Ruby pulls herself up from the bath and reaches for a towel, rubs the water from her hair.

There is a sound from beyond the bathroom door. The kitchen. Someone is inside her apartment.

She wraps the towel tightly around her chest and puts a hand to the door, readying herself, wishing that she had brought clothes into the bathroom with her. And a knife. She tenses, in preparation for a fight, and opens the door.

‘What the hell are you doing here? How did you get into my flat?’

Peter Lazenby is setting the kettle on the stove.

‘Good morning, Ruby. I have a key.’ He picks up the key and balances it on one finger, as if to prove that he hasn’t climbed in through the window. He is wearing the jacket he was wearing last night and there is a shadow of stubble on his jaw. He has not yet been to bed.

‘Mortimer’s. That creepy man from Mortimer’s with the wandering hands. Fuck. Do you own their business, too, as well as the Angel?’

‘After a fashion.’ He puts the key down, finds cups and saucers from the cupboard and begins to search for sugar and milk as though he’s in his own home. He is, after all, paying for the apartment. ‘I own Mr Mortimer, certainly.’

‘Why are you here?’ Her hair is damp when she touches it.

‘I’m here because you’re going to tell me all about Alex Somers, and because you owe me breakfast in bed.’ He pours milk into a jug and adds it to the tray.

‘What do you want to know about him?’

He scoops tea from a small cardboard packet into the teapot. ‘I want to know whether he will do business with us. Haversham thinks he will.’

‘The General?’

‘What did you make of Somers?’

Ruby pulls a face. ‘Full of himself. Dishonest. There’s a wife, I’m sure of it, but he didn’t mention her, even when I enquired.’

‘He’s married. I know that already. I can’t imagine this is the first time he’s strayed from home. And he’s a politician, so dishonesty and pomposity come naturally to him. What else?’

She is feeling cold and uncomfortable, standing in a damp towel with damp hair. The kettle is taking an age to boil. She would love a hot cup of tea. ‘He’s short of funds.’

‘Ah. Haversham was right.’

‘Then why…?’

‘It was a hunch. We needed to test it. What did Somers tell you? Come on, I want details.’

The kettle starts to rattle.

Peter has not noticed that she is cold. He is paying no attention to her at all. He only wants the information.

‘He gambles. Heavily. Horses. Usual story: he had a dodgy inside tip a week or two ago and made an unwise bet that didn’t pay up. He says it’s practically cleaned him out.’