Alexander Smith had been abroad in the 1970s and 1980s all right—living near Marbella in southern Spain on the notorious Costa del Crime along with a lot of tough middle-aged men who sounded like Ray Winstone and had all the moral fiber of damp tissue paper. He was a villain of the old school, but a smart one because he never got caught or prosecuted. He’d owned a club but his main income had been from acting as a middleman between bent coppers and the porn barons of Soho. He literally knew where the bodies were buried and would be expecting us to want to focus on that.

“But he’s scared,” said Stephanopoulis. “He hasn’t asked for a brief or even a phone call—he actually wants to be banged up.”

“Why not just ask for protection?”

“Villains like that don’t ask for protection,” said Stephanopoulis. “They don’t talk to the police at all unless they’re looking to buy you. But he’s scared of something and we need to find out what it is. When we do, we jam in the knife, give it a twist, and he’ll open up like a winkle.”

“Not an oyster then?” I asked.

“You follow my lead,” said Stephanopoulis.

“What if we start getting into my area of expertise?” I asked.

Stephanopoulis snorted. “In the event of us charting that small corner of a foreign field you get to ask the questions you need to ask,” she said. “But be sensible and be careful because I don’t like to kick people under the table—it’s unprofessional.”

We finished off our bloody awful coffee and had a brief discussion about stack size. It’s not unknown for police officers going into an interview to pad out their files with a few reams of fake paperwork, the better to convey the notion that we, the police, know everything already so you might as well just save time and tell us what you know. But Stephanopoulis felt that an old lag like Smith wasn’t going to fall for that. And besides we wanted to convey the idea that we weren’t that bothered.

“He wants something from us,” said Stephanopoulis. “He wants to be talked into giving it up. The more he thinks we don’t care, the keener he’ll be to talk.”

Smith was back in his blue blazer but the carefully matching button-down shirt was open at the collar and his face was gray and unshaven. We made a big production of putting the tapes in the machine, introducing ourselves, and advising him of his rights.

“You understand that you’re not under arrest and that you may terminate this interview at any point you wish.”

“No, really?” asked Smith.

“You’re also entitled to a lawyer or some other representative of your choice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Smith. “Can we just get on with it.”