Christopher Slater took a cab to a bar in central London. It was near Victoria station and as different to the Montague Club as it could be. He’d felt queasy since speaking to Philip last night. He went over and over the details in his head: Benji, drunk, making rash decisions that came back to haunt them all. It was all his fault: you pay peanuts, you get monkeys. They were supposed to be clean, set up, staged, untraceable. Instead they were sloppy, rushed, lacking in sophistication and verging on the embarrassing. Philip had looked him dead in the eye when he’d said that everyone left a trail.

Even him.

He racked his brain to find an answer to the question that had been bugging him ever since: what did Philip really have on him? It was in Philip’s own interests to clean up after both of them. Christopher had sent no emails, no texts or letters, and nothing existed – as far as he knew – with his name on it. But what if Philip had an insurance plan and was closer to Dame Charlotte than he let on? Christopher’s relationship with the senior civil servant had begun in Kabul, where he’d arranged lucrative security contracts for the embassy. He’d supplied the companies and the ambassador had endorsed them. Simple. He’d also been responsible for introducing her to Philip, and he knew for a fact that she had generous share options with Ravensword, just like he did. Benji preferred cash, and that was what would get him caught in the end. But Christopher cared not for Benji or Charlotte Cross. The only one who could hurt him was Philip.

Philip was a classic psychopath, as most of the best CEOs were. Christopher had met thousands of them. He called them the ‘black hearts’. As an ex-CEO himself, he was always being sent articles on the prevalence of psychopathy in the City. It was generally dismissed as complete bollocks. The press enjoyed the shock and awe for five minutes and then everybody went back to business.

But Christopher had seen first-hand how Philip Tooting operated. The man was so lacking in empathy or normal human compulsions that he was capable of anything.

He’d had a wretched childhood, with a father who beat him and a mother who would rather drink than protect her boy (Christopher had looked him up using his ministerial access to medical files). The chip on one of Philip’s shoulders was bigger than the demon sitting on the other one. Christopher had even discussed it with Robyn Hastings, his boss. Lesbians were very good at spotting alpha males and megalomaniacs. He hadn’t seen Robyn since their little squabble over her girlfriend and her dirty hands. It was everybody for himself now, and he knew that Philip would have a plan.