There was a balcony six metres up that ran all the way around the room, wide enough for chairs and tables laid with white linen and silver. The crowds were thinner up there, presumably because most people had headed straight for the bar and as many gins as they could chuck down their necks before the music started again. I headed for the nearest flight of stairs, hoping to get a better look from above. I was halfway up when I realised that the mood of the room was changing. It wasn’t much of a sensation, but it was like a dog barking late at night and far away.

‘That bitch can fuck off,’ came a woman’s voice, shrill, from somewhere below me.

It was the same feeling of tension as I’d felt on Neal Street – just before Dr Framline went psycho on the cycle courier. Somebody dropped a tray, metal clattered on the expensive wooden floor, a couple of glasses smashed. There was an ironic cheer nearby.

I reached the balcony level, stepped between two unoccupied tables and looked out over the crowd.

‘Wanker,’ said a man somewhere below, ‘you fucking wanker.’

I spotted a fit-looking man in his late forties, salt and pepper hair, conservative suit, distinctively bushy eyebrows. It was Deputy Assistant Commissioner Folsom – because my life was not complicated enough. I drew back from the balcony railing and as I did, I saw Lesley leaning on the railing of the balcony opposite, staring right at me. She looked normal, active, happy, wearing her on-duty leather jacket and slacks. When she was sure that I was watching she gave me a happy little wave and nodded down at the main bar, where Seawoll was getting himself a drink.

A voice announced that the performance would be restarting in three minutes.

Down in the main bar a guy in leather-patched tweed slapped one of the men he was talking to. Somebody shouted, Lesley glanced down and I sprinted down the length of the balcony shoving members of the public out of the way. I glanced over at Lesley, who was staring at me in shock as I rounded the first corner and charged across the balcony that bridged the width of the room. Whoever was doing the thinking in Lesley’s head at that moment, her or Henry Pyke, hadn’t expected me to push my way through a crowd of well-dressed worthies. Which was what I was counting on. It’s not easy to fumble a syrette full of tranquilliser out of your pocket while forcing your way past protesting opera lovers, but somehow I managed to get everything ready by the time I rounded the last corner and headed straight for Lesley.