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lot of good men died that day.’
    â€˜And a lot of bad ones.’
    â€˜Salvatore Cassini has never left the house since his son and daughter died.’
    â€˜He’s retired?’ I asked.
    â€˜Not exactly. His tentacles still reach far. They have a million tiny suckers.’
    Suckers is right, I thought.
    â€˜Are you part of the Mob?’ I asked.
    â€˜Mr Sharman, really. No one calls them that these days.’
    â€˜Slap my wrist,’ I said. ‘Are you?’
    â€˜No. But…’
    â€˜But the record business is full of them. Right?’
    â€˜Right.’
    â€˜Is that what all this is about?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You know them, but they’re not involved?’
    â€˜Take my word for it. I’ve made other enquiries. Whatever this is, it’s not that.’
    â€˜Well, I’ll have to find out exactly what it is then.’
    â€˜That is why we’re paying you.’
    â€˜Your man Shapiro insists he doesn’t know where the drugs came from,’ I said.
    â€˜Do you believe him?’
    â€˜I haven’t spoken to him yet. I’ll tell you when I do.’
    â€˜And when will that be?’
    â€˜Tomorrow morning.’
    â€˜Fine.’ I felt I was being dismissed. Then he said, ‘Mr Sharman, before you go – I judge by results. That’s all. Give me results and you’ll have my backing one hundred per cent. And my gratitude. That comes in many forms. Otherwise…’ He didn’t finish.
    I couldn’t believe it. The guy was actually sitting there in the middle of this stage-managed bullshit and threatening me, as if I was the one putting the bite on him. What a piece of sleaze, I thought. ‘Listen, Mr Pascall,’ I said, ‘I took this job for one reason and one reason only: because I was asked out to dinner by a woman who most men would crawl across broken glass to hear piss in a tin cup – over the phone. I didn’t do it for the money or your gratitude. As far as I’m concerned, with your gratitude and a quid I can get a cup of coffee. Don’t even think of threatening me. I’ve had it done by experts. If I don’t like what I see, colour me out of here. Do I make myself clear?’
    He didn’t answer. All he said was, ‘Ninotchka.’
    â€˜The one and only,’ I said.
    â€˜And you’re the latest?’
    â€˜We’re going out to dinner, that’s all.’
    â€˜That’s what they all say, Mr Sharman. She’s never been sparing with her favours. The woman must have an iron lining in her cunt. A gynaecological miracle.’
    I didn’t even bother to answer. Just left his words hanging in the air. I think he got the point, or maybe he was too insensitive. Like I said, a piece of sleaze.
    â€˜So, Mr Sharman, I’ll leave you to your investigation,’ he said. ‘You will make regular reports?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Then you can go.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t have dared, without your permission,’ I said, and left.
    When I got outside, it occurred to me that I could have handled it better.
    I went back to my suite and made a fresh drink. By the time I’d finished it, it was time to call on Ninotchka in the Mayfair Suite.

5
    I t was on the top floor on the farthest corner from mine. I tapped politely on the door at five to seven. A heavyweight from the security firm opened the door. His name tag read ‘Don’.
    â€˜Yes?’ he said.
    â€˜I’m here to see Ninotchka.’
    â€˜And you are?’
    â€˜Nick Sharman.’
    â€˜Come in.’
    I stepped through the door and into a hippy dream. The sitting room was twice as big as mine. The curtains were drawn and the lights dim. Where possible they’d been draped in gypsy scarves to diffuse them even further. The carpet had been covered with overlapping oriental rugs and brightly coloured cushions had been scattered over two big sofas and