Nina’s watch told her they still had twenty before Miller was due to arrive. ‘And anyone else who turns up, we’ll see them.’ The bar was at the restaurant’s entrance; anybody arriving had to come past them. ‘Okay, so I guess we wait. And listen to the screams.’ The jumper finally plucked up the courage to step over the edge – and plunged towards the ground with a shriek, the cable attached to his harness rapidly winding out as he dropped in free fall before slowing.

‘Nothing like that to help you relax,’ said Eddie with a smile.

They had told a waiter they were expecting Miller, so were left alone while they waited. The dessert eaters departed. Another jumper was led to the platform, wobbling at the edge before disappearing with a Dopplering scream. It was clearly a popular draw, as the attendants bustled straight back inside to prepare the next customer for their vertical journey. Nina checked her watch again. ‘Five minutes. Shame we’re not planning to eat, I like the look of the menu!’

Eddie stood. ‘I’ll go and keep an eye on things.’ He went through a door leading from the bar to the glass-walled corridor outside the Sky Jump waiting area, taking up position behind it to watch the restaurant through a porthole.

Nina waited, becoming increasingly tense even knowing Eddie was only yards away. From her brief talk with Miller, she had already pegged his type: an overprivileged, entitled product of money who became angry and aggressive if challenged, especially by a woman. She had run into a depressingly large number of them over the years, as they gravitated into business, law and politics as if considering such professions theirs by birthright.

But she was angry too. If Miller was behind what had happened in the iceberg, she would make him pay, even if that involved dangling him from the Sky Jump by his ankles . . .

The main doors opened. Nina turned – and instantly recognised Donny Miller. He was tall, well over six feet, and the smug expression from the photos was present in real life as if permanently etched around his mouth. There was, however, uncertainty behind it, which was a relief. If he had set up a trap, he would be a lot more confident.

The waiter, a cheery man with a nametag reading ‘Simon’, met him. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Miller.’ He glanced around, noting Eddie’s absence with a small shrug, then led him to Nina. ‘Your guest is already here.’

She stood, extending a hand. ‘Mr Miller?’

He took it, giving her a perfunctory but still over-forceful power squeeze. ‘You’re Macy Garde?’

‘I am, yes,’ she replied – but he was already regarding her with suspicion, recognition starting to form. She distracted him by turning to the waiter. ‘Can we go to our table, please?’