‘No problem, we can absolutely put it on hold for you until tomorrow.’

‘You’ve managed to capture that exact moment where the milk’s about to boil up and out of the pot. I find it so prophetic.’

‘The pot. Yes. And what do you make of the gunshots to the mount? Do you like that?’

‘Amazing! I’ve got a Facebook group that discusses photography that has lots of followers. I’d really like to introduce your work to them and, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to share a little telephone interview. Would you be keen?’

I could tell by the displacement of air behind my back that the gallery assistant was gesticulating wildly to get her to agree. The digits of Adrienne’s phone number emerge from her mouth, reluctantly, but they do emerge.

What happened next can be summarised in a few sentences.

I went home, compared her number against those of the drug users I have stored in the cloud and saw that it appeared in a dozen of the lists for cocaine and in four for MDMA. Adrienne was a regular user who bought decent amounts and had done so for years from lots of different dealers.

I also had in my database a short column comprising numbers of crack connoisseurs who only wanted to be supplied with pure cocaine so they could cut it themselves with bicarb and ammonia. I added Adrienne’s number to these others and went across to my neighbours with my list. ‘These people have a special order; if you hear about a pure cocaine delivery, they’ll be up for it so they can do their cooking.’ Mohamed graciously slipped me 300 euros for this latest list. I had a whinge, just for good form. ‘What, you’re kidding me, snow is worth three times that!’ He made it 500, sighing.

The list must have done the rounds . . . A classy offer sent by SMS must have appeared on Adrienne’s mobile at some point: Sell CC KWliT XX, KWntiT limtd, order KWiK ++. .. Because her dumbass arteries all of a sudden contracted and she died of a cardiac arrest.

Her friends posted RIP Adrienne in the comments on her last Instagram selfie.

With a sad emoji.

Paris

27 December 1870

The Grands Boulevards, usually so well lit, seemed to have narrowed in the half-darkness as a result of the gas rationing, taking on the appearance of medieval alleyways.

Auguste was holding his aunt Clothilde by the arm so she wouldn’t fall on the patches of ice. They were both on their way to the Favié Club on Rue de Belleville.

‘What was I thinking to agree to accompany you to such a place?’