‘What do you mean you’ve just remembered?’ I said, stepping over Mick Jagger dressed as a wizard. ‘How could you possibly not remember before?’

His eyes were blazing with something. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’

‘But you were banged up for three days and you didn’t remember—’

‘Shut up, Rose. I’ve remembered now.’

‘Remembered what, though?’

‘When I spoke to Kattan at his house, at that party he had. He offered to put some money into Revolver.’

‘Yes, I know that. But what has it to do with – to do with—’

‘And then we were talking about decking it out, the new club. I was admiring some of his furniture. All that gold-inlaid marble. I thought it would be classy in the new VIP. He said he would put me in touch with someone who imported it.’

‘James, please. Be straight with me about everything now.’ I sat heavily.

‘I am.’

‘You’re not. You went back there, to Albion Manor, and I saw you, and you lied about it.’

‘When?’

‘You know when. What else are you lying about?’

‘Nothing.’

‘James! Were you really in Vietnam? Come on, J. Be honest.’ He was about to argue – and then suddenly he shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

‘About what?’

‘Stuff?’

‘What kind of stuff?’ God, he was infuriating.

‘I had so much to sort out here and I – I was going to go, really, only then—’

‘But I dropped you at the airport and everything.’

‘Yeah. Well, I was going to go and then – they rang me, asked me to meet in London before I went away.’

‘And what did you talk about?’

‘When?’

‘At this meeting when you were meant to be in Saigon?’ How could I have been so slow? Marble wasn’t even a Vietnamese product. ‘Was it – was it heroin, J?’

He stared at me and I waited, hand outstretched to him, frozen. Finally he was going to tell the truth, I could tell. The computer pinged suddenly, announcing an email, and the spell was broken. He turned away.

‘That bloke sorted it. The meeting in London.’

‘What bloke?’ I said carefully.

‘You know, that Scottish geezer. The tall quiet one. Callendar. He arranged the meeting – about the furniture. I didn’t trust him then. Never trust the quiet ones. I think – Christ’s sake – careful, Rose.’

‘Ouch.’ I sliced my finger on the silver knife he used to open his post. ‘Sorry. You think what?’ I fumbled for a tissue to stem the blood; it dripped down onto the snowy paper I’d been assembling.

‘I think he’s fucking set me up.’ He pulled another in-tray of stuff from the desk; it swirled through the air. ‘Where are their fucking numbers? Why does everyone move my fucking stuff?’

My blood flowered onto the white tissue; a deep deep red.