Daniel stumbles, falls through the door of the club and disappears into the night.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Peter snaps at her. ‘You’re late.’

‘Nowhere,’ she says. ‘What did I miss?’

‘That simpering bloody fool told me we were about to be raided by the police. He’d had word, he said, that they were coming early.’ He is furious. ‘I emptied the club, sent people elsewhere. But he was wrong. He misunderstood the message. We are not expecting the police for several hours, and I have sent my paying guests to Soho’s many other clubs, hotels and bars to spend their money. And I can’t send out my staff to invite them back if the police are still going to arrive after hours. Can’t call them back only to send them away again.’ He runs a hand over his hair, smoothing it down. ‘He’s cost me money on the most lucrative day of the week, and he’s lost me credibility – which is worse.’

And he’s lost his job for it, Ruby thinks. And possibly a tooth. Peter certainly doesn’t need the money, but he does not like being made to look stupid or incompetent.

‘This is the best nightclub in London,’ she says quickly. ‘Everyone knows that. They’ll be back tomorrow.’

He stands chewing his lip, angry, then reaches for her, blood on his knuckles, and pulls her close.

‘Ruby, Ruby…’ he murmurs into her ear, voice thick. ‘Come and dance with me, eh? Make it all better?’

Still in her hat and coat, she follows him downstairs, her hand clasped in his. The orchestra have packed their instruments away, but the pianist is still playing – something old from years ago. They dance slowly as the barman moves around the tables, gathering up abandoned glasses and ashtrays.

Daniel picks himself up from the pavement and rubs the back of his hand across the black slime oozing from his nose. He spits a glob of blood on to the ground.

‘Here.’ A clean handkerchief is thrust into his hand. ‘You’ll need this.’

He stares at the white handkerchief, neatly folded. ‘I’ll ruin it,’ he says, his voice little more than a sigh.

‘I have another. Wipe your face and I’ll buy you a drink. You look as though you need one. The pub across the street is decent. I’ve been sitting in it for a while. I saw what happened.’

Daniel looks up from the handkerchief to see a man in an ordinary grey coat and hat, with a brown leather satchel across his body. He looks like an overgrown schoolboy.

‘Thank you. I think I do need a drink.’

‘James Cartwright,’ the man says, offering his hand. ‘Let’s go and find you a pint.’

Harriet fidgets in the back of the taxicab, trying to put her thoughts in order. She crosses and uncrosses her legs.