Either side of me, hedges became thicker and higher as I made my way down, but intermittently driveways would appear and, when I looked along them, every building was huge, a series of vast, pristine properties with broad, sweeping gardens, the grounds supplemented with tennis courts and outdoor pools. The further down I got, the bigger the houses became, until eventually Robert Zaid’s drifted into view, the gates already open. The house itself was a faux-Victorian mansion with pillars either side of the front door, and gabled windows on the top floor.

Zaid was standing in the doorway, waiting for me.

I nosed the Audi through the gates and up the driveway, and thought again of what I knew about him. Born in London to an Iranian father and Hungarian mother. Educated at a private school in Gloucestershire, and at King’s College where he’d got a BA in History and an MA in Politics. A diplomat at the Foreign Office and a hugely successful investor and entrepreneur in his own right. Seventy-second on last year’s Sunday Times Rich List. I pulled in next to a year-old Aston Martin. A Porsche and a Land Rover were parked next to it.

He knew Beatrix Steards.

Knew Adrian Vale too.

I switched off the engine.

Still works for the government, despite his vast wealth. Hard to find online, except for the blandest of profile pieces. Protects his privacy vehemently. Yet I’d called his PA early this afternoon and he’d immediately agreed to meet me.

He started coming down the driveway in my direction, and behind him I saw two other men fanning out on either side, heading in the direction of parked cars – much less lavish than Zaid’s – as if getting ready to leave. They were big and brawny, wearing the same black suits; one of them was yanking an earpiece out, the wire snaking under the collar of his jacket; the other glanced at me but didn’t seem particularly interested, apparently already briefed on who I was. They must have been Zaid’s home security team. He was letting them go for the evening.

I watched them for a moment and then got out of the car, still going over what I knew about Zaid: No obvious links to Jacob Pierce. No links to Isaac Mills either. But he spoke to Patrick Perry in a Skype call in October 2015, when Patrick had come asking about Beatrix Steards, and, in a reverse of my experience, it had taken Patrick a couple of days to arrange a conversation with him.

So why had Zaid made himself available so quickly for me?

Not knowing the answer put me on edge. The fact that, a week or so after that Skype call, Patrick was gone, and eight others along with him, put me on edge too.

I was anxious and tired, right down to my bones.

But I was clear-headed enough to see what I needed to.