MR F WAS short and squat, well dressed, with the sort of small, dry hands you might expect of a bureaucrat. I was horrified to observe a tiny spot of tomato sauce on his striped tie. At least I hoped it was tomato sauce. He entered the hotel room quickly, before the door was even fully open, slipping inside with more agility than I’d expect of someone of his age and build. What we were doing was highly illegal; the appointment had been complicated to organise, and arranged through an intermediary. I’d never met anyone like him before – anyone who did what he did, I mean – and I was anxious. Besides that, I didn’t even know his real name, so, without thinking, I stuck out my hand and said, ‘You must be the abortionist.’

I heard Juliet’s swift intake of breath behind me.