Jeremy Coxon’s house in Maida Vale was one of a row of pretty Edwardian villas with gardens leading down to the canal, a neat domestic toy house grown to adult size. The front garden, which even in its winter aridity showed signs of careful planting and the hope of spring, was bisected by a stone path leading to a glossily painted front door. It wasn’t at first sight a house which Benton associated with what he knew of Robin Boyton or expected of his friend. There was a certain feminine elegance about the façade, and he recalled reading that it was in this part of London that Victorian and Edwardian gentlemen provided houses for their mistresses. Remembering Holman Hunt’s painting The Awakening Conscience, he brought to mind a cluttered sitting room, a young woman starting up, bright-eyed, from the piano, her lounging lover, one hand on the keys, reaching out to her. In recent years he had surprised in himself a fondness for Victorian genre painting but that hectic and, for him, unconvincing depiction of remorse was not one of his favourites.

As they unlatched the gate, the door opened and a young couple were gently but firmly propelled out. They were followed by an elderly man, neat as a manikin, with a bouffant of white hair and a tan which no winter sun could have produced. He was wearing a suit with a waistcoat, the exaggerated stripes of which diminished his meagre frame still further. He appeared not to notice the newcomers, but his fluting voice came clearly to them down the path.

“You don’t ring. It’s supposed to be a restaurant, not a private house. Use your imagination. And, Wayne, dear boy, get it right this time. You give your name and the booking details to the reception, someone will take your coats, then you follow the person greeting you to your table. The lady goes first. Don’t bang on ahead and pull out your guest’s chair as if you’re afraid someone will grab it. Let the man do his job. He’ll see to it that she’s comfortably seated. So let’s do it again. And try, dear boy, to look confident. You’ll be paying the bill, for God’s sake. Your job is to see that your guest has a meal which makes at least a pretence at being worth what you’ll be paying for it, and a happy evening. She won’t if you don’t know what you’re doing. All right, perhaps you’d better come in and we’ll practise the knives-and-forks bit.”

The couple disappeared inside, and it was then he deigned to turn his attention to Kate and Benton. They walked up to him, and Kate flipped open her wallet. “Detective Inspector Miskin and Detective Sergeant Benton-Smith. We’re here to see Mr. Jeremy Coxon.”