Clarke felt humiliated, but gave no sign. He apologised again for his partner’s absence, and the delegation began to shuffle their papers into their briefcases. The mood was not buoyant.

After he had seen them off, he hurried back to the reception area. ‘Where’s Jennifer?’

‘She went back upstairs to Mr Verge’s apartment, Mr Clarke. She wants you to meet her there urgently, and asked would you go alone.’ The receptionist was watching to see how he would react to this odd message, and he forced himself to speak calmly.

‘Very well.’

Clarke maintained his composure until the lift doors slid shut behind him, then he took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, aware that his hand was shaking. He vividly recalled the look of panic on Jennifer Mathieson’s face, and wondered whom she’d spoken to and if she’d summoned help.

The doors opened and she was there, waiting for him outside the door to Charles’s apartment.

‘Sandy, thank God. I wasn’t sure what to do. I thought I should wait here… to make sure…’

He went over and laid a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘It’s all right, Jennifer. What’s up?’

‘You’d better… better look for yourself.’ She could hardly get the key to turn in the lock, her hand was trembling so much. Then they were inside, and Clarke thought how deathly silent the place seemed. There was a strong smell of stale whisky, and he noticed a half-finished tumbler of amber liquid on a coffee table next to a copy of the Italian design magazine Casabella. A pair of women’s shoes lay abandoned on the rug below.

‘In the bedroom,’ Jennifer whispered, as if the slightest sound might bring the ceiling down.

The bedroom was entirely white-white walls and ceiling, white carpet and blinds, white bed linen and furniture-and this made the glossy blackness of Miki Norinaga’s hair and pubic triangle even more startling than it might otherwise have been.