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‘The most expensive Havanas. The look on your face the first time you came to our place. Your eyes nearly rolled out of your head. She got them from Hajenius in Amsterdam.’

‘I wasn’t used to that kind of thing.’

‘My mother played saxophone, smoked Havanas, and was already drinking malt whisky before you could find it in Holland. She got it from an Italian friend, or rather, from her Italian lover.’ He said it casually. ‘The guy was one of the owners of Caffè San Marco in Trieste. We called in every summer on our way to our Italian holiday cottage. And he came regularly to Amsterdam. Most beautiful café in the world, by the way.’

‘Did she have lovers, then?’ I heard myself ask. Stupid. I was nearly 50 now, a veteran crime reporter, and still Joost had managed to catch me out. The son of the bohemian mother shocked his bourgeois friend.

‘Of course she did.’

‘Christ, Joost, how was I supposed to know that? I thought mothers were mothers, not lovers.’

‘If you ask me, she still has them. And she still smokes cigars. The woman is fed up with everything. Fine by me.’ He downed his glass in one. ‘Crime journalism, yes. I read a piece by you on drugs the other day. Nice article, had a good laugh. Though that may not have been your intention. Hypocritical bastards with their War on Drugs.’