‘That wasn’t my question.’ She’s frowning now. ‘Did he ever mention Calais? The refugee camp they called The Jungle?’

‘Never.’

‘Not even second-hand? En passant? As a talking point?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Did he ever mention Syrian friends he might have made? Here or abroad? Refugees, perhaps? Asylum seekers?’

‘No.’

Cavendish scribbles herself another note and glances at Deneuve.

‘You spent some time in Syria yourself,’ he says. ‘According to one of your passports.’

‘Palmyra,’ I say at once. ‘Before they blew it up.’

I explain about the film I made there, six magical winter weeks in the desert surrounded by thousands of years of history.

‘The movie bombed, I’m afraid, but those February sunsets were unforgettable.’

‘You made friends in Syria?’

‘I make friends everywhere.’

‘But you support their cause?’

‘I don’t pretend to understand it. Do I feel sorry for those people? For what happened to them? Of course I do. Have I ever discussed any of that with McFaul? Alas, no.’

‘Alas …?’

‘He’s gone …’ I spread my hands wide. ‘And for his sake, I just hope someone finds him.’

The interview continues for the best part of an hour. We criss-cross the same terrain time after time, Deneuve and Cavendish putting exactly the same questions a million different ways, much like McFaul in his minefield probing for hidden little parcels of high explosive. They seem to want to believe that this maverick do-gooder has set up some kind of terrorist safe house deep in leafy East Devon, and my refusal to take them seriously comes as something of a disappointment. Only when the interview has come to a formal end, and I’m free to leave, do I return to the one issue that has surprised me.

‘Calais?’ I ask. ‘The Jungle? You want to tell me more?’

Deneuve wants me gone. He has the lightest handshake, the merest touch of flesh on flesh.

‘Sadly not,’ he says. ‘But thank you for your time.’

Tony and I retire briefly to a pub in the Edgware Road. By now it’s late afternoon. I settle at a table in the corner and wait for Tony to return from the bar with the drinks. Crossing swords with MI5 doesn’t happen every day in his busy, busy life and I get the impression he’s rather enjoyed the experience.

‘Well?’ I enquire, as he hands me a packet of crisps.

He shoots me a look. He hasn’t got much time and he wants to start with Bullivant and Brett Atkinson.