Claire had noticed that lately the streets of Paris seemed to be full of very ugly men as she walked towards the cafe where she was to meet her contact. Not her contact in Interpol. He is still in London, and I should think he's likely to stay there for the remainder of this novel. Unfortunately there's a transport strike on in London, and so there is no way for him to get to the airport. Should he decide to walk to the airport he will discover that all the planes have been grounded because they are simply too exhausted to fly anywhere. As have the ferries and trains. What a pity. It's also a shame that the phones are all out to lunch and won't be back until next week. And the carrier pigeons are all ill of something or other that leads them to try flying upside until they realise they can't. It's a great pity, and probably all quite frustrating really. Shame.

The cafe was very crowded, but Claire spotted her contact sitting at a table towards the back where he could easily watch the door while being free to make a rapid escape through the mens lavatory window. He was trying to look inconspicuous in a battered fedora and tan over coat, and largely succeeding due to the cloud of smoke from the Gauloise he held shakily in his left hand. Smoking is an excellent way to appear inconspicuous in a shady Parisian cafe. Claire sidled up to him and announced her arrival with the agreed phrase.

'Where's the beef? It was a good pass phrase, allowing them to pass off the conversation easily as a discussion about live stock purchasing should anybody later hear a destination mentioned. Claire very much hoped that this man could lead her to Anton the Alligator.

'I hear it's running cheap in Spain this year,' came the response. Claire sat down and looked at her contact. He appeared to be under a lot of strain. Sweat dripped from his forehead and pooled at the lower rim of his sunglasses. He kept his head low despite the obvious problems this caused as it left the sweat with no choice but to remain gathered in front of his eyes like a heated indoor swimming pool. His hand shook as he lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the dying one he held in his hand. 'Look, this has been a tough one OK? Had to call in all my favours on this.'

Claire waited for him to continue. He was obviously reluctant to do so, and kept looking over her shoulder to check the other customers in the cafe. She cleared her throat.

'I'm sorry about your problems. I've got a song to write and I figure this could just be the clue that breaks the case. I just can't seem to find the words anymore.'

'Nobody can. This is some heavy stuff that's going on here OK? I tell you this, and then I leave town. My life ain't worth a nickel once this gets out. Going to have to ask you for double the fee, I need the cash to get out of here.' The contact began to tap on the table rapidly. 'I thought I had a place safe in London, but nobody gets in or out of there these days.'

'I know. That's also something I'm going to investigate. Don't worry about the money. Tell me what you know.' Claire had her notebook open on her knee under the table.

'Here's the deal. Anton the Alligator is just a low level stooge for hire. The job he pulled on you with the French words, looks like someone high up in the fashion industry ordered it. Maybe the rock industry, advertising. I don't got no way of following it back that far. Somebody really big is behind it all. I heard this rumour of a Mr Big type character pulling all the strings.'

'Motive?'

'Can't tell you. Seems to be no reason behind it at all. The money only goes one way. Nobody's getting a cut in the other direction. Like nothing I ever heard of, just paying people to do stuff without getting anything back. Money means nothing to this guy.'

Claire sat back and considered her options. No way of confirming with Interpol, her French was too bad to get in touch with the local guys. 'Can you give me an address for Anton the Alligator?'

'Yeah.'