Amis put down his phone and took a gulp of wine. “Right, then,” he said, “give me the rundown on TransAx and Richardson Bell.”

For the next half hour, Max went through the figures and projections, his analysis of the management, and the possibilities of corporate loot and plunder that he had been working on since the start of the year. Amis ate his way through the presentation, making notes on the pad by his plate but offering neither question nor opinion.

Max finished talking, and pushed aside the remains of his congealed chops. “Well? Is this why we’re having lunch?”

“Not exactly.” Amis was probing the recesses of his back teeth with a toothpick, examining his discoveries with an air of mild interest as he took pleasure in keeping Max waiting.

The waitress came to clear away the plates, which appeared to be the cue Amis had been waiting for. “I’ve been having a chat with the brothers,” he said, “and they share my concerns.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your performance, my friend. Your productivity. You’ve been like the walking wounded this year. Pathetic.”

“You know what I’ve been putting together over the past six months-I’ve just told you.” Max had to make an effort to keep his voice down. “And you know bloody well that deals like this don’t happen in a couple of weeks. They take time.”

Amis greeted the arrival of his crème brûlée with another wink at the waitress. “Won’t wash, my friend, won’t wash. You want to know what’s wrong?” He looked at Max and nodded two or three times. “Personal life’s getting in the way. Too many late nights, too much chasing after totty. You’ve lost the killer instinct.” Taking his spoon, he stabbed his dessert through the heart.