Afterwards, Dyer watched his father wordlessly climb into the car. He knew that he was going home straight to his study. Dyer followed him in his mind through the veil of Turkish cigarette smoke. He opens the whisky bottle, pours the glass to the top, drains it, pours another, drains, covers his forehead with his arm. His father was a naval historian, an expert on seventeenth-century Dutch shipping laws. He had told Dyer: ‘I can’t teach you anything.’

Her father had been a philosopher. He had left them this house in Ward Road. It was where she’d grown up.

She was flipping the omelette. ‘I hope you like it runny.’

They carried their plates over to the card table.

‘You’ve got long legs, so sit there.’

Miranda’s mother was lost in her thoughts. Thor avoided her, instead slinking under the table to Dyer’s chair. He looked plaintively at Dyer’s omelette, and pawed his knee.

‘Thor! Off! I’m sorry, he’s more promiscuous than my ex. Just smack his nose.’

‘He’s gorgeous. What is he?’

Miranda laughed, a kind and appreciative laugh, full of pride and affection. ‘A Welsh border collie crossed with whatever mutt his mother ran into on the Malvern Hills. But before you get carried away, he wags his tail like that to Ralph Cubbage – even, Lord love a duck, to Gilles Asselin.’

Her giggle: ‘Oh, you’d have relished the scene this morning! There I was in the Parks, minding my own, when Gilles jogs past, in the middle of a conference call which I have to say does sound awfully urgent, and Thor – I don’t think he can have been exercised enough – shoots off after him, barking merrily. I follow in super-hot pursuit, blowing the dog whistle, and finally catch up with them by the bridge, where I find Gilles battling to shoo away my slobbering hound, all the while clearly frantic to continue his conversation, which as far as I could tell – and this is so off the record – was nothing less than Gilles trying, in between excited barks, to organise a massive buying spree. I knew that if I hung around long enough he’d tell me what to do with my ISAs, but this is where Thor and I are not on the same page. Gilles gives me the creeps, he reminds me of one of those golems in the Pitt Rivers sculpted from mud. I always feel talking to him is like being whipped by dervishes, or something. So I dragged Thor away by his ear and gave you a sound ticking-off, didn’t I?’

After they had eaten, Miranda’s mother touched his arm. ‘Let’s go, then. We’re ready, aren’t we?’