There was a dance floor at the far end of the room above which a giant mirrored ball was slowly turning. There were several dozen men dancing together and Nightingale couldn’t help but notice that they were all younger, better-looking and fitter than he was. Sweat was already beading on his forehead so he took off his raincoat and slung it over his shoulder. He pushed his way to the bar, which ran the full length of the room. Two young black men in tight white T-shirts and even tighter denim shorts were mixing cocktails as they swivelled their hips to the music and another was pulling glasses out of a dishwasher. Nightingale managed to catch the eye of an Asian barmaid with waist-length pigtails and mouthed ‘Corona’. He took his drink and managed to find a space close to a fire exit. To the left of the dance floor was a female DJ, a young black girl with a shaved head and giant hooped earrings, who looked as if she was in the grip of a perpetual epileptic fit. Any idea of showing Robinson’s photograph to the customers had gone out of the window.
