Robin Hood Yard. Mark Sanderson

looking at Dimeo in astonishment. “Anything over seven letters usually gives you a headache.”

      “That would be telling.” The sports freak bestowed a dazzling smile upon his colleagues. “That said, breast-stroking is the national sport of La Bella Italia – after football, of course.”

      “A quid says no one can get the word in the paper,” said Johnny.

      “You’re on,” said Dimeo and, before nipping smartly back to his desk, took the risk of ruffling his red hair in a gesture of friendship. He was wasting his time; Johnny would never forgive him for sleeping with Stella, even though he knew how Johnny felt about her. Dimeo’s behaviour was rarely sporting.

      Johnny had only loved one other woman more than Stella – and Lizzie was married to Matt. He’d made up his mind to ask Stella to marry him but instead of meeting him at St Paul’s so he could get down on one knee she had deliberately disappeared. It turned out that she’d been secretly seeing Dimeo as well. And that wasn’t the only way she’d betrayed him.

      “What was that about?” Bertram Blenkinsopp, a reporter before Johnny was even born, watched Dimeo chatting up a secretary from the seventh floor.

      “Nothing. Ask Valentino. What are you working on?”

      “Suburban neurosis.”

      “What’s that when it’s at home?”

      “Very good. I’ll use that.” He chewed his lip. “Lord knows why they always land me with these stories. Anyone stuck inside the same four walls day after day would go out of their minds.”

      “Prisoners don’t.”

      “Sure about that?”

      “No – but many of them are mad before they go in.”

      “It’s a sign of the times,” said Blenkinsopp. “Freed from the necessity of foraging for food or seeking shelter, the pampered middle-classes have nothing to occupy their tiny minds. That’s why they lose their marbles. Mark my words, it’ll vanish once war breaks out.”

      The London Tavern on the corner of Fenchurch Street and Mark Lane was a temple devoted to pleasure. Within its walls there were snack bars, cocktail bars, oyster bars, grill rooms and restaurants. The original tavern in Bishopsgate – where, in Nicholas Nickleby, a public meeting is held “to take into consideration the propriety of petitioning Parliament in favour of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company” – had been demolished half a century ago but the owners were determined to keep its spirit of service with a bow and scrape alive. Consequently, it was a popular venue for City banquets.

      Simkins had reserved a table in the fish restaurant. A bottle, tilted at the angle of a Nazi salute, was chilling in an ice-bucket beside it.

      “Johnny dearest!” Simkins leapt to his feet and kissed him on both cheeks.

      A murmur of disapproval rippled round the dining room. Bloody Continentals!

      Johnny, accustomed to his rival’s flamboyant antics, merely smiled. Once upon a time he would have blushed.

      “Hello, Henry. What do you want?”

      “Don’t be like that.” Simkins, gratified by the stir he had caused, finally sat down. “It’s All Souls Day. Don’t you want to enter the kingdom of Heaven?”

      “I’m not Catholic.”

      “Doesn’t stop you being in purgatory though.”

      Simkins twiddled the stem of his empty glass between his thumb and forefinger. “Have a drink.” He pulled the wine bottle out of the bucket. It was already half-empty.

      “No, thank you. Just Perrier for me.”

      “Water? What the hell is wrong with you?”

      “Nothing. I overdid it last night, that’s all. What d’you want?”

      “Let’s order first. The turbot’s supposed to be divine.”

      Johnny, in his days as a cub, had written too many stories about fatal fish bones for his liking so he restricted himself to Morecambe Bay shrimps and scallops from Whitstable. Simkins, chitchatting away, filleted his food with admirable dexterity but Johnny could tell he was nervous. His trademark insouciance seemed put on.

      “Come on then, Simkins. Spit it out.”

      “In the circumstances, not the best choice of words.” Simkins winked at the waiter, who was ceremoniously pouring coffee from a silver pot.

      “Henry, I won’t ask again.”

      “Our old friend is back in town.”

      “Who?”

      “Cecilia Zick.”

      There were times when Johnny wished he’d never saved Henry’s life – and this was one of them.

      “Don’t hit me.” Simkins tossed his chestnut curls – the envy of many a girl.

      “I’ll say this for you,” said Johnny. “You’ve got balls.”

      “Not remotely funny. Not funny at all. Such a remark is unworthy of you, Steadman.”

      “Where is he?”

      Johnny balked at referring to the transvestite as a woman.

      “I don’t know, I swear. He hardly trusts me any more than you.”

      “What brings him back here? Surely he knows he’s playing with fire?”