It wasn’t too busy at present. No one would really expect it to be, but that suited Lazenby. He might be confident of his anonymity, but it was still easier to relax when people weren’t constantly edging past your table, perhaps throwing covert glances at your laptop screen. There were perhaps six other patrons in Hogarth’s at present, all dotted around, either alone or in couples, those together chatting quietly over drinks, the others reading evening papers, or, like him, fiddling around with electronic devices.

Either way, it left plenty of spare places all over the wine bar’s comfy interior.

Which is why it was so annoying to Lazenby when another guy in a suit, someone he didn’t know from Adam, suddenly inserted himself into the same booth and sat down on the other side of the coffee table, on top of which he nonchalantly plonked a large G&T.

Lazenby tried not to look at him, but couldn’t help stealing a couple of irritable glances.

The guy was in his mid-fifties and sharp-suited, with an average build, lean features and silver-grey hair razored into a crew cut.

Lazenby didn’t like his personal space being invaded for no reason, but for the sake of appearances – he was Ordinary Joe, after all – he didn’t make an issue of it, merely nodded when the newcomer’s dark eyes flitted towards him, and continued working at his accounts.

‘You picked the wrong place to try and get some work done, I’d say,’ the guy commented.

Lazenby didn’t at first realise that he was being addressed. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘Noisy bar.’

It wasn’t an especially noisy bar – not at this time of day.

‘Didn’t notice,’ Lazenby replied, pointedly not looking up.

‘Hard to concentrate.’

The air hissed between Lazenby’s clenched teeth as he finally met the newcomer with his best blank-eyed stare. Ordinary Joe might value his average appearance and air of affability, but he was also a Scouser. He originated from Childwall, which wasn’t a poor part of Liverpool, but nevertheless, in archetypical Merseysider fashion, he didn’t take well to being hassled.

‘Especially when people keep talking to me,’ he said, ‘and only politeness is preventing me telling them straight that I’m not interested.’

He went back to his laptop, pink-cheeked, but reasonably confident that the unexpected show of no-frills hostility would have done the trick. It couldn’t be very often that tired, bored business guys encountered a straight-talking response like that in Hogarth’s.

‘You a polite guy, then?’ the stranger said. ‘Perhaps they should call you “Joey the Gent” rather than “Ordinary Joe”?’

Lazenby glanced up at him again, this time shocked.