The reception was held in a large mirrored ballroom along the front of the building, oppressively heavy with ornate gilding and convoluted plasterwork on the ceiling. There was the usual hum of voices from the early minutes of a cocktail party. As time went on and more drinks were consumed, the noise would become louder until reasonable conversation was impossible. All over the world these parties are the same: the drinks are too warm or, if you put ice in them, they become too dilute; the faces become dissociated from the hurried given names; the canapés curl at the edges because of the heat and, in the end, all that are left are the few regular drunks who have to be tactfully eased out.

I handed my card to a flunkey in knee-breeches, who bellowed, ‘Mr William Kemp.’

No one seemed to take much notice so I went in. A man stepped forward with his hand outstretched and a deep voice said, ‘Glad you could come, Mr Kemp.’

I took the offered hand and looked into the charismatic face. ‘It was kind of you to invite me, Mr Prime Minister.’

‘Let me introduce you to my wife,’ said Conyers. ‘Darling, this is Mr Kemp from London. You may remember that he’s employed by Lord Hosmer.’

As I shook hands with the middle-aged woman in the Balmain gown, I reflected that Conyers had put me firmly into place. Employed by Lord Hosmer. God bless Lord Hosmer and his relations and keep us in our proper stations.

Mrs Conyers mumbled something I couldn’t hear so I smiled and passed on.

I captured a scotch from a passing tray-carrier and turned to look for Hanna, but he wasn’t there and neither had the flunkey boomed his name. I suspected that the tactician in him had decided we should not make our entrance together. Guilt by association is a political disease he didn’t care to catch.

Drink in hand, I surveyed the throng. Everyone looked prosperous and well fed, and from the names of the arriving guests that were bawled from the door, this seemed to be a meeting of the ruling class with an admixture of influential foreigners. Subtle lapel badges on various guests revealed the national flags of the United States and other countries sharing diplomatic ties with Campanilla, while a thick Russian accent near me betrayed a broad-cheeked Soviet, apparently part of a visiting trade contingent. Elsewhere there seemed to be dignitaries, civic worthies and a few high-ranking army and police officers, including one I assumed from his uniform to be Commissioner Barstow. I sipped my drink and wondered why I was there.

Knee-breeches shouted, ‘Mr Henry Roker.’ There was a crowd between me and the reception line at the door so I couldn’t immediately see him, but my brain cells began tingling when the next call came: ‘Lord Hosmer.’

A voice behind me said, ‘Well, Bill, I didn’t expect to see you here.’