“What the fugg is Developmental Services?”

“At the exchange. Seventeenth floor, office twenty-three. Developmental Services.”

“And how would you know that, penned up in your little booth all day?”

I tapped my nose in the manner known as “conspiratorial”.

“Sinus problems?” asked the landlord.

“No,” I said. “Interdepartmental memorandums, files, technical specifications.”

“What about them?” asked the landlord.

“They all go through me,” I said.

“You eat them?”

“They go through my office. They’re not meant to, but they do. After I’d been at the exchange for about six months, this new bob poked his head round the door of my booth.”

“New bob?” asked the landlord.

“Stop asking all these questions,” I said. “New bob, new boy … He said he was lost and he had confidential files for Mr Holland and where was his office. And I don’t know what got into me – high spirits I suppose – but I said, ‘All confidential files come through me.’ And they have ever since.”

“And you read this stuff in the firm’s time?”

I looked aghast at the landlord. “Certainly not!” I said. “I would never be that irresponsible.”

“Oh,” said the landlord. “Sorry.”

“I take them home and read them,” I said. “Then I pop them into Mr Holland’s in-tray next morning, before he gets in. I’m always early. A good bulbsman is always ready and eager and in his booth on time.”

“Unbelievable,” said the landlord.

“Thank you very much,” I said.

“So this Neil Collins is in Developmental Services. And what do they do, then?”

I shook my head towards the landlord. “You’re expecting me to divulge confidential material to a Humburg?”

“I never wear a Homburg,” said the landlord, feeling at his hatless head.

“Not Homburg: Humburg. It’s a term we use for plebs, non-company people, folk who don’t work in the exchange.”

“Twonk!” said the landlord.

“No, Humburg!” I corrected him. “So I’m not likely to divulge that kind of information to a Humburg, am I?”

The landlord grinned at me. Well, he didn’t so much grin as leer. “You signed the Official Secrets Act, didn’t you?” he said.

“Yes, I did, and I’m proud of it.” And I was. Now.

“Yet you’ve already given me classified information by identifying Neil Collins as being in Developmental Services. If I grassed you up, you’d go to prison.”

A terrible sweat broke out on my brow. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

“No,” said the landlord. “Of course I wouldn’t.”

“Phew,” I said. And I meant it.

“Not as long as you tell me all about Developmental Services.”

“But that’s more than my job’s worth.”

“It’s exactly what your job’s worth. You bought into the company ethic, Gary. I don’t know why. Because you didn’t really have the stuff in you to rebel against it, would be my bet. But you’re a company man now, and if I grassed you up you’d lose your job and be off to prison.”

“No,” I said. “Don’t do it. If I lost my job, anyone could get it. The first man in the queue. Harry maybe.”

“I don’t think Harry would fall for that. And, anyway, Harry runs a world-famous night club now.”

“Really?” I said. “I didn’t know that. Perhaps he told Sandra, but she didn’t mention it. He got his motorbike and he got the job. Incredible.”

“He had to lie about his name, though.”

“Why?”

“They only wanted applicants called Peter. So he said his name was Peter. So he got the job and now he runs the world-famous night club.”

“What’s it called?” I asked.

“————”[16] said the landlord.

“Never heard of it,” I said. “But listen, don’t turn me in. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

“Fine,” said the landlord. “So, Developmental Services, what do they do?”

“They develop services,” I said.

“I’m reaching for the phone,” said the landlord.

“No, that’s what they do. They work on new projects to improve facilities.”

“So what are they working on now? What is this Neil Collins, who has no True Name, working on?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know for sure,” I said. “It’s something called FLATLINE.”

“In capital letters,” said the landlord. “It must be something important, then.”

“I don’t know exactly what it is, but it’s something pretty big.”

“So how much do you know about it?”

I scratched at my head, which, like the landlord’s, was also hatless. I’ve never taken to a hat myself- you get hat-hair, which is frankly embarrassing. Hats are for fogeys, in my opinion. Most of the patrons of the Golden Dawn were hat-wearers. You only really wear a hat if you’re a fogey. Or, of course, if you have a problem about your baldness. Of course Lazlo Woodbine wasn’t bald, and he never had hat-hair. He wore a fedora, probably with a raised crown, although that was never mentioned in any of the novels. So, where was I?

“It’s something pretty big,” I said once more, to get my bearings.

“So how much do you know about it?”

I shook my hatless head. “I know it’s called FLATLINE,” I said.

“Twonk!” said the landlord. “But I’ll say this to you. I’m suspicious, me, and when things don’t smell right I don’t like the smell of them. You find out about this FLATLINE and you tell me about it, or I will grass you up, understand?”

I nodded now with my hatless head. “I understand,” I said.

“Right,” said the landlord. “Now take your drinks and go back to your woman. You’re supposed to be celebrating your wedding anniversary.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “That’s what I came out with Sandra for.”

I took the drinks back to the table.

“Didn’t you get one for Otto?” asked Sandra.

“No. Stuff him,” I said.

“Strong words,” said Sandra, laughing.

“Shut up,” I told her, “and drink your cocktail.”

Sandra took a sip. “What is this one called?” she asked.

“It’s Ruby Tuesday.”

“Very nice too. Very fruity.”

I sighed and rolled my own eyes a bit. “I get tired,” I said. “You know that? I get tired.”

“It’s all that finger-work.” Sandra mimed switch-flicking. And mimed it very badly too. There’s an art to switch-flicking: you don’t just flick a switch and you certainly don’t do it the way Sandra did it, with thumb and forefinger making an O and the hand going up and down in a sort of stabbing motion. “You’ve got Repetitive Strain Injury!” And she laughed again. “An injury that if caused in the workplace, can enable you to sue the company and get lots of money.”

“Ridiculous,” I said. “Industrial injuries go with the job. If you can’t stand the heat don’t go so near the hairdryer.”

“You can sneer,” said Sandra, “but in my new job—”

“New job?” I said. “New job? What new job?”

“My new job. Count Otto got it for me. He’s a solicitor now. And I’m a barrister.”

“I never knew that. You never told me.”

“We don’t talk any more,” said Sandra.

“We do. We talk all the time.”

“No,” said Sandra. “You talk. I am expected to listen.”

“That’s how heterosexual relationships work,” I explained. “Men talk, women listen. When it’s the other way round it ends in divorce.”

“And that’s your take on marriage, is it?”

I shrugged. “Our marriage doesn’t work very well, does it?” I said.

“No,” said Sandra. “It doesn’t.”

“And that’s because you don’t listen when I talk. You should try harder. It would work far better then.”

“I’m going on holiday with Otto next week,” said Sandra.

“What?” I said. “What?”

“To Camber Sands. We’ve booked a caravan.”

“But that’s outrageous. You can’t do that!”

“And why not?”

“Because who’s going to make my sandwiches?”

“I’ll leave you a week’s supply in the freezer.”

“Well, that’s all right, then. Will you send me a postcard?”