‘An hour from now only sad loss-chasers will still be here, without any money left. I don’t want it to be a lost evening for you.’

Her face tightened imperceptibly but quickly relaxed, opening into a smile. ‘You sure about that?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I don’t usually get a response like this: get so immediately recognized like this. I think we could have had fun together -more interesting fun than normal for both of us.’

‘I’m sure we could,’ said Jordan, meaning it but at the same time discomfited by her reaction to his rejection. He’d never known a hooker anywhere in the world – and he’d known enough in a lot of the world – who wasn’t or didn’t easily become a willing police informant to protect themself. Which, professionally again, he totally understood and accepted.

‘You’re right,’ said Ghilane, looking briefly around her. ‘It is late and there’s a lot of desperately perspiring men around the tables. Maybe tomorrow night will turn out better.’

Jordan knew she hadn’t given up and admired her for it. He touched her champagne flute with his brandy snifter and said, ‘Here’s to a more successful tomorrow.’

‘But not with you?’

‘But not with me,’ echoed Jordan. It had been a passing, even entertaining interlude but it was time it ended.

‘Perhaps I’ll see you again? I’m often here or in Monaco.’

‘I’m moving on tomorrow,’ said Jordan, gesturing for his bill.

She shrugged, philosophically. ‘My loss.’

‘Both our loss,’ said Jordan, gallantly.

Jordan’s excursion the following day took him away from the coast, just beyond Mougins to where Picasso once crafted his ceramics, of which there were still a lot of photographs but with most of which Jordan was unimpressed, as he was with some, although by no means all, of the artist’s various period experimentation, particularly Picasso’s female genitalia obsession. The eating choice had obviously to be the Moulin de Mougins, even though Jordan knew the legend of Picasso settling bills there with sketches instead of cash to be untrue.