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was at the bottom end of the Portobello Road, past the Electric Cinema and well away from the pastel-coloured houses and smart antique shops that attracted the crowds at weekends. Bizarrely, it was named after a television series that had been filmed in the eighties, the story of two out-of-work firemen – later I learned that it had been set up by one of the actors who had appeared in it. There was a framed picture in the tiny reception area showing Michael Elphick, who played the title role, and some quite uninteresting props in glass cases going up the stairs. The club had just three rooms, one on top of another, two of them bars. The walls had light bulbs coated with the yellow tinge of cigarette smoke, even though smoking was no longer allowed, and the carpets were sticky and threadbare.

I thought I’d have to argue my way past the tattooed, shaven-headed receptionist who guarded the entrance, but I only had to ask for Eliot by name and she waved me upstairs. I found him on the top floor, slumped in a chair as if all the air had been sucked out of him, full of self-pity … and drink. There were another eight or nine people in the room, all of them in various stages of self-destruction, grouped together at tables or on sofas, a couple of them staring at a chessboard without moving any pieces, another pair leaning into each other, deep in conversation. They were all men and it occurred to me that was a cut-price Garrick Club where an exclusively male clientele came to hide from their girlfriends, their wives, their mothers or all the women who had made the world such a difficult place. The master of ceremonies – the barman – stood behind a wooden counter, slowly wiping a glass in a way that suggested that although he had been doing the same thing for hours, it still wasn’t dry.

He was the only one who noticed me as I walked in and sat down opposite Eliot. I was already wondering how we were going to talk to each other with so many people in earshot, but just then some jazz music started playing – the system must have been between tracks – and I was grateful for the cover it provided. Eliot didn’t appear to be happy to see me. His expression didn’t change, but everything about him was a little more alert – like a drunk driver who had spotted a police car in his rear-view mirror.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘I’m looking for you, Eliot.’

‘Who let you in?’

‘A very charming lady downstairs told me you were here. Can I buy you a drink or is it members only?’

‘They’ll take money from anyone.’ He straightened himself in his chair and waved at the barman. ‘Bruce! I’ll have another V and T. A double.’ He glanced at me. ‘What would you like?’

‘No alcohol for me, thanks.’ I twisted round. ‘Do you have Diet Coke?’

‘We’ve got Pepsi.’ Bruce scowled. ‘And it’s not diet.’

‘I’ll have a tonic water, then.’

I laid a twenty-pound note on the table to cover the two drinks and turned back to Eliot.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked. I didn’t know where to start. I could have just laid into him, but that would have been counterproductive. Instead, I tried safer ground. ‘I’ve just finished the second part of your book,’ I said. ‘I called you, but you’re not picking up, so I drove all the way over here to tell you I think it’s very good.’

‘Really?’ He perked up at that.

‘Absolutely. I loved that shoe polish clue at the end. I haven’t got the faintest idea what it means, but it’s exactly the sort of thing that Alan would have written. And I thought the scene with Cedric was very entertaining. All those poisons! Did you really base him on yourself?’ I was having to think on my feet. The one thing I didn’t want to discuss was the murder of Alice Carling, even though it was covered in about half of the new pages. ‘The stolen art material was very good too. The whole thing is shaping up very well. So, congratulations.’

He was pleased, but that didn’t stop him taking a dig at me. ‘So what are your notes this time, Susan?’ he drawled.

‘I don’t have any notes. You don’t need them. Actually, I do have one and it’s simply that you shouldn’t be sitting here, wasting your time. You should be at home, working. The deadline isn’t that far away and anyway, I can’t wait to find out what happens. Do you have any more murders planned?’

‘In the book or in real life?’

I half laughed as if I thought he was joking. ‘As long as you don’t murder me,’ I said, keeping it light, keeping it friendly.

‘And why would I want to do that, Susan?’

I’d always known that Eliot had a Jekyll and Hyde personality. Even when I’d met him at Cloverleaf, all those years ago, he’d managed to be charming but offensive, vulnerable but slightly dangerous, and I think I’d always been uneasy in his company. It was what I was seeing now. The difference was that I’d just come from his home – I’d seen the state Gillian was in and I was less willing to make allowances. To learn that she was expecting another man’s child must have been awful for him, all the worse given his medical condition – but there could be no forgiving what he’d done and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to work with him any more. I forced myself to stay calm. I needed time to work out what I was going to do.

Bruce arrived with the drinks. He put two glasses down and whisked away the twenty-pound note in a way that told me not to expect any change.

‘So, did you call Front Row ?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.

‘What do you mean?’ He had already drunk half of the vodka I had bought him.

‘We talked about it – don’t you remember? When you came to my house, you said you were going to tell them you weren’t going to do it.’

‘I had second thoughts. Why not? It’s good practice for when the book comes out and I’ve got plenty to say. I’m in the studio the day after tomorrow.’

‘Oh, Eliot! I thought we’d agreed—’

‘I don’t think it’s got anything to do with you, Susan. I asked Elaine and she thought it was a good idea.’

I was annoyed, but there was clearly no point arguing. ‘You must do what you think best, Eliot,’ I said. Then, as an afterthought: ‘I could come with you, if you like.’

‘I don’t need you to hold my hand.’

‘That’s not what I’m suggesting. I just have more experience of working with the media than you and you might find it helpful to have me there as moral support.’

‘No, Susan. I’m going alone.’

It was his laziness, his insolence that finally did it for me. I’d had enough. ‘We need to talk,’ I said.

‘What about?’

‘You know what about, Eliot. I’ve just come from your house.’

A twitch of irritation passed across his face. ‘Why?’ It was as if that was all he could manage.

‘I was trying to reach you, to congratulate you on the work. Gillian answered the phone. She sounded upset, so I went in to see her.’ I didn’t tell him that I’d driven across London. ‘I can’t believe what you did to her, Eliot. What were you thinking of? It makes me feel I don’t know you.’

He said nothing, sitting there with his drink, almost daring me to continue. I knew that I had already crossed a bridge, that things between us would never be the same. I was tempted to get up and walk out – permanently. But still I lingered a few moments, wondering what he would say, hoping for contrition. It didn’t come.

Eliot took another sip of the drink I had bought him and looked at me with unforgiving eyes. ‘You went to Marble Hall,’ he said. His voice was soft, venomous.

Why was he mentioning that now? Hadn’t we already talked about all this? ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You may remember you suggested it.’

‘You met Frederick Turner.’

‘He happened to be in the house when I was there and he invited me for a coffee.’ Eliot had put me on the defensive, even though there was absolutely no reason for me to feel that way.

‘And Dr Lambert just happened to be at home when you called in on him?’ he continued.

‘I don’t see what your problem is, Eliot. You’ve turned all these people into characters in your book. You’re obviously writing about Marble Hall and your grandmother, and you’re doing exactly what I warned you against: mixing fiction and real life to settle a score. That’s what got Alan Conway killed, and what nearly did for me too. So why should you be surprised that I spoke to the people involved with your family? I’d say I was protecting you from yourself, although given what you did to Gillian, I’m not sure why I should bother.’

It was as if he hadn’t heard me. ‘My uncle Jonathan rang me. You saw him, too, and you met my brother. I can’t believe you talked about me with my brother !’ He sounded disgusted. ‘I thought I could trust you, but you’ve been creeping around behind my back, digging into things that are none of your business.’

‘The book is my business.’

‘Exactly, Susan. The book. Not me, not my family and not my sodding private life. You know what? I’m not so sure I need your help with my book either. So far, everything you’ve said about it has been completely unconstructive. You didn’t like the title. You didn’t like the opening. You didn’t like the setting.’

‘I wouldn’t have said anything about your great masterpiece if you hadn’t shoved it into my hands, Eliot. You also insisted I give you my thoughts. But as I told you at the time, my comments were suggestions, not criticisms. If I’d known you had such a thin skin, I wouldn’t have said anything.’

‘What you did was you undermined my self-confidence and …’ he jabbed a finger against the side of his head ‘… you screwed up my thinking. All I wanted was encouragement. You gave me the exact opposite.’

I knew exactly what he was doing. He’d steered the conversation away from himself and what he had done to Gillian. Instead, he was turning the tables, as if I was the one throwing the punches and he was the victim. Looking at him lolling in his worn-out armchair in this shabby excuse for a club, I was disgusted.

I stood up.

‘There’s no point talking to you when you’re like this, Eliot, and I’m not sure I want to work on your book, if you really want the truth. You should go home and look after your wife.’

‘My wife has got nothing to do with you.’

‘And if she’s got any sense, she’ll have nothing to do with you either.’

‘Go to hell, Susan.’

‘Drop dead, Eliot.’

I walked out, angry with myself for losing my temper but still glad that it was over. I didn’t want to work with him. I had been right from the start. He was trouble and so was his book. I should never have got involved.

As I left, I noticed that the other club members hadn’t moved. The chess players were still not playing chess. Bruce, the barman, had started wiping another glass. It was as if none of them had heard the conversation between Eliot and me.

But they had.