There appeared to be no grief, and little sensitivity, in the cool, smiling, Grottorosso who came towards Marcus, trim in form-fitting grey tracksuit, white sneakers, and a platinum wristwatch the size of a muffin; a bottle of champagne already opened in one hand, the other extended in greeting.

‘My dear Pollock! So good of you to come, it makes me very happy.’ He poured two flutes of Roederer Cristal and indicated that Marcus should seat himself on a low steel and leather chair while he himself chose the long buttoned settee on which he lay prone, relaxed, comfortable; inducing an immediate feeling of informality and ease. He imagined.

‘We have had a tragic time, as you perhaps know, so it is pleasant to have some slight diversion. I am sad that we could not lunch, as I suggested, but the days have been so occupied by this disastrous business that there was not the time. However, we shall have our drink instead, eh?’ He raised the flute. ‘Chin-chin! Now then,’ he said, setting his glass aside, ‘what do you think of my ship? She is pretty, I think?’

‘Great. Like a super penthouse.’

‘She is my home. I live on her all the time practically …go where I will. It is a very agreeable life.’

‘What’s the furthest you’ve sailed her?’

‘The furthest? The longest voyage? I think, so far, Bermuda; not so far, but very pleasing.’

‘Bermuda! The Atlantic, in this? Kidding?’

‘This is a ship, Pollock,’ said Grottorosso with a polite smile. ‘Not a celluloid duck.’

‘And you’ve got a terrific tape-deck there.’

‘Ah! Music! My greatest solace. It soothes the savage breast, and eases the weary heart. I have need of it often, alas!’

Well, thought Marcus, my breast is pretty savage right now. That silly scrubber and the bet. What did he do that for? Why put her on to me? Perhaps Minerva is right. Just have to see. Settle back; I know his type, they take a long time to get to the point. Wander round with a load of oblique questions, then jump you.

‘You look, what is the word?’ Grottorosso searched the air cautiously with manicured fingers. ‘Dashing? Is that right?’

‘Don’t know. Sounds all right.’

‘Very slick and sleek.’

‘Oh well, just tidy. An honour coming here, after all.’

‘Perhaps – your hair?’

‘My hair?’

‘It is very … arranged, is it? The other day when I saw you, it was different?’

‘Lacquer,’ said Marcus thrusting a hand through his fixed hair and brushing it hard. ‘There. All gone. It comes out easily. That better?’ He combed it roughly into place with his fingers.

Grottorosso nodded contentedly. ‘Much better. More virile.’

‘I’ll have to remember that, won’t I?’

‘Now you really resemble l’Aiglon. So strange, I was astonished when I saw it. I immediately thought of you to double for Hagel, as you know, but now that we have no star, we have no need for a double. It is tragic.’