‘The art dealer?’ Hadi Kattan was a regular face in the international media, from the Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal to Hello! magazine; patriarch of a beautiful glamorous family; contemporary of Al-Fayed, but shadowy and enigmatic where his peer preferred the spotlight.

‘That’s the one. Moved into a mansion in your neck of the woods.’

‘Kattan is al-Qaeda? Pull the other one. It’s Middle England, Xav, not Helmand Province.’

‘So cynical. He was VEVAK for a while too apparently.’

‘VEVAK as in Iranian Secret Service? They’re nothing to do with al-Qaeda, surely?’

‘Whatever. He’s purportedly been involved with a smaller organisation, a branch of the tree. Al-Muhen, I think. Some Saudi Arabian mullah runs it from a madrasah somewhere outside Peshawar.’

‘Everyone north of the equator’s apparently got a link these days. Who’s your source?’

‘Guy in the Yard’s anti-terrorism unit.’

‘So well-connected, dear Xav.’

‘Let’s just say we share a sauna, darling.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I debated some sugar-free gingerbread men. ‘That kind of source. And he’s straight up, is he?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say straight, necessarily.’

‘Hilarious! You know what I mean.’

‘Check it out and see.’

‘I can’t.’ Resolute, I picked up some over-priced organic crisps. The kids would prefer a lurid Wotsit any day. ‘I’ve retired. For now.’

‘It’s time to come out of retirement. Christ, Rose, most people would be biting my hand off.’

‘I appreciate it. I’m tempted. But it’s not fair on the kids. You know that.’

‘Rose, you had some babies, you didn’t become Mother fucking Teresa.’

‘She only had spiritual babies, I think you’ll find.’ I wheeled myself round to the Wotsits. ‘Look, I’ll consider it, OK?’

‘Which means you won’t,’ he sighed.

‘I will. I’m flattered, Xav. Thank you.’ For a moment I caught a glimpse of the old me. It was strangely reassuring that someone else occasionally did too.

‘It’s a bloody waste, you rotting out there in the cow-shit. You were the best, Rose.’

‘Thank you. Actually, talking about retirement,’ I said carefully, ‘I’m sure I just saw Lord Higham on the news.’

‘So?’

‘I thought he’d gone somewhere like Venezuela.’

‘He may well have done, darling. I’m not his travel agent.’ Xavier was snappy. ‘Word is he’s back on the political warpath. Officially he’s come in some advisor role to the PM.’

My stomach clenched uncomfortably.

‘Why the interest? Got a scoop?’

‘I just – he’s someone—’ I was getting tongue-tied. I took a deep breath. ‘Someone from the past,’ I finished lamely.

‘My dear! I’ve always liked an older man myself,’ Xavier purred.

‘Not like that. I knew his son, Dalziel.’

‘The one who killed himself?’

The years rolled back like the tide.

‘Rose?’

‘Yes,’ I mumbled. ‘Yes, that one.’

‘You have depths, my dear Rose, I’ve not yet plumbed.’