‘No problem,’ Sasha answered airily. ‘He has box on balcony. But two times every day, my mother takes him down in the lift for walk in the park. Also, he is very good hunter.’

‘What – mice?’

‘Birds. Here on the balcony. He can go for three flats along. He is very quick’ – a swiping motion with one hand – ‘he catch many birds.’

I had a fleeting, uncomfortable vision of Tigr missing his grip and toppling eight floors to the ground – only half the distance that wretched Igor had fallen. Even a cat with nine lives would hardly survive such a drop.

When I turned my head to look farther round, I realised that one wall was dominated by a large sepia portrait photograph, framed in a border of carved wood. I was startled, because the subject looked so familiar.

‘Surely that’s our old king, George V?’ I asked.

‘Not English king. Russian king! It is Tsar Nicholas.’

‘But it looks exactly like George.’

‘Konechno. These men were cousins. My mother, she is beeg fan of royal family.’

‘But the Russian royal family’s long gone—’

‘English royals she likes. Prince Charles she likes very much. When Princess Diana was killed she felt vairy sad.’

During our conversation Lyudmila had been bringing dishes of food out of the kitchen and setting them on the table. Now she murmured something to Sasha, who jumped up announcing, ‘Please! Dinner is ready.’

He went to the head of the table, and indicated that we should sit either side of him. But his mother continued to hover in the doorway, and it soon became clear that she didn’t intend to join us.

‘Isn’t your mother going to eat?’ I asked

‘Later. She prefers to serve us. Now, please, we have teepical Russian meal. First, zakuski.’ He gestured lavishly over the spread of dishes. ‘Such kinds of smoked fish, fish eggs, smoked meats, cheeses, cucumbers – help yourselves.’

I would have felt bad had I not known about the Mafia dollars which had obviously financed this banquet. As it was, I started eating fast, to provide some bedding for the vodka which Sasha kept pouring freely from a litre bottle. The food was delicious, and the vodka made a perfect foil for the sharp, salty, smoky tastes, especially of red fish roe. Whenever one of us paused for breath Sasha exclaimed, ‘Please, eat! Dreenk!’ and waved us on.

‘Take it easy,’ I muttered to Rick. ‘I’m sure this is only the start.’

Sure enough, the next course was bortsch – thick soup, not full of beetroot as it usually is in England, but more subtle, with a meaty stock for background, small slices of various vegetables floating in it, and a good, peppery overall taste. Next came bitochki – meat balls in a rich tomato sauce, with mashed potatoes – and after that a special cake full of nuts, made by our hostess, with which Sasha served sweet Georgian champagne.