‘Ah, what a question. I think I’m obliged to give you the shorter and less interesting answer. My quarterly grant from Tubal and Co. should be in by now, and I would like you to check. It’s already two months overdue.’

‘Certainly, sir. Do you have any ID?’

‘ID? ID? What’s that?’

‘Proof of identity. A credit card, perhaps.’

‘No, I have no credit cards.’

‘Or your driving licence?’

‘No, I don’t drive. I have never taken to it.’

‘Unfortunately, sir, I am not allowed to give details of anyone’s account without ID.’

‘Look, my dear, I have been banking here for ten years. I am the director of the Lifeboat Theatre Company and – dare I say it – a well-known figure in the community. A public figure. So ID is not necessary.’

‘I’ll have to call Mr Trefelix, sir.’

‘Call him. I have nothing to do at all. Oh yes, I forgot, nothing apart from speaking to Daniel Day-Lewis about a production of mine and negotiating with the university at Austin, Texas. But please, go ahead, summon Mr Trefelix. And while you’re at it, why don’t you assemble an identity parade of local deadbeats and line us all up for mugshots and injections of sodium pentothal?’

He’s warming to his speech, but before he can get fully into the part of innocent accused, a victim of Senator McCarthy or a Tom Robinson, young Mr Trefelix appears.

‘Oh hello, Mr MacCleod. Thanks, Mandy, I will take over. Could you come with me, Mr MacCleod, if you have a moment?’

‘Certainly.’

He has an image of entering the manager’s office, for tea and biscuits under a railway clock, but Trefelix leads him into a small, windowless meeting room.

‘Sorry about that, sir,’ he says. ‘I was going to write to you – you don’t have email at home yet, do you? No? No problem. I was going to write to you to say that Tubal and Co. have refused payment.’

‘What? What’s the reason? What did they say?’

‘They simply refused.’

‘Didn’t you ask them?’

‘We can’t do that, sir. Apart from anything else there are data-protection issues around this which mean that we are not allowed to ask questions like that. You will have to take it up with them.’

‘I will, you can rely on that. Oh yes. I’ll get on to them right away.’

He stands up.

‘There’s one more thing, sir. We won’t be able to pay the quarterly rent on your property, which fell due last Monday, until we receive funds.’

Artair is standing in a crouch, with his hands on the flimsy blond-wood desk.

‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous. This is Tubal’s bank we are talking about, not a warehouse scam with call centres in Kazakhstan. Tubal and Company. The oldest private bank in the land.’