The hotel lobby was deserted as she strode through the south wing past reception and down steps to the bar beyond. There were still a dozen or more people sitting at tables in twos and threes, downing nightcaps and indulging in loquacious post-dinner conversation. Margaret paid them little attention, hoisting herself on to a bar stool and demanding a vodka tonic with ice and lemon, then deciding to make it a large one. The barman responded quickly, pouring her drink, and then laying out a square of white paper napkin, a small bowl of raw peanuts, and a tall glass that was misting already from the chill of the ice. She flashed her keycard at him, and as he opened an account, she took a long pull at the vodka and felt the alcohol flooding almost immediately into her bloodstream and into her brain, like a long, cool wave of relief. She started to relax, took a handful of nuts, and looked around the bar. There was a young Chinese couple smooching at a table against the far wall. A noisy group of three Japanese businessmen quaffing large tumblers of whisky. A short, middle-aged man who . . . Her heart took a jolt as she realised it was McCord. He was slumped in a seat at a corner table looking considerably dishevelled. Strands of greasy grey hair had broken free of the oil he used to plaster it to his scalp, and fell in loops across a forehead beaded with perspiration. His face was the colour and texture of putty, bloodshot eyes rolling drunkenly. A half-empty glass of Scotch was held in his hand at a precarious angle, and he appeared to be muttering to himself. She turned to the barman, flicking her head in McCord’s direction. “Has he been here long?”

“Long time,” the barman said solemnly.

She took another stiff pull at the vodka, warmed up her indignation, and headed across the bar to McCord’s table. “Mind if I join you?” she asked, and sat down without waiting for an answer.

His head jerked up from some alcoholic reverie and he looked at her, startled, and for a moment, she thought, almost scared. “What d’you want?” he barked, screwing up his eyes and peering at her in the gloom of the bar. It was obvious he didn’t recognise her.

“Margaret Campbell?” she said, trying to awaken some recollection in him. “Dr. Margaret Campbell? You ruined my welcome banquet, remember?” He glared at her. “I just wanted to say, thanks a million.”

He curled a lip and drained his glass. “Why don’t you fuck off?” he slurred. And he got unsteadily to his feet and lurched out of the bar.