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and scuffed metal tables. She’d chosen a seat at the back, as far as possible from the bellowing hiss of the coffee machine. She had a notebook and pen on the table in front of her and looked in a bad mood.
    “What is this place?” she demanded, as I sat down. “Couldn’t you have found somewhere a little more squalid?”
    “Wait until you try the coffee.”
    I went and bought two cappuccinos and took them back to the table. She sniffed cautiously at her cup, took a sip, and nodded as if confirming a long-held theory. No more complaints about the venue, though. She took a few more sips then she set her cup down and squared her little red notebook and pen on the table. She opened the notebook, all business.
    “Now, about finding this record.”
    “We won’t be.”
    “What? We won’t be what?”
    “Finding this record.”
    She closed the notebook and looked at me. “Why not?”
    “Because it doesn’t exist.”
    She looked at me for a long time. “What makes you say that?”
    “I asked a man who knows about such things.”
    “And you trust him? You trust his judgment?”
    “Yes. Because he knows about such things.”
    She put the pen and notebook away very slowly, as if to give herself time to think. To fill the silence I said, “The record was scheduled and it was announced. The musicians and the hall were booked. They even printed copies of the sleeve, which is why you can see pictures of it online. But there was never a recording. It all fell through, due to some kind of contractual dispute.”
    She nodded thoughtfully and said, “Well, that was incredibly honest of you.”
    “What was?”
    “Telling me, instead of just stringing me along endlessly and collecting your twenty pounds a day from now until god knows when. Your
per diem
.”
    “Travelling expenses, actually.” I tried to conceal my delight at the implied praise.
    She looked at me shrewdly and said, “Actually it’s probably more likely that you just couldn’t resist smugly showing off the knowledge you’ve just acquired.”
    “I prefer the incredibly honest theory,” I said.
    She laughed and then reached in her pocket and put a neatly folded twenty-pound note on the table. “Well, I suppose this is goodbye, then.” She gave me a polite smile and took out her phone. I had been dismissed. I got up and considered leaving the twenty there. I felt hurt and insulted and wanted to return the hurt and insult. But the brutal fact was I couldn’t afford the gesture. I took the money and left.
    I was halfway out the door of the café when she called. “Wait.” I turned and looked at her. “Come back and sit down,” she said. I went back inside and sat down opposite her. “Well done,” she said.
    “For what?”
    “You passed the test.”
    “I see,” I said, not entirely truthfully.
    “We knew the record didn’t exist.”
    “Did you?”
    She nodded. “We just wanted to find out if you knew your stuff.”
    “So you’re saying you
do
have a job for me?”
    “Yes, my employer would like you to work with me.”
    “Because we’ve built up such a foundation of mutual trust.”
    She laughed. “That’s right, yes.”

3. SNOWFALL
    “So who is this chick, then?” said Tinkler.
    “She works for the head of some big corporation. In Germany, I think.” I handed him her business card.
    He sniffed it. “Hmm. N. Warren. She smells nice. What does the N stand for?”
    “I don’t know, but I intend to make it my life’s work to find out.”
    He handed the card back to me. “Sounds like you should make it your life’s work to find this record of hers first. What was it again?
Disraeli Gears
?”
    Disraeli Gears
is a classic album by Cream. My friend Tinkler was more of a rock specialist, though he did know a bit about jazz.
    “No, you deaf idiot,” I said. “Easy Geary.”
    “Oh yes,” Tinkler nodded, his hair swaying across his face. In the glow of the lava lamp his plump face was that of a depraved Sistine cherub. We were