‘Good morning, Michael. Weekends don’t really count for much in this job. Not when the shit and the fan collide with such force. The minister needs to go into London for a meeting with the PM. This morning.’

Mickey, whose second rule was that Mickey Bale was never to be seen to be surprised, nodded equably. While diary planning was usually impeccable, short-notice meetings between the big man and his cabinet were not unknown.

‘No problem, James. When would he like to be driven…’

He fell silent, taking in the look on Cavendish’s face.

‘I’m going to assume from your insouciance that you haven’t seen the papers yet.’

Mickey shook his head. He had, of course, a sneaky peek on the train into London. Curious to see what the press had made of what he’d done the previous evening. So when the major raised a broadsheet, he was ready with the deadpan face. The Clarion, as it happened, and Mickey thought momentarily about Tamara. Hoping she’d seen sense and gone to harass some other public figure. The bastion of red-top journalism having excelled itself. The half-page headline announcing: ‘Gang War Slaughter!’ With the last word printed twice the size beneath the first two.

‘It’s good to see that the art of good old-fashioned tabloid emphasis hasn’t been completely lost.’

James raised an eyebrow at Mickey.

‘Not the drugs massacre. The criminal underclass can kill each other all they like. This.’

He pointed to a secondary headline. Mickey read it. Shrugged.

‘“Defence Minister Scandal Deepens?” I’d imagine that’s one article that’ll be shot through with allegedly and informed sources.’

‘Quite so. And not a shred of hard proof. But the prime minister isn’t best pleased, it seems. And so Sir Patrick will be attending what I can only imagine will be a meeting without biscuits in…’ Cavendish consulted a Patek Philippe worth roughly the equivalent of Mickey’s annual salary. ‘One hour and forty-eight minutes. We’ll have the car ready to leave in twenty, shall we?’

Mickey checked the Jaguar they’d booked out that morning. Made sure it was squeaky clean inside, wiped away a few flecks of road dirt from the paint. And then waited, Wade ready in the driving seat. Engine running, ready to go. Cavendish escorted the minister out of the front door right on time. Sir Patrick’s face just about as grim as Mickey had expected. He opened the car door, greeting the minister in the expected manner.

‘Good morning, sir.’