‘Some sort of commotion going on here, I see,’ said one.

Everyone tried to speak at once and, leaving them to it, George wandered back to his seat, where he buried himself in what was left of his beer and whisky, while the most famous person in the room was given the right to tell the authorities what had just taken place. She explained it all, dramatizing some of the moments and even doing a passable imitation of George’s voice.

‘Fuckity bye, he kept saying,’ she told the officers. ‘Fuckity bye! What does that even mean? I’ve never heard it before.’

When she was finished hogging the limelight, the officers made their way over to George.

‘Is all this true, sir?’ they asked. ‘The things this lady has told us?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why deny it? It’ll be all over the Internet by now anyway, so, true or false, it just automatically becomes fact.’

‘Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to accompany us to the station,’ replied the younger of the pair. ‘I hope you’ll come peacefully.’

George shrugged as he stood up. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not? I’ve got nothing else to do now anyway.’

He took his Soho House card out of his wallet and threw it on the table.

‘It’ll save them the hassle of writing to me, asking for it back,’ he said, shuffling out towards the lounge.

Denise watched, fifteen years of an agent–client relationship coming to an end, before removing a leather-bound notebook from her bag. On the front page were listed the names of all the people she represented. Taking a fountain pen from the side pocket, she drew a line through George’s name. Cancelled, she wrote beside it.

TORTOISE KILLER

While George was being bundled into the back of a police car, Beverley was making excellent progress through another bottle of wine, when there was loud knocking at the door again. This time, as she wobbled unsteadily down the hallway, she found herself hoping that it would be her husband. Perhaps he’d forgotten his key. She just wanted to collapse into his arms and have him tell her that he still loved her. To her disappointment, however, she was confronted not by George but by two police officers.

‘Mrs Beverley Cleverley?’ said one, a young woman with an Audrey Hepburn haircut circa Roman Holiday.

‘The one and only,’ she slurred. ‘Nobody I’d rather be.’

‘We’ve had a report of an incident at this address.’

‘What sort of an incident?’

‘The murder of an animal.’

‘The what?’

‘Specifically, a tortoise who answered to the name of …’ She consulted her notepad. ‘Ustym Karmaliuk.’

‘After the great Ukrainian folk hero,’ added her colleague.

‘Firstly, he didn’t answer to any name,’ said Beverley, almost falling over. ‘He was entirely unresponsive most of the time. Like one’s husband becomes after thirty years of marriage.’

She burped and Audrey Hepburn snorted a little.