They drove in through sober, grey-painted gates that opened and closed electronically in their wake. Abbott saw two wall-mounted CCTV cameras, one of which remained trained on the gate, the other tracking the progress of their vehicle as they passed through the portal. Once inside it was as if they were in a different country, a different world altogether. Richmond, a posh and leafy suburb at the best of times, suddenly seemed almost drab, down-at-heel, and terribly urban compared to the immaculate lawns that lay on either side of a gravel drive leading to the house, sorry, mansion, which was itself modelled on the old American colonial style, complete with balustrades and a long balcony overlooking the front. To his left Abbott saw what at first glance he took to be a gardener. Indeed, the guy was holding a rake. But then, as he turned slightly, Abbott saw the butt of a pistol protruding from his waistband. Two things: Her Ladyship liked her security but she liked her security unobtrusive.

At a front door, they knocked. A man answered.

‘Mr McGregor.’

‘Mr Kilgore.’

So here he was. The famous Kilgore. He was a tall man, his grey hair in a crewcut, a weathered and watchful look about him, the kind of guy who could play a Nazi in an Indiana Jones movie. ‘And this must be Alex Abbott,’ he said. ‘Or is it Owen Flyte?’

‘I’ll settle for Abbott,’ he said.

‘Where is she, Kilgore?’ asked McGregor.

‘She’s round the back.’

Now Abbott found himself looking carefully at McGregor, taking note of the change that seemed to have come over him since entering the grounds of the mansion. For someone who was apparently an employee of the poor relations in the Midlands, McGregor was acting very much at home here.

They walked around the side of the house, heading, presumably, towards the gardens. ‘You know Kilgore, then, do you?’ asked Abbott.

‘Aye, I know Kilgore.’

‘Feels like you know him quite well.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Just that you two seem awfully familiar, that’s all.’

‘I suppose so.’

Coming around the side of the house, Abbott once again found himself having to restrain a gasp. Beautifully tended gardens as far as the eye could see. In the distance a man on a ride-on lawnmower was cutting an area close to the tennis courts. You’re doing a good job there, mate, thought Abbott, and then caught sight of the assault rifle sharing the guy’s lawn-mower seat. Not far away, yet another guy. This one lounging by a tree, making even less pretence at work then the others. Easy now, fellas.

They approached where Lady Norton sat on a bench, a black Labrador half-asleep at her feet. She was ageing, and with the bearing to match. Slightly out-of-date but expensive clothes and the kind of white, carefully set hair that was probably attended to on a daily basis.