Harry was an old mate who owned, edited and wrote a lot of the copy in The Challenger, a journal of independent opinion which he somehow managed to keep going despite lawsuits and slim revenue. His nose for a story was acute and his investigative skills were razor sharp. I lifted my glass, ‘Harry Tickener.’

For a minute I thought they were all going to join me in the toast. Charlie almost did but held back just in time.

‘Enough with the jokes, Cliff,’ di Maggio said. ‘This is fucking serious, and we’re talking serious money.’

‘For who?’

‘For all of us, you included. Didn’t I say I was the banker? You help us liaise with Tickener and you’re in for a slice.’

‘I don’t follow.’

Di Maggio leaned back. ‘Let’s lighten up. What about a real drink all round? On me. Hey, let’s exchange cards.’

He had that American bonhomie that grates after a while but is hard to resist at first. The others all drained their wineglasses, pushed their bowls away and produced their cards. I held out just a little longer. ‘What about Harry?’

Di Maggio waved his hand at the nearest waiter. ‘He’s got an exclusive lock on the story when the time’s right. His circulation goes up. He goes on teevee, as you call it, for solid fees. Might even be a book in it. Cognacs?’

We drank brandy and they pressed me. Di Maggio implied that he’d be looking for a solid bonus if Hartley could recover all it was owed by Sentinel and he hinted that some of this money would come our way. I watched him carefully and from little signs I had the feeling that he had more at stake than he’d let on. Maybe his job was on the line, maybe it was something else. I didn’t much like the smell of the scheme and didn’t feel like coming on board. I paid for my share of the meal and told them I’d think about it. The Australians weren’t happy but di Maggio was gracious. ‘Sure, take some time.’

Even on a Wednesday night, city parking is no fun so I’d caught a bus in.