Her glance skimmed back over the table, rising to the challenge. ‘Nuclear physicist. Berkeley – i.e. Livermore, the US weapons laboratory in California. Arrived here at Christmas to take up a post at the Clarendon. Married to the oh-sopious woman sitting on Gilles’s left. Bonnie is a prominent member of the Church of the Open Door. They have a daughter at the Phoenix who plays the cello and whom they treat as the next Jaqueline du Pré.’

‘A nuclear physicist,’ said Dyer slowly, to let the reality of this take shape. ‘You have fifteen words left. Go for it.’

She re-examined Cubbage through her squashed glasses.

‘I don’t know you well enough for another fifteen. How about always disagrees with the last person he has spoken to. And an artesian bore. I will throw in for free that cubbitch means “greedy” in Jamaican.’

‘Well, that’s him in his nutshell, almost,’ said Dyer.

Her forthright nature was a blood transfusion. He recognised the lack of filter that others flinched from in him.

‘Gilles?’

‘Our resident predator? Easy peasy,’ said Miranda, and swivelled her gaze to the end of the table.

He waited while she refocused. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

Their host was talking to a thin little man with gloomy eyes who was in the middle of a divorce.

‘They’re looking at one third for you, one third for your wife and one third for them. The worst word in their dictionary is “agreement”.’

Her index finger pressed her misshapen glasses further up her nose. ‘Gilles is a parasite ant. He bites the legs off other members of his species and turns them into living silos. His victims grow exceedingly fat and blubbery, and in winter he eats them. He may be Canadian, but don’t let that mislead you. He may be tall. Don’t let that mislead you either. He has the faults of all men under five feet three. And also, let me tell you, he takes pleasure in pain.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I tell you, I know these things.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Haven’t I used up my allocation?’

‘But I’m getting to know you better. Go on. Take another eighty.’

With an air of collusion, she said: ‘He doesn’t have a personality, but that’s him. He’s not a people person, he never will be. He sees the world as a system geared to optimise revenue for his company. He’s constantly tipping me “the next big thing” to invest in, although I have no savings to speak of. I do honestly like to think it’s because a tiny bit of him wants to help me out. One day it’s genetic and data science, the next day it’s bio-synthesis and the creation of proteins. If you want my opinion, he’s right now on the prowl for a new mission.’

‘A mission to do what?’