The subject of the tape was printed on the box, which now lay on the refectory table beside the tape machine. “Interview with Guy Burgess, May 28th, 1951, SS Pamyati Kirova.” I carefully threaded the leader onto the Grundig, lit my fifth cigarette of the day, poured some coffee from the brightly polished silver pot that Ernest the butler had brought for me, and, under the eye of a tomato-colored nude by Renoir, sat down to await Maugham’s delayed arrival in the elegant drawing room. On the lawns the garden sprinklers were already spinning around like dervishes and the chauffeur had washed the car again. The nude was a bit too pink and chubby for my taste; she only lacked a lollipop and a Teddy bear to be wholly unsuitable. I was tired but in an almost pleasant way, suffering a little with the equivalent of a hangover from an excess of sex, if such a thing is possible for a man living alone. My balls felt like they’d spent the night on a beer-hall billiard table. I closed my eyes for a moment and opened them again as Robin Maugham came into the room and sat down heavily, more like an old housewife after a day trailing around the shops instead of a man wearing a blazer who had only just finished breakfast. He smelled strongly of cloying cologne and false courtesy. I sensed that he had started to dislike me almost as much as I disliked his cologne.

“My uncle is going to be another five or ten minutes. He had an uncomfortable night. The heat, you know.”

“I had a bit of a rough night myself.”

“Well, I always say, there’s nothing quite like a bit of rough.” Robin smiled at his own little joke. “Anyway, he’s just getting dressed.”

I nodded. “Fine.”

“You know, every time I open a door in this house these days it seems you’re there, Walter. Why is that?”

“Does that make you nervous?”

“No. It makes me wonder, that’s all. I mean, what’s in it for you, that kind of thing. What do you want from this house, Walter?”

“You asked me to come here. To play bridge. Remember?”

“No, what I mean is, why are you helping my uncle now?”

“Because he asked me to.”

“Oh, come on, Walter. I’m not a fucking idiot. Everyone wants something from the old boy. What’s your angle?”

“Would it make you feel a little more comfortable if you thought there was money in it for me?”

“Yes, I suppose it would. I mean, it’s like Dr. Johnson says about being a writer: No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money. Well, surely the same is doubly true for a man who used to be a private detective like you.”

“Who told you that?”

“What?”

“That I used to be a private detective?”

“I suppose my uncle must have mentioned it.”