The Montague Club occupied one corner of the prestigious W1 footprint, rising up five storeys, with a further two beneath street level. In the eighteenth century, it had been the family home of one of the wealthiest families of the era. It was a typical Georgian town house: a geometric arrangement of large sash windows in rows of threes, with each side reflecting the other in perfect symmetry. Decorative pediments completed the doll’s-house charm. The club had undergone renovation over the past couple of years, and its membership – by invitation only – had been refreshed with a younger, hipper generation made up of fashion designers and pop stars. But the old guard remained, still frequenting the Regency-style saloon (ladies were asked politely to socialise elsewhere, in any one of the rooms more appropriately designed for their delicate sex), leaving the younger ones to inhabit the bohemian rooftop bar, or the soundproof glass room in the basement, which served Michelin-star canapés and belted out cool jazz.

The immense black wooden door was guarded by two innocuous porters in subtle attire, who were in the know about every single one of the club’s current members and their guests. Philip adjusted his tie and brushed fluff from his dinner jacket before folding the newspaper away. There was no rush to get into work tomorrow, despite the police breathing down his neck about two lab technicians who’d been caught with their bloody pants down. Then there was George. Philip had liked the man. It was a tragedy. A burglary gone wrong, they were saying. He was a damn good scientist too and would be sorely missed by the company. But what the police thought Philip could do about any of it was a mystery. He was in no position to shed light on their inquiries. They were just being awkward, which was their job, he supposed. Well, they could wait.

The car slowed and pulled up outside the club, and the driver got out and walked around to open Philip’s door. He thanked him and they confirmed his pick-up time for tomorrow.

One of the porters acknowledged him with a nod and opened the door of the club for him. As he stepped inside, it was like coming home. There was nowhere on earth quite like it. No one else could match the understated English hospitality, learned over centuries of history and decorum. Dubai had the money, but no antiquity. America had the space, but no finesse. Paris had the quality, but no manners. Asia had the precision, but no charm.

This was perfect.