Jets of cold water quickly brought him back to life, and helped him to move into second gear as he went over a tentative plan in his mind. By the time he’d stepped out of the shower and dried himself, he was in third gear, but still no nearer to working out how he could arrange to bump into Mrs Amy Pugh without her husband realizing what he was up to.

If he did manage to spend even a few minutes with her, his story was well prepared. He was an insurance broker, and felt he should warn her that her husband had taken out a policy on her life for one million pounds. He would then ask her if she was aware of the circumstances of his first wife’s death. He had his next question ready if she replied yes, and a short well-prepared speech if she said no.

He put on a clean white shirt, a golf club tie and a suit that made him look like someone who was at home in a five-star hotel rather than a deserted back alley. He picked up his room key and moved into top gear as he left for the dining room.

The hotel might well have had a folksy charm about it, what Jo would have described as quaint, but when he entered the Nelson Room it only took one look at the maître d’ for Ross to know he was dealing with a pro.

‘May I ask for your room number, sir?’ enquired the tall, thin man dressed in a long morning coat and pinstriped trousers.

‘Thirty-three,’ said Ross. He glanced around the room, his eyes settling on a couple seated in a small alcove on the far side of the restaurant. He noticed that, although the banquette on their left was occupied, the one on the right was empty.

The maître d’ interrupted his thoughts. ‘Are you dining alone this evening, sir, or will someone be joining you?’

‘I’ll be on my own for the next two days. I wonder if I could have that alcove seat by the window.’

The maître d’ checked his table list. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s already booked for this evening.’

Ross took out his wallet, extracted a fifty-rand note and placed it on top of the reservation list.

‘Please follow me, sir,’ said the maître d’, giving Ross a warm smile. Nothing folksy or quaint about the maître d’, thought Ross, as he watched him pocket the note like Jimmy the dip.

Ross picked up a copy of the New York Times from a side table as he followed the head waiter across the room to his alcove seat. He sat down with his back to the Pughs, opened the newspaper and began to read. If they were even to glance in his direction, they would assume he was an American. He leant slightly back, and although he could catch only the occasional word from Mrs Pugh, he could hear almost everything her husband was saying.