APART FROM one niggling annoyance, Sebastian Wells felt at peace with the world. He had just ignited a particularly fine cigar of Cuban extraction, and had drunk the decent portion of a magnum of Bollinger, albeit from a plastic cup. He was leaving one pleasurable venue, a box at the Royal Festival Hall where he had been attending a charity recital of Offenbach arias, and was heading for another, the Palm Court at the Waldorf Hotel. The violet dusk had settled into a late-summer night that was warm and starless. Ahead of him, confident couples fanned across the walkways of the South Bank and awkwardly climbed the stairs to Waterloo Bridge to collect their cars. Others strolled in evening dress beside the river, transforming the barren concrete embankment into a set for a champagne commercial. There was an air of gentle joviality. Sebastian felt unusually stately and benevolent, willing to be swayed in his argument, although perhaps not ready to concede it.

'The point, my dear Caton-James, is that the man was successful before he was twenty years of age.' He flicked the ash from his cigar and blew on the end until it was glowing.

'Not wealthy, though,' said Caton-James, searching the crowd.

'What do you expect? He had five children, and he lived extravagantly. His music was throwaway, full of topical parody, and yet here we are one hundred and twenty years later still listening to it.' Sebastian located the source of his annoyance and pointed his cigar to the figure emerging from one of the Hall's entrance doors. 'I think the gentleman we're looking for is there, at the back. He's alone.'

'Opera was invented for a closed society,' said St John Warner. He had the misfortune of speaking in a high, strangled voice that irritated everyone in earshot. 'It was never meant to be understood by the proles, but Offenbach made it accessible to all. I thought you'd be against that sort of thing, Sebastian.'

'Not at all,' Sebastian replied magnanimously. 'It doesn't hurt to give your workers some little tunes to hum. Besides, I defy anyone to resist La Perichole's "Letter Song".' He pointed in the direction of the entrance doors again. 'Look, will somebody stop this chap before he simply wanders off?'

Caton-James eased his way through the last of the departing audience and slipped a friendly arm behind the startled man's back.

'I wonder if we might have a word with you.' He attempted a pleasant smile, revealing a rictus of grey pegs that could make a baby cry.

His hostage, a smart, dark-complexioned man of twenty-two or so, checked the firm fist at his waist with an outraged 'I'm sorry?' and shorthanded such a look of violated privacy that he failed to see the others closing about him.

'Not that the working classes could comprehend such music now,' said Sebastian testily as he joined them. 'They make a sort of mooing noise in their public houses when Oasis comes on, wave their cans of Hooch and busk along with a few of the words to "Wonderwall", but ask them to remember the chorus of "Soyez Pitoyables" from Les Brigands and see where it gets you.'

Moments later their victim found himself separated from the concert stragglers and forced into a litter-strewn alley at the side of the Hall. The area seemed to have been designed for the facility of brigands. In front of him were five imposing young men in Edwardian evening wear. Alarmed and confused as the shadows closed over him, he was still considering the correct response when Caton-James punched him hard in the stomach. To everyone's surprise, the boy instantly threw up.

'Oh God!' squealed St John Warner, jumping back, 'all over my shoes!'

'Hold him still, will you?' asked Sebastian. 'Where's Barwick?'

'Over here.'

'Keep an eye out. There's a chap.'

Caton-James waited for the thin string of vomit to stop spilling from the young man's mouth onto the concrete, then punched him again, watching dispassionately as he folded over, moaning. Sebastian drew back his shoe and swung it hard at the frightened face beneath him. The shoes were new, Church's of course, and the heels still had sharp edges, so that his first kick removed most of the skin on the boy's nose. He was haematose now, his eyes dulling as he kicked and kicked, his mind in another place. The body beneath him fell back without resistance. Even from his position at the alley entrance, Barwick could hear the sharp cracking of bones, like explosive caps being stamped on. Sebastian lowered his leg and bent forward to study the cowering, carmine-faced figure. Blood was leaking from his ears.

'Looks like you've fractured his skull,' said Caton-James. 'We'd better go.'

'You're right. We'll lose our table if we don't get a move on.' The light returned to Sebastian's eyes as a chorus from La Chanson de Fortunio forced its way into his head. Nodding along with the melody, he reached forward and pulled the young man's cracked head up by his hair, then gently blew on the tip of his cigar. Forcing his victim's mouth open, he pushed the glowing stogie as far into his retching throat as it would go.

'Christ, Sebastian.' St John Warner grimaced, turning away.

With the annoyance taken care of, Sebastian rubbed the toecaps of his shoes against his calves until they shone, and straightened the line of his brocaded waistcoat. The Offenbach chorus rang on in his head, unstoppable now.

'I'm famished,' he said, glancing back at the convulsing body with distaste. 'Let's eat.' He led his men from the alleyway towards the bridge as Barwick attempted to lighten the mood, regaling the group with a scurrilous story about Sir Thomas Beecham. As they left the dying man behind, their dark laughter was absorbed in the gaiety of the dissipating crowds.

'BECAUSE I saw you trying to nick it, smartarse,' shouted the stallholder. The name of his stall was Mondo Video, and supposedly sold cult trash/rock/horror items on VHS, but these days his stock had been decimated by the need to conform with tougher censorship restrictions. It didn't help being sandwiched between a woman selling secondhand children's jumpers and a falafel takeaway, either.

'I wouldn't be caught dead nicking anything from this stall,' Vince countered, waving one of the video boxes in his hand. 'Check out the picture-quality of this stuff, it's burglary.'

'Burglary?'

'Yeah, like watching the screen with a pair of tights pulled over your face. You got a nerve trying to offload it onto the public.'

'Well, don't bother trying to half-inch any of it, then.' The stallholder rested his hands on his hips, amused by the boy's cheek. Maybe he'd seen him before; it was hard to tell. The worn-over sneakers, the clipper haircut, the ever-shifting eyes and the sallow complexion of a fast-food diet were common juvenile stigmata around here. But this one had a freshness, a touch of charm.

'Wouldn't give you the benefit of my custom, not for this load of pants. Of course, you probably dosh up from your export stock.' 'Export' was the universal code for videotapes that had not been classified by the British authorities. It was illegal to sell such merchandise to the public unless it was for export. It would have been especially foolhardy trying to offload such material in Shepherd's Bush market, which was constantly patrolled by police. The stallholder feigned shocked indignation, a skill he had practised and perfected long ago.

'I hope you're not suggesting I break the law.'

'Well, you ain't gonna make your money back flogging fifth generation copies of Black Emmanuelle Goes East with the good bits cut out, are you?' said Vince. 'This technology's dead, anyway. If you're gonna market cult videos, you need old BBFC-certificated stock, something the DPP can't touch, and I have the very thing.' He looked about for signs of the law, then dug into his leather duffel bag and produced a boxed tape. 'Check that out, mate.'