Peter opens the door to an office, ushering her through. The room is simply but elegantly furnished with a large leather-topped desk and a couple of solid, ancient-looking chairs that sit at odds with the modern styling of his flat two floors above. There are no windows since the office, like the club, is in the basement, but it is brightly lit by lamps. A dozen or so silver-framed photographs line the wall, and a crowd of faces that she recognises from the cinema smile out at her. She wonders briefly whether he knows these people personally. The photographs add a hint of softness, a romance, to an otherwise austere room. There is nothing else light or frivolous about it, and when he closes the door behind her, she is ill at ease. She can discern the lingering scent of whisky, cigars and men. This is the place where he brings customers, business partners, anyone he is not also wanting to take to bed. Men like Billy, she assumes.

‘Are you involved in something with Billy Walsh?’ she asks. ‘Is he working for you?’

He picks up a silver case and offers her a cigarette.

She takes one and holds it as he lights it for her. Her hand is shaking a little, and she knows that he has seen it. She might be a thief, a scrapper, a member of the Forties, but she is not in a store or the Borough now. She is trapped in an office with a crook who knows that she stole from him. She is smart enough to realise that spending time in his bed will not necessarily have endeared her to him. She draws hard on the cigarette, shifting from foot to foot, trying to read his mood. This might end badly for her. Her stomach rumbles.

‘“The Angel” – why?’ She wants to draw him into conversation, to ignore the pain of her hunger. ‘Why not call your club “Alhambra” or “Trocadero” or even “Lazenby’s”?’

He smiles to himself, knowing that she is trying to distract him, recognising her discomfort. ‘Well, I find those names rather uninspired. And two of them are taken. I named my nightclub after a girl I met in a brothel just south of Lille. An angel in my hour of need. Several hours of need, in fact. Sit.’

He points to a chair while taking a seat himself behind the desk.

‘We deal with serious business here, Ruby. The club is becoming widely known and, on the surface, legitimate and clean. Some very wealthy and well-connected individuals come to dance and drink their nights away, and they enjoy themselves excessively. We are raided by the police every now and then, just like every dive in Soho, but, unlike the others, I tend to know when they are arriving.’

He grins and lights his own cigarette.