They leave the bank through the car park, surreptitiously, down towards the Mansion House. Julian loves the names, Little Trinity Lane, Garlickhythe, Watling Street; when Moses Tubal was alive these poetic and beautiful names were far more prosaic. Garlickhythe was the landing stage for garlic and St Andrew by the Wardrobe was the place where Edward III’s state robes were kept. Cy loves all this history, but Julian thinks he loves it as you might claim to like Siena or Venice, as reflecting your own self-importance in being able to claim familiarity with another culture. Harry did it too. Everything he did was designed to demonstrate his superior taste. He was a monster. In the FT the other day he read an interview with a Canadian banker who explained how Canadian banks had avoided the worst of the problems: We are boring and we don’t go to the opera. Like Simon, Julian thinks, he should have refused to have anything to do with the bank. It’s turned him into a liar and a fraudster, not much better than Madoff and Ebbers. Nigel takes a more pragmatic view: you have to do what you have to do. In his book it’s fine if it all turns out for the best. They walk down Little Trinity Lane, choked with cabs and delivery vehicles, and away from the bank Julian feels more calm.

‘Nigel, Estelle seems to think we have borrowed some money from the Koopman Foundation.’

‘Holy shit. Fuck. Fuck. Is she just fishing?’

‘She says she copied the papers we signed in Antibes and Vaduz.’

‘Why? How did she get her hands on them?’

‘She had them for an hour or two before I left.’

‘But you are sure she is on side?’

‘Pretty sure. She doesn’t want money, that I am sure of. Also I am not convinced someone in the bank is leaking. I think Estelle knows the bank well and the asset situation and has put two and two together, what with the boat and the charities. But why are people asking questions about Fleur’s first husband? Is that sinister?’

‘I really wouldn’t worry too much about that one. There was some local paper in Cornwall saying that Artair MacCleod hadn’t received his grant. At first they thought it was the Arts Council or something, but then they heard it was from a bank. Big bad capitalists snub Cornwall, et cetera. I suggested to Fleur that she pay off her ex-husband. And she’s done it.’

‘OK. If there’s been a leak we must find it, in the meanwhile we should tough it out, as you say.’

‘Good. It will be over soon.’

‘Let’s hope so. I’ll get a cab now. I’ve spoken to Kasimir about a private sale. No publicity at all. He says it’s got to be thirty million.’