Christopher Slater was sound asleep in his sprawling six-bedroom home in Surrey. His wife had been roused by bright lights and shouting outside. She’d assumed it was drunks or other such riff-raff and had gone along the first-floor landing to see if their children were home. She still called them children, though they were both in their late twenties. Still using their parents’ house as a free base between jobs and partying. Mrs Slater didn’t mind.

Now, as she peered out of the window after confirming that both the children were in their rooms, she saw police cars parked in the drive, with officers and dogs swarming around. She shook her husband.

He’d taken sleeping pills and was difficult to rouse. He’d come home late smelling of booze, and they’d argued.

A loud pounding at the door scared her, and she shook her husband more determinedly. The boys padded half asleep through to their parents’ room.

‘Mum? What’s going on?’

‘I have no idea. I’m sure it’s a mistake.’

Finally Christopher woke up, though he was incomprehensible for the first few minutes. The sleeping pills and the booze made him sound like an idiot. He scrunched his brow. The continued banging pierced his thoughts and a voice booming through a loud hailer made him sit up alert and fully awake.

‘Christopher Tarquin Slater! Answer the door! This is the police! We have a warrant for your arrest!’

The boys looked at their mother and then their father.

‘What on earth is happening?’ Mrs Slater asked.

‘I have no idea. You stay here. I’m sure it’s a mistake.’ Christopher stood up and started getting dressed. ‘I’ll go and see what’s going on.’

He knew exactly what was going on, but he didn’t have the courage to tell his family: to prepare them. Instead, he left the room knowing that he wouldn’t see them again as a free man. He couldn’t look at his boys.

He went downstairs and opened the front door.

‘What the…’ His voice tailed away as he came face to face with two heavily armoured police officers. Both were over six foot tall and neither smiled at him. ‘Look, chaps, I think there’s been a mistake.’

‘Are you Christopher Tarquin Slater?’

‘Well, yes…’

‘Turn around, sir. We’re arresting you on suspicion of being an accessory to murder, fraud and corruption. You have the right to remain silent…’

He was shoved roughly around, facing the interior of the lavish house that had been his family home for eighteen years. His wife came to the top of the stairs and gazed at him questioningly. He looked away.