Anna Paget fixed him with a look that was diamond hard. ‘Why won’t you tell me what happened to Joe?’ As she spoke, he saw the flash of a tongue stud. She had what his grandmother would have described as a gin-soaked voice, surprisingly low, and ragged at the edges, with a vague London twang. Not unpleasant to listen to, he thought, in another context. ‘I’ve explained why,’ he said. ‘Surely you can at least tell me how he died. The papers said he was shot. Was it an accident?’ ‘Answer the question, Miss Paget. What happened that night?’ They were seated in the rear alcove of Kazbar, a Moroccan café bar just off the Earl’s Court Road, Tartaglia and Minderedes perched opposite Anna on a pair of uncomfortably low velvet stools. Her laptop lay open on the coffee table, along with some papers and a half-drunk diet coke. She had a deadline to meet and was trying to finish off a piece. To save time, she had asked that they meet at the bar and, even though it seemed an odd choice, Tartaglia – wanting to put her at her ease – had agreed.
