IN THE BATHROOM AT THE Red Lion public house on High Holborn, Ray Cohen looked at himself in the mirror and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. Reaching into the splayed bag at his side, Raymond produced a comb and a little pot of brilliantine. It was not so difficult to effect the transformation into Raymond de Guise in the flesh. He had already shed his brown leather jacket and stepped into his bespoke woollen coat. The chapped leather boots were safely stowed in the bag, and the brogues were waiting to slip onto his feet.

He did not like leaving Whitechapel on such bad terms. Family was family. Blood was blood. But he’d tried so many times to make them see that getting up and getting out didn’t have to be betrayal, and they never truly understood. So leaving is what he’d done. He was up before dawn that morning, long before his brother would pick himself out of bed, long before his mother was up and about her daily rounds. He left a simple note: You know where to find me. Don’t contact me by name. Take care, Ma. Write to me c/o Billy Brogan. Then he was gone.

Later, when Raymond de Guise stepped out of the hansom cab on Berkeley Square and looked up at the palatial facade of the Buckingham Hotel, he felt a soaring in his heart that – for the moment, at least – cured all ills. I prefer this version of me. The Buckingham, he decided, was a symbol of all he’d accomplished, the troubled life he’d left behind.

He glided across the reception hall, where Mr Simenon was simpering around some new guests – the van der Lindes, newly in from South Africa, where they oversaw a vast estate on the edge of a national park. They’d been photographed, here in the Buckingham, with a baby cheetah they led around Mayfair on a leash. By the guest lifts, two porters were standing to attention in their uniforms of navy and gold, while the obelisk fountain in the reception’s centre gurgled.

Yes, thought Raymond, it’s so good to be home. Home is where you hang your hat. And the beauty is that you get to decide what hat you wear. You can change . . . change for the better.

Raymond was crossing the expansive floor when Billy Brogan appeared alongside him. ‘Here you are, Mr de Guise. I been holding it for you.’

The gangly hotel page produced a small white envelope with the name Raymond written on the front in cursive script. As Raymond took it, he detected the distinct scent of Chanel.

‘Who’s this from, Billy?’

Billy held up his hands in mock retreat. ‘I just deliver them, Mr de Guise. I don’t read ’em.’

Raymond arched an eyebrow. ‘A likely story, Mr Brogan,’ he said in disbelief – but, by then, the lift doors were opening, so he stepped in.