‘No’, I said. ‘I’m not too keen on it; when they all pack down like they do I imagine I can hear the spines snapping. What did that bloke call it? Wrestling on the run? It’s all right when it flows, but it doesn’t seem to flow all that often.’

‘Right.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Paul Guthrie.’

We shook. ‘Cliff Hardy. I’m here looking after things for Roberta.’

‘Gathered that. Drink?’

I shook my head. ‘No thanks. I’ll have one before I go. I’d better go outside and make sure the football hero isn’t stealing the hubcaps.’

He nodded. ‘Talk to you again.’

My turn to nod; he walked away-a calm, self-assured little man with something on his mind and what looked like mineral water in his glass. He looked slightly out of place in the gathering, but it didn’t seem to worry him.

Everything was quiet outside. I stood near a bush with a nice, strong scent and enjoyed the cool evening air as a break from the noise and the smoke. I’d left the jacket of my suit inside, but I still felt uncomfortable in tailored pants and a collar and tie. It was that sort of party though, and in my usual get-up of shirt and jeans I’d have stood out a mile as the crowd controller. The party was up at a loud roar; a few people trickled past, going in and out. They all seemed to be having a good time, and I wondered if their lives were fuller and richer than mine. Richer in worldly goods I could be sure of; they had expensive cars and credit cards to keep the tanks eternally full. My car was old and half a tank was all it was used to. On the other hand, jobs like these had pushed me into the black economy. Some of the clients wanted to pay in cash and who was I to quarrel? I’d had a conversation recently with Cy Sackville, my lawyer, in which he’d advised me to form a limited liability company in order to protect my earnings.