She has a very good line in old-fashioned, theatrical female helplessness. Like Blanche Dubois.

‘Fleur, will you and Simon come and have dinner with us tonight? Kim says we should keep close. Don’t worry, we’ve got cassava nuts and grilled yams for Simon.’

‘I’ll come regardless. When he comes back I’ll ask him. He doesn’t appear to have a mobile.’

‘No, he doesn’t believe in them.’

‘In what sense doesn’t he believe in them? They don’t exist?’

‘They’re the devil’s work, standing between people. Are you genuinely all right, Fleur? Please don’t feel you’re one against many in any way. You are more than part of the family. See you tonight, about eight-thirty.’

When he’s gone she thinks this is the warmest thing he has ever said to her. Death seems to release unexpected emotions as though it makes us all more human and causes us to huddle together as the finality of mortality sinks in.

Julian has gone to Bread Street to address the staff and to have a talk with Nigel about their disclosures to the FSA, which – Nigel said at tennis – may be a little more difficult than had first been thought.

Len is adopting a frozen, sombre look. His face is set as if he is determined not to dishonour the governor’s memory by speaking out of turn, or smiling. Julian sees that Len is demonstrating his grief and respect to him, and he’s driving the Bentley as though it’s a hearse and he is the chief undertaker.

Julian feels a pang of anxiety whenever they pass the griffins on the Embankment that mark the City’s boundary. It’s the same feeling of loneliness and foreboding he had on Sunday nights at school. The tide is low and there’s no water visible until they turn up Farringdon Road and, briefly, he can see down the bend in the river to Tower Bridge. The river is wearing its dirty-brown aspect, and agitated seagulls are wheeling overhead. But then who knows what a seagull thinks? Who knows what other humans think, come to that?

He would like to go back to Cambridge, Mass when the bank is sold. He met Kim there at a party given by the editors of The Crimson. That was the happiest he has ever been.

All the staff gather in the banking hall, which is closed until lunchtime out of respect for Sir Harry. He stands under the grim-faced Victorian portrait of Joshua Tubal.