“I’d like this sorted quick,” said Vic. “No later than Friday. My daughter wants to go shopping the day after.”

(Where would she choose? Covent Garden. Oxford Street. Little boutiques in places he’d never heard of. How old was she? He guessed about twenty, a few years younger than him. But girls could make themselves look almost any age.)

“I understand.” He stowed the paper carefully in his pocket.

“See you Saturday morning, then. Not too early. Come about ten o’clock.”

The alleyway was warmed by the greasy air from the kitchen vent. Donald stood quietly behind a mountain of bin-bags, listened to the rats rustling, and waited.

He’d watched the routine for the last three nights and he knew how it went. First the waitresses clattered out, laughing and complaining about terrible customers and aching feet. The kitchen porter brought a new stack of bin bags. (When he turned to leave, a dozen more rats crept cautiously from the shadows to sniff at the tough black plastic. Clearly they knew the routine too.) The chef’s minions, slump-shouldered and speechless. The chef, thin and angry. Finally, the man he was interested in.

When he saw Donald step out of the shadows, he turned pale and tried to run, but Donald smiled and put an arm around his shoulders and, in the momentary confusion this induced, steered him back inside.

“I’m Donald,” he said, light and conversational. “You’re Christopher, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Pleased to meet you. How are you tonight?”

“Um… fine, I’m fine… ”

“Good. I’m glad you’re fine.”

“What can I, um, do for you?” Tragic hope on Christopher’s face that he might have misinterpreted what was happening. Hope that Donald might be here for some other reason than an outstanding debt of five thousand pounds, owed to a man with no pity or softness in him. For a moment Donald felt his heart quail.

The kitchen was far from cosy, an efficient factory operation of gleaming steel. If he left the room to fetch chairs, would he come back to find Christopher gone? Think quickly. There were two ways in – the front door, and the back door. Upstairs was a private flat with its own entrance. The front door was locked. The only way out was through the kitchen.

“Why don’t you go and fetch us some chairs, Christopher. Then we can talk more comfortably.”

“We could sit in the restaurant if you like?”

“Why don’t you go and fetch us some chairs, Christopher. Then we can talk more comfortably.”

A brief blaze of fear when Christopher left the room. What would he come back with? A baseball bat? A gun? Was he overspending, trying too hard? Had he thrown it all away for a moment of bravado?

In the restaurant, something heavy scraped and dragged. He made himself turn away as the door opened, presenting his back as he idly examined a row of knives, ordered by size and magnetised to the wall above the counter. When he turned back he saw Christopher wrestling with two mahogany-look chairs, padded with something red that could almost pass for velvet.