Perfect place if you don't quite fit

One of the by-products of our great metropolis being the City of the World - which London surely is now - is the ease with which people can, like Doctor Who, regenerate themselves. They can ditch their nationality, their past, and become part of whichever community they want to identify with. Our past can be a swamp that swallows us - but in London you can bury the past if you want to. Most of the time it does our city a power of good: it is a driver of change and a creator of energy, which sets us apart from more lethargic capitals such as Vienna or Paris. But there is a downside - namely, that it does from time to time open the door to a few dubious characters, most of them admittedly more silly than sinister. It would be unfair to mention any names, but we've all seen rich, ambitious Americans clambering through London's social elite, chequebook in hand, buying associations that they can use back home to gain social acceptance. (Indeed I saw more than my fair share during my years at the Palace.) But it's pretty harmless, mainly because we all know what's going on, don't really take it seriously and the London media provide a steady critical commentary of their ups and downs. And if they enrich our charities as a result, fine.

What we don't like, of course, is people using our city to launder genuinely bad reputations and then slip away from scrutiny. It's bad for everyone if they succeed here, so they tend not to: none of us likes mixing with crooks; and in any case we're usually pretty good at spotting them in the places most of us would go.

That's why I was intrigued to read that Brian Wright, the multimillion-pound cocaine smuggler and race-fixer, known as the 'Richest Milkman in the West' because 'he always delivered', used to conduct business from the Conrad Hotel in Chelsea Harbour - and in particular from its Aquasia restaurant. I paid a visit with a policeman friend to see what cover this enclave could offer the criminal fraternity. Was it the food? The ambience? Or the company?

To my surprise - and disappointment, given this heritage - Aquasia immediately felt completely sterile. Think of a tired Eighties hotel bar that has been pumped full of happy pills; bright colours, women with pleasing smiles, men certainly not thinking of romance. Nothing that unusual there. London is full of such places. What sets Aquasia apart is its complete disconnection from the rhythm of normal life, and the absence of anyone who appeared to belong in London.

I've always puzzled about Chelsea Harbour; home to an anonymous rent-a-flat elite who would rather be in Marbella, it was built when planners forgot that communities need to mix for a city to be successful.

Aquasia was fairly deserted. A woman working alone on her laptop, a large table of young folk on a 'big night out', and a couple of new-looking couples who had plunged into relationship boredom after only two days. The food was adequate: tuna sashimi, seafood risotto, 'honeyed cod' (did an endangered fish deserve this?), and chicken sprinkled with enough spice to find a home in a place called Aquasia. The staff were chirpy and efficient, and the usual bottle of Sancerre was chilled to perfection, if overpriced.

Aquasia is the perfect place for people who don't quite fit in London and as crooks fall into that category, it's no wonder it became one centre of the police operation to catch the Milkman. The Accident Group villain, infamous for sacking his workforce by text, and who died last week, might have fitted in perfectly here. It's an unchallenging place where the shifty could hang out, looking out at their expensive flat, with their boat nestling beneath them, and feel happy that they've found a place in London where they could pretend they are somewhere else and not have a single sense challenged.

As we left, the sharp-eyed policeman noticed on one of the many empty tables, the one with the best view of the harbour, a large sign saying 'Reserved'. 'Now, where's my notebook?' he asked.

Aquasia
- Chelsea Harbour, SW10 0XG