His phone sits on the table next to mine. A journalist’s anti-social habit, that impulse to be contactable, day or night. He opens his mouth to say something more, but in perfect synchronicity, they begin to ring.

Our eyes meet. We both understand.

‘Hello?’ he says.

‘Hello?’ I say.

I’m vaguely aware of Lawrie’s voice and his exclamation of surprise, but then the pub and the bright lights and the smell of spilled beer recede until I’m only aware of the roar in my ears and the sting behind my eyelids, the opening up of a dark place inside.

It’s Pearline on the phone, my aunt’s neighbour, and I remember, too late, that I was supposed to ring Peg this morning, but I was busy with work, and forgot.

She’s talking to me, but I’m not listening anymore, I can’t hear anything beyond the very first sentence and her words spray over me like warm blood.

Aunt Peg is dead.

55

Geoffrey Heathcote was thinking about a glass of Argentinian Malbec, full-bodied and reassuringly expensive. A fillet steak or roasted haunch of venison, or perhaps, if he was feeling particularly in need of comfort, steamed steak and kidney suet pudding. He was starving, the end of another long day making decisions on behalf of the proletariat. Rules, a restaurant older than time itself, would be just the ticket.

John, his driver, took nine minutes to get him from the Ministry of Justice in Petty France to Covent Garden’s Maiden Lane. A white van followed them through the streets of central London but neither man noticed. During the journey, Heathcote barely uttered a word because he was preoccupied not with business, but the pursuit of pleasure.

Anna had not answered his texts or his telephone calls. He had found himself checking her social media feeds, a foreign country to him, and had even tried the hotel in case she’d gone there to sleep off their late night. He would be charged the full price, the receptionist had informed him sniffily, even though no one had checked in. At lunchtime, he had broken one of his own strict rules and left her a voicemail.

As day turned into night, he felt the first stirrings of concern for her welfare.

The restaurant, housed in a tall Victorian house, was still busy, even at this late hour, but he had called ahead to reserve a table. They always found him one. Heathcote never minded dining alone. He rather relished the luxury of it.

He liked to froth out his napkin and tuck it in the front of his shirt. Savour his wine. Eat his meal in peace. Brandy, an after-dinner cigar. Privileges oiled by power, prestige and money.

John pulled into the kerbside, the tick of the indicator breaking the library-silence of the car.

‘Here we are, sir. Enjoy your evening.’

‘Thanks, old chap. What time shall we say? Eleven thirty pick-up?’