He was led over to the booth he generally used. Erhard was there already, and Nick appraised him more thoroughly as he rose to greet him. The old man looked thin, wiry and frail, with a shock of white hair and white bushy eyebrows. He was dressed in a deeply formal black suit.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,’ Nick said, and he looked ruefully down at his clothes, regretting he hadn’t opted for formal. ‘And I’m sorry for these.’

‘You think Rose-Anitra might be uncomfortable with formality?’ Erhard asked, smiling.

‘I did,’ he confessed. Some time in the last few days, as Erhard had talked him through the situation, he’d handed over a photograph of Rose, taken a month ago by a private investigator. Rose had been working-the shot had her leaning against a battered four-wheel-drive vehicle, talking to someone out of frame. She was wearing dirty brown dungarees, Wellingtons and a liberal spray of mud. She was pale faced, with the odd freckle or six, and the only colour about her was the deep, glossy auburn of the braid hanging down her back.

She was a good-looking woman in a ‘country hick’ sort of way, Nick had conceded. The women in his world were usually sophisticated chic. There was no way this woman could be described in those terms, but she’d looked sort of…cute. So when dressing tonight he’d decided formal gear might make her uneasy.

‘You may be underestimating her,’ Erhard said.

‘She’s a country vet.’

‘Yes. A trained veterinarian.’ Still the hint of reproof. ‘My sources say she’s a woman of considerable intelligence.’ And then he paused, for Walter was escorting someone to their table.

Rose-Anitra? The woman in the dungarees?

Nick could see the similarities, but only just. She was wearing a crimson, halter-necked dress, buttoned at the front from the below-knee hemline to a low-cut cleavage. The dress was cinched at the waist in a classic Marilyn Monroe style, showing her hourglass figure to perfection. Her hair was twisted into a casual knot, caught up with soft white ribands, and tiny tendrils were escaping every which way. She was wearing not much make-up-just enough to dust the freckles. Her lips were a soft rose, which should have clashed with her dress but didn’t.