At once Manda felt everything becoming perfectly clear. “I know where we’re going: I saw an album sleeve once, a proper record. A twelve inch. And there was a picture of a woman in a bar. It was the seventies and she was dressed it something beautiful which shimmered in the light. You could only see the top half of her because she was sitting at a table. There was some sort of sophisticated drink in front of her in a specialised sort of glass. The camera was focused upon her, and out of focus there were couples at tables, talking about aeroplanes, racing cars and modelling careers. Just above her hair, which was immaculate, there was a barman shaking a cocktail, he had an expression which was at once concentrated and bland.

“In the foreground, also badly focused, there was a man approaching the table. I’m sure that it was impossible to see any details, but I felt that he had a chunky watch, he was smoking a Turkish cigarette, and he had a monogrammed handkerchief.” Manda reached out towards Soma Jones and touched his cheek. “The woman’s eyes were open wide, like an animal in the headlights, entirely consumed by what would come next.”

“And that is where you want to go?” said Soma Jones.

“Yes.”

“We’ll fill up the tank at the service area. I think I could fancy an omelette for lunch.”