‘Fresh start, Cliff,’ Frank Parker, who’d retired as a Deputy Commissioner of Police, said as he examined my secondhand Mac and phone and fax set-up. ‘Not common at your age. How’re you feeling?’

‘Bit anxious but optimistic,’ I said. ‘Comebacks aren’t such a good idea, even if Ali made it.’

Frank nodded. ‘He stayed at it too long though.’

‘I’ll know pretty quickly whether I’ve still got it,’ I said. ‘In this game you’ve got the knack or you haven’t. Anyway, I have to give it a go. Trouble is, I’m out of touch with the usual conduits, the lawyers and such.’

Daphne Rowley, who runs a printing business and plays pool with me at the Toxteth Hotel, topped up her plastic glass with the red. ‘That’s why I got him to advertise, Frank,’ she said. ‘Ads in the local rags, cards up here and there and a website.’

Frank almost spilled his drink. ‘ You , a website?’

‘Megan set it up,’ I said. ‘Photo makes me look ten years younger.’

‘It’d need to,’ Frank said. ‘Well, good luck, mate, and try to stay out of trouble. They’ll be keeping an eye on you.’

I’d worried about the website and the photograph. In the past anonymity had been the PIA’s stock in trade but times had changed. If you’re not in cyberspace you’re nowhere. Anyway, the photo didn’t look all that much like me.

They drifted off and I shovelled the glasses and paper plates and uneaten food into a garbag. I sat at the desk and examined the room. It felt better for having had people and wine and talk in it. Less sterile. But the brightness and the clean surfaces made me uncomfortable. My two battered filing cabinets and the bar fridge from offices past stood against the wall like comfortable old friends. The hired desk and chairs weren’t new either and I noticed a couple of wine stains on the pale grey carpet. I’d soon knock the place into shape.