I didn’t hear anything inside. That was strike two.I have no idea how long I waited but the door opened. Strike three was coming, I knew it.‘Welco...e Mr Greenwich. Please find your personal effects in the Lancaster Room.’Two sentences making up for two strikes. I was relieved.‘Um... thanks.’Wilkes’ butler bowed toward me and removed his hat in deepest respect. When he straightened up he ran the hat along its rim up to his elbow, then popped it up in the air to land neatly back on his head, like. It was seven miles from my home at the time, a tiny bedsit off Grosvenor Road, Aldershot. The lady who owned the cafe was a doe-eyed Italian senora with masses of ringlets the same colour as her coffee beans, her skin the hue of cappuccino. She was early forties and possessed of a figure like Sophia Loren. She was, in short, exquisite to look at, and, as I was to discover very early on, had a rapacious sexual appetite. She seduced me at the end of my second day of working for her. I’d been. More

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