By eight o’clock that evening, the townhouse sitting room was silent apart from the low hum of the street below.

The Venetian glass chandelier cast hard amber light across the polished mahogany walls.

Spencer stood at the little terrace bar, pouring two fingers of single malt scotch into a heavy crystal tumbler.

He adjusted his silver cuff links, angling their faces toward the light before he took a small sip.

“You went to St.

Jude again today,” Spencer said.

He didn’t turn around to look at me.

“I needed the summary billing statements for our annual tax review,” I said, sitting down by the window.