‘Got a couple of horses. The piebald from “Death at Beechers Brook” … and a white, the one the whisky people had a couple of times.’

‘They want a chestnut or a black. Rearing.’

‘Who do?’

‘Bender’s Studios, Covent Garden. And a circling vulture. Last time they wanted a Moorish fountain, practicable, and a set of village stocks, ditto. They don’t make it easy.’

‘When for?’

‘Tomorrow. The seventh. By two o’clock. But I don’t know about the vultures, I’m sure.’

‘We do quite a bit with them, don’t we? Theatrical photographers?’

Georgie looked up glumly. ‘Yes. Theatrical. And something called “Aesthetic Art Models” on the side. Rum lot. Still, they pay, if we’ve got what they want.’

‘I’ll have a look,’ said Marcus. ‘I know we’ve got the piebald and the white.’

‘It’s the bloody vultures, mate. Bugger the ‘orses. ‘Orses is easy. Except for the rearing.’

‘Well,’ said Gus Bender pushing the grey hair off his bony forehead. ‘There’s three little things wrong with this horse, laddie. It’s not a black, it’s not rearing, and it’s on wheels.’

Marcus followed him across the big studio, stepping over cables and junction-boxes, a record-player thudding Streisand. ‘It’s all we’ve got. We’re Moviedecor not Newmarket.’

‘Don’t want no lip,’ said Gus Bender turning at his office door. ‘You bring me a white horse when I said black, and a dead-looking vulture.’

‘It is dead. Stuffed.’

‘And stuffed for bloody years by the looks of it: I can’t get no movement from that thing … all hunched up. No sense of horror … I want horror. It looks as if it had the croup. That’s what I have to reproduce, that there.’ He jabbed a finger towards a dark engraving pinned to the wall. A crumpled figure among jagged rocks, eyes rolled heavenwards, lightning flashing, vultures wheeling: wings outspread. ‘Got it? “Icarus” … And that one there is “Mazeppa” … full of horror, see?’ Another figure, eyes to heaven, sprawled across the back of a galloping horse, more lightning, billowing clouds, whirling dust.

‘That’s a white horse!’ said Marcus.

‘Yeah. Maybe the artist saw it white all those years ago. I see it black … more horrifying. And besides, it’ll show up the model better, white on white is tricky. You can lose detail.’ He went back into the studio and stared at the wheeled-horse, rubbing his chin in worried thought. ‘Suppose I could jack the forelegs up on a couple of boxes; come in close to miss the full shape, a wind-machine blowing the mane. Might work. Try and give it some movement.’

‘Someone is going to sit on it?’

Gus Bender looked up slowly. ‘No. Not sit. Lie. You’ve seen the engraving in there?’

‘He’ll fall off.’

‘Not Dieter, he won’t. And not for eighty quid a session. Anyway he’ll be tied on.’

‘You got it wrong, boss. Sorry to tell you, he won’t.’ A deep voice made them turn suddenly. Standing at the office door, a black man of immense height: at his side, barely reaching his waist, a slight pale-faced girl wearing a green tartan skirt, silver shoes, a mouldering rabbit-skin jacket.