“That’s quite all right,” Margaret said coolly.

“No, I insist.” He tossed a glance at one of the barmen. “And gimme another Scotch.” Then he refocused on Margaret. “Makes a change to hear a voice from the old country.”

“Really? I thought this was where the international set hung out.” It was what she’d read, and one of the reasons she had chosen to stay there. After relations between Russia and China had become less than warm and the Russian “experts” had departed, the Friendship Hotel had become a haven for “experts” of all nationalities, and more recently a gathering place for expats who preferred English to Chinese.

“Used to be,” he said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. “But you know how it is. One place is popular this year, another the next. And the beautiful people move on.” Margaret was aware of an increasing rancour in his tone now. “Still, I can’t say I miss them. The aesthetic can become somewhat tedious, don’t you think?” But he wasn’t really interested in what she thought. He went on without pausing, “A steady supply of whisky’s all a man really needs. And from a quiet corner in here the solitary drinker can always watch the ridiculous spectacle of the Chinese nouveaux riches in search of status. My name’s McCord, by the way. J. D. McCord.” He held out his hand, and she felt compelled to shake it. She had expected it to be limp and damp. Instead, it held her a little too firmly, and there was something almost reptilian in its cold, dry touch. “And you are?”

“Margaret Campbell.” She felt trapped by his politeness. And the arrival of her vodka tonic, on his bill, slammed the door on immediate escape.

“Well, Margaret Campbell, what brings you to Beijing?”

There was nothing else for it. She took a long sip of her vodka and almost immediately felt its effect. “I’m lecturing for six weeks at the People’s University of Public Security.”

“Are you indeed?” McCord seemed impressed. “And what’s your subject?”

“Forensic pathology.”

“Jeez! You mean you cut people open for a living?”

“Only when they’re dead.”

He grinned. “I’m safe for a while, then.” And for one malicious, wishful moment, she visualised taking a circular saw round the top of his skull and watching his addled, alcoholic brain plop out into a shiny stainless-steel dish. His Scotch arrived and he took a long slug. “So . . . you just got here?” She nodded and sucked in more vodka. “You’ll be needing someone to show you the ropes, then.”

“Someone like you?”

“Sure. I’ve been here nearly six years. Know all the wrinkles.”

“You’ve stayed here for six years?” She was astonished at the thought of anyone staying in a hotel for that long.