A little man was standing by the chimney breast. There was no fire in the grate and the only light in the place came from a couple of those little lanterns that had been handed to John and me hours before. The little man had dyed hair slicked back over a scarred, mottled scalp and he was wearing an expensive-looking suit that didn’t sit well on him. I can’t say I know much about fashion but he looked like a little lad wearing grown-up clothes. He had an air about him, that much was clear. This was a moment he’d looked forward to. He was holding court and looked like he was enjoying it. He gave off an air of confidence. He was used to such rooms.

Half a dozen different men sat in a loose semi-circle in front of him. It was as if they were in a little theatre, watching a magician about to pull a rabbit from his sleeve. They were expensive-looking men, if that makes any sense to you. They were no strangers to rich food. They were the sort who’d order brandy after their pudding and then sit chewing on fat cigars, swirling their drink of choice in crystal glasses big enough to re-home a goldfish. The chairs didn’t match. Four were high-backed and I recognized them from the dining room. The two men who bookended the chaps in the middle were reclining in bucket-style armchairs. It was all very neat. I shifted my weight as gently as I could and tried to peer into the far reaches of the room. I could just make out Cordelia’s bookcases, still haphazardly piled with her old textbooks, hardbacks and photograph albums. I felt a pang of longing for her – a sudden wish for her to march in through the door and demand that every one of them get the hell out of her house and to apologize to me personally as they did so.

I could make out Pelletier, stood in the corner, lounging against the wall like he was at a cocktail party. The two men who’d roughed up John had taken up positions behind the men in the high-backed chairs. I couldn’t see any guns. Couldn’t see any need for them. Everybody seemed to be playing nicely together.