He became aware of some people waving at them from a table on the other side of the room. Chiara noticed them too. “Who are they?”

“I’ve no idea,” Edward replied, making a vague sign of greeting in return.

“Well, they certainly seem to know you.” She folded her napkin, laid it on the table and stood. “I’ll just be a moment. Would you order me a drink?”

“What will you have?”

“A gin, please. I shan’t be a moment.”

Edward watched her cross the restaurant to the corridor that led to the bathrooms. He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror that hung from the opposite wall and seeing again how swell he looked helped to restore his mood. He was still gazing at himself when he noticed the man who had waved at him get up and leave his table. His stomach fell. He took up the menu and pretended to be absorbed by it but it was no use. The man approached and stopped by his table.

“Pardon me, are you Jack Stern?”

Edward smothered a frightened gasp. The man was next to him, crouching, his left hand resting on the table and his body turned at an angle to face him. He had him trapped against the table. Edward stared at him, paralysed. He didn’t look like a policeman but perhaps that was the point of it. He had heard of the Ghost Squad, after all, and perhaps it was their tactic to send someone who looked anonymous, to give that man the best chance of apprehending him before he could flee. Or perhaps he was a private detective. There had been others but not for many years. The man was well-dressed, like all the others in the restaurant, sporting a beautiful dinner jacket, his generous belly constrained by a scarlet cummerbund and his hair swept backwards across his head, a little grey at the edges. He smiled at him, a happy beam of greeting, and now Edward’s frantic brain groped for the right thing to say.

“It is you,” the man said, not waiting for his reply. He looked a little tipsy. “I knew it. I saw you when we came in––I said to my wife, ‘That’s Jackie Stern or I’m a Chinaman’ and I was right, wasn’t I? I wasn’t sure but then I realised, you’re not wearing your glasses. How are you, old chap?”

“I’m sorry, I––”

“Goodness, my manners. It’s Bert? Albert Whitchurch? We met in Cannes. I’m not surprised you can’t remember. My God, it must’ve been thirty-eight or thirty-nine––before the war, in any event. I was down there with Clara, my wife––look, she’s over there.”

Edward followed his gesture across the crowded room where a woman in a black dress and pearls was waving broadly at him. He cast his mind back to the time he had spent in France and found that the name was faintly familiar. Albert and Clara Whitchurch. That’s right, he thought, he did remember them. A well-spoken chap, a polished wife, quite a bit of money. Was he an industrialist? It was something like that. They had met next to the pool at the Carlton and shared a couple of meals together. They had aroused his interest.

“Do you remember?” he pressed. “You were going to Venice.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, speaking in a deep voice to master the quaver in it. “I’m afraid I’m not who you think I am.”

“You’re not Jackie?”

“I’m afraid not. My name is Fabian.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. I could’ve sworn you were someone I met in Cannes. You’re his doppelganger, old boy, his absolute spit.”

The conversation was awkward and uncomfortable. He thought of Chiara and he turned towards the corridor that led to the bathrooms. He could not see her, but he couldn’t wait for her to come back. It was too dangerous.

“Well,” Edward said. “I’m extremely sorry to disappoint you.”

The man nodded, a slightly vacant expression on his face. Edward could see that he did not know what else to say. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Enjoy your evening.”

Edward waited for the man to wander back to his own table and then laid his napkin down and stood. Whitchurch was talking to his wife, and she looked over at him with a confused expression. He hurried to the cloakroom, collected their coats and took them to a spot where he could intercept Chiara before she returned to the restaurant.

“Whatever are you doing?” she said.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said breathlessly. “Let’s take a cab and look at the moon.”

“You’re crazy! It’s freezing out there.”

“I want to show you my new place.”

“What––now? What about dinner?”

“I’ll cook for you at home. Really, I can’t wait to show you. I’ll be terribly distracted all evening unless we go right now. What do you say?”

She grinned at him. “Well, then,” she said happily. “Why not.”

* * *

EDWARD FUMBLED IN HIS POCKET for the key to his apartment. They had diverted to a bar on the way back and had enjoyed a bottle of champagne. Chiara swayed a little as she stood by his side. She was the worse for wear.

“Hold on,” he said to Chiara. “It’s in here somewhere.”

The apartment was in a large Victorian red-brick building on Wimpole Street. It was of decent size and it had been expensive. He wanted his apartment to be elegant, to be at least comparable to Joseph’s, and he intended to spend a generous sum furnishing it. The apartment had one bedroom, a sitting room with a small interconnecting study, a compact bathroom and a kitchen. The expensive furniture suited the neighbourhood, he felt, and contributed to the image that he wanted to present.

“I’d love a smoke,” she said. “Do you have any?”

“Certainly.” Edward took out a packet of filched Lucky Strikes and tapped out two cigarettes. Their fingertips touched, briefly, as he handed her the cigarette. He took the match and used it to light the two large candles on the table. Warm, flickering light was cast around the room.

Chiara took a greedy pull on the cigarette. “I had a lovely evening. I enjoy spending time with you.”

“And me with you.” He smiled at her. She sat down on the edge of the settee. She gestured that he should join her and he did, sitting next to her.

She rested the cigarette in the ashtray, took his hand and leant towards him. She closed off the distance until her lips brushed against his.

Slowly she pulled his head towards her.

Edward put out a hand to her left breast and held it softly. He lifted her hand and put it round his neck. Their mouths met and clung, exploring. A small night wind rose up outside and moaned round the building, giving an extra sweetness, an extra warmth. The candles began to dance in the breeze from the open window, the golden light flickering against the ceiling and the walls. A pigeon landed on the balcony outside, its wings clattering through the air. Chiara shrieked, her closed eyes opening. She looked at the window, saw the fat-breasted bird strutting along the balustrade, and laughed. Her mouth drew away. She smoothed Edward’s hair and got up, and without saying anything, opened the window and clapped her hands. The bird flapped away. She stood away from the window and turned back to him. She undid her blouse and dropped it on the floor, then her skirt. Under the glint of moonlight from the open windows she was a pale figure, her soft pastel shadow extending forwards. She came to Edward, took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. She undid his shirt and slowly, carefully took it off. Her hair smelt of new-mown summer grass, her mouth of champagne, and her body of baby powder. She lay down beside him. The filtering moonlight shone down on them both as he leant across, bridging the distance and touching his lips to hers.

* * *

THEY AWOKE AT EIGHT O’CLOCK and it was the same glorious thing again. This time she held him to her with tenderness, kissed him not only with passion but also with affection. He lay back down on the bed and rested his head beside hers on the pillow. He leaned across to kiss her, at first softly, and then more fiercely. Her body stirred. Her mouth yielded to his and when his left hand began its exploration she put her arms round him. “I’m catching cold,” she complained. Edward pulled the single sheet away from under him and covered them both with it. He lay against her and drew the fingernails of his right hand softly down her flat stomach. The velvety skin fluttered. She gave a gasp and reached down for his hand and held it still.