Mellor picked it up and began dialing even before she’d begun to work on his feet. He always enjoyed having his feet and head massaged more than any other part of his body. Well, almost. But Mai Ling had made it clear from the outset that wasn’t on offer, even if he paid cash.

His first call was to his bank manager, and the only point of interest that emerged was that he agreed the company should pay Lady Virginia Fenwick’s latest expenses claim of £92.75, a figure that seemed to increase every month. He would have to speak to her about it. He had also sent a donation of £1,000 to the Bristol Cathedral organ fund, a building he’d never entered.

His second call was to his secretary at Mellor Travel in Bristol. He barked at the poor girl for about twenty minutes, by which time Mai Ling had reached his shoulders. She was beginning to fear that this would be another wasted session until he suddenly slammed the phone down and started dialing again.

“Who’s this?”

“Des Mellor.”

“Oh, hi, Des,” said Sloane, his voice changing from bully to sycophant without missing a beat. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you got rid of all my Farthings shares? I noticed they were at a new high this morning.”

“You’re down to the last fifty thousand but you’ve already covered your original investment, even made a small profit. So you can hold onto them and see if they go any higher, or cash in.”

“Always cash in when you’re ahead, Adrian. I thought I’d taught you that.”

“We wouldn’t have needed to,” said Sloane, clearly chastened by the barb, “if that stupid Nigerian bitch had kept her mouth shut. We could be running the bank now. Still, I’ll get the bastard next time.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” said Mellor, “unless it’s a hundred percent foolproof.”

“It’s better than foolproof,” retorted Sloane. “This time he’ll be done for insider trading and lose his banking license.”

“Bishara would never involve himself in anything that irresponsible.”

“But one of his dealers might. Someone who used to work for me when I was chairman of Farthings.”

“What have you got on him?”

“He has a gambling problem. If you could be paid out for backing the last horse in every race, he’d be a millionaire. Unfortunately his bookies are putting pressure on him to settle his account.”

“So what? The moment Bishara finds out, he’ll sack the man, and no one will believe for a minute that he was involved.”

“It would be hard for Bishara to deny his involvement if we had the whole conversation on tape.”

“How’s that possible?” barked Mellor.