I do worry about the Faceless One, the man in the mask, who could catch fireballs and deflect chimney stacks. The only thing that worried me more than the idea of a fully trained wizard with a deranged taste for experimenting on human beings was the thought that Geoffrey Wheatcroft probably trained more than one at his little magic club. How many Little Crocodiles were out there, I wondered, and how many of them were evil fuckers like the Faceless One? I know Nightingale worries about this too, because we spend way more time on the firing range than we used to.

On the first Monday in October my dad and the Irregulars played their first official gig under their new name. It was at the Round Midnight on the Chapel Market in Islington. My dad sailed through a two-hour set without faltering once and there was a moment, during the famous solo in “Love for Sale,” when the look on his face was so transcendent that I wondered whether there was a connection between music and magic, that perhaps jazz really was life.

He was knackered after the gig, for all that he tried to hide it, so I put him and Mum in a cab and tipped the driver and flashed my warrant card to ensure a bit of due diligence at the other end of the journey. Then I went back for a celebratory drink with Max, Daniel, and James, but the Round Midnight’s a bit pricey so we slunk off up the road to the Alma where the beer was cheaper and they had soccer on pay-per-view.

“They’ve asked us back,” said James.

“That’s because we drive their customers to drink,” said Max. “It’s good for business.”

“Music is always good for business,” said James.

“Congratulations,” I said. “You guys are a proper band and strange people will actually pay money to see you play.”

“Thanks to your dad,” said Max.

“And Cyrus,” said Daniel.

“To Cyrus,” said Max, and we drank a solemn toast.

“Did you ever find out what happened?” asked James. “To Cyrus I mean.”

“No, mate,” I said. “The investigation was ‘inconclusive.’ ”

“Here’s to the unsolved mysteries of the Jazz Constabulary,” he said.

We toasted that.

“And Lord Grant’s Irregulars,” I said and we toasted that.

We toasted our way through three rounds, then we went for a curry, and then we went home.

I don’t really have nightmares. I sleep quite well, considering, but I do have memories as vivid as vestigia. The smell of honeysuckle, the snorting sound she made when she laughed, the roundness of her when she lay in my arms. Sometimes they keep me awake into the early hours of the morning.