“I’ll let you know,” Miller said and he ran down the steps to the Mini-Cooper and drove away.

Cork Square was a green lung in the heart of the city, a few sycamore trees scattered here and there, the whole surrounded by quiet, grey-stone Georgian houses, most of them occupied by consultant physicians and barristers.

The entrance to the Berkley Club was a cream-painted door, its brass handle and plate shining in the sunlight. Even the neon sign was in perfect taste with the surroundings and had obviously been specially designed. Miller pulled in to the kerb, got out and looked up at the front of the building.

“Hey, Nick, you old so-and-so! What gives?”

The cry echoed across the square and as he turned, Chuck Lazer moved out of the trees, a couple of Dalmatians straining ahead of him on twin leads. Miller went to meet him, leaving the path and crossing the damp grass.

“Hello there, Chuck. What’s all this?” He bent down to pat the eager dogs.

The American grinned. “Part of my new image. The customers love it. Gives the place tone. But never mind that. How are you? It’s been too long.”

He was bubbling over with genuine pleasure, the blue eyes sparkling. When Miller had first met him almost a year previously during a murder investigation, Lazer had been hopelessly hooked on heroin with the gaunt fleshless face of an emaciated saint. Now, there was meat on his bones and the neatly trimmed dark fringe beard combined with the expensive sports coat to give him a positively elegant appearance.

He slipped the dogs’ leads and the Dalmatians moved into the flower beds as he and Miller sat down on a bench.

“I’ve just seen Das. He told me he’d been to the club. Gave me a glowing report.” Miller offered him a cigarette. “On you too.”

Lazer grinned. “No need to worry about me, Nick. I’d cut my throat before I’d take another shot.” He lit his cigarette and exhaled smoke in a blue cloud. “What did you want with Das — business?”