What right had he to criticise a man for whom the war had been the biggest experience of his life? Or feel contempt for opinionated Sunday lunchtime drinkers? Charlie was always honest with himself, because now there was no one else with whom he could share the trait. And he knew bloody well that he would have gladly handed over the fortune he possessed to change places with any one of them, walking stiff-kneed back to their detached, white-painted, executive-style homes to worry about their mortgages and their school fees and their secretaries’ becoming pregnant. His attitude wasn’t really contempt, he recognised. It was envy: envy for people who had wives and mistresses and friends. There was only one person whom Charlie could even think of as a friend. And there had been no contact from Rupert Willoughby for over a year. So perhaps he was even exaggerating that association.

He pushed away the meal half-eaten and immediately the barmaid took his plate.

‘Like that?’ she said.

‘Very nice,’ said Charlie. It was nearly closing time. She would be in a hurry to get away. He hesitated, decided against another drink and paid his bill. Another?5. And he was regarded as someone who had stolen money!

Back in the car, he sat for a moment undecided. If he took the B roads and drove slowly, it would be at least seven before he got back to London.

On the balcony of his apartment high on the island’s Middle Level, Robert Nelson stood, glass in hand.

‘Fantastic,’ he said, looking down at the Pride of America. The liner was an open jewel-case of glittering lights. Because it was late, the slur was more noticeable in his voice.

Beside him, Jenny Lin Lee said nothing.

‘I’ve taken six million of the cover,’ he announced, suddenly.

‘What?’ she asked, turning to him.

He smiled at her, wanting to boast.

‘Lu put the insurance out on the open market. Christ, you should have seen the scramble!’