick up enough speed to make fatal mistakes. Predictably we ground to a halt at the bottom end of Gower Street, and I faced the age-old dilemma of the London traveller – get out and walk or wait and hope.

I called Lesley again, but her phone went straight to voice mail. I called Belgravia nick and got them to patch me through to Stephanopoulos’s Airwave. In case anyone was monitoring the channel, she duly warned me to go home and await instructions before letting me know that she’d last seen Seawoll and Lesley heading for the Opera House. I told her that I was dutifully heading home, in a way that wouldn’t convince Stephanopoulos or our hypothetical listeners, but which would at least look good on any transcript produced in court.

The traffic unclogged once we were past New Oxford Street, and I told Beverley to head down Endell Street.

‘When we get there you’ve got to stay away from Lesley,’ I said.

‘You don’t think I can take Lesley?’

‘I think she might suck out all your magic,’ I said.

‘Really?’ asked Beverley.

I was guessing, but a genii locorum like Beverley had to be drawing on magic from somewhere, and to a revenant like Henry Pyke that must make them attractive victims. Or maybe they had some natural immunity to that sort of thing and I was worrying for nothing, but I didn’t think that was the way to bet.

‘Really,’ I said.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I thought we were friends.’

I was going to say something comforting, but that was strangled off when Beverley shot out of the one-way system by the Oasis Sports Centre and turned into Endell Street without, as far as I could see, any reference to or indeed awareness of other road users.

‘Lesley is your friend,’ I said. ‘Henry Pyke is not.’

The thank-God-it’s-Friday crowds had spilled out of the pubs and cafés onto the pavements, and for a few hours London had the proper street culture that the people who own villas in Tuscany keep calling for. The narrowing road and the prospect of hitting a pedestrian caused even Beverley to take her foot momentarily off the accelerator.

‘Watch the people,’ I said.

‘Ha,’ said Beverley. ‘People shouldn’t drink and walk at the same time.’