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    ‘Stars in her eyes, that one.’
    He dropped his smoke on the pavement, ground it underfoot. He pulled the collar of his mackintosh tight against his neck and stepped back in the rain. He passed the oyster bar at the hotel brasserie. Saw mounds of molluscs on ice and two lads in white smocks prying open shells with blunt knives. A crowd of well-heeled types inside the restaurant living it up. White wine and assorted belons all round. He saw Blondie come through a door connecting to the hotel lobby, following the maître d’hôtel to the corner booth near the windows. Middle-aged gent stood to greet her. The gent wore a swell suit. The kind that said expense account. The waiter helped Blondie with her mink, revealing a nicely cut black dress. The kind that said nicer underneath.
    He turned away and walked along Rue du Grand-Chêne, crossed over the wet road and took the stairs down to a dark alleyway you’d miss if you hadn’t been told where to look. Stone path was like a rat’s maze, turning left then right and hooking back once or twice after coming to dead ends, to where a single light bulb dangled above a black steel door. No sign, no markings. Just two doormen the size of bulldozers with faces to match, standing motionless under matching brollies. They watched him approach. He stopped in front of them.
    ‘Good evening, lads, I take it this is the place.’
    They looked at him for a moment and then stepped aside without a word. The black metal door behind them slid open. He nodded in appreciation.
    ‘Cheers.’
    He followed a come-hither beat down a flight of stairs. Blue neon squiggle on one wall spelled ‘GG’s’ and illuminated photographs of scantily clad women on the other. All the women smiling with promises of wonderful things. He hit the last step, pushed through red velvet curtains to a dim room scented thick with perfume and cigarette smoke. A beam of white light cut through the smoke to a woman on a small stage. Her body adorned with a sheer white scarf. Her alabaster-coloured skin, like the scarf, reflecting the purity of whiteness as she caressed the brass pole between her legs. She leaned back, swayed in time to the come-hither beat, let the scarf fall from her body.
    ‘Right. And it’s that kind of place.’
    He checked his coat with the rather nice-looking thing who appeared from nowhere, numbered ticket in her hand and a smile on her face that could melt butter.
    ‘Enjoy your evening, monsieur.’
    ‘I’ll try.’
    He took the ticket and walked to the bar where two beauties in negligees sat with their long legs on display. Drinking Colas on ice, waiting for the kindness of a stranger. Harper took a seat at the end of the bar. One of the women, the one with the almond-shaped eyes, said:
    ‘We will not bite, monsieur.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Are you afraid to be close to us?’
    ‘Maybe I’m the shy type.’
    ‘Perhaps monsieur would like to buy us a glass of champagne and we could help you overcome your shyness.’
    He looked at the menu on the bar. Cheapest champers in the place listed at six hundred Swiss francs. Switzerland, land of medicinal bubbly and half-naked shrinks on call.
    ‘How about a rain check, ladies?’
    ‘As you wish, monsieur.’
    He dug out his smokes, lit up, looked around the club. All the punters sitting in the shadows with their drinks and cigarettes. None of them matched the photo.
    ‘Welcome to GG’s, monsieur. You would like a drink?’
    He turned to a petite woman behind the bar. Asian face, brown eyes, slender body draped in red silk.
    ‘Vodka tonic, please.’
    ‘With pleasure.’ She mixed the drink in a tall glass, set it before him. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’
    He tasted the drink, heavy on the vodka. Designed to get you well pissed and loosen up all those francs burning a hole in your pocket. He drank deeper.
    ‘Is it to your liking?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘The drink, monsieur.’
    ‘It’s fine.’
    She gave it ten seconds.
    ‘You’re a