Kimberly comes out into the garden. She’s wearing that morning look – pale, still a little bemused, a child who has woken from a profound sleep, surprised to find that the world is still there. She’s in her long silk dressing gown with the Chinese embroidery.

‘Kim,’ says Nigel, standing up. ‘How lovely you look.’

‘No make-up, this is the real me. Sorry. Not too disappointed?’

‘No, you look fabulous.’

And she does.

‘Julian, Len’s outside,’ she says. ‘Apparently you wanted him here at 6.30 and he’s been waiting.’

‘Yes, I did ask him to be here. We won’t be long. Can you tell him to wait, half an hour max. What do you reckon, Nige, half an hour?’

‘Max.’

‘Can I bring you anything? Some muffins or juice? More coffee?’

‘Ask Daniela to bring them out. That would be lovely, darling. And get Len in for a pee, his prostate is not good.’

Silently they watch her go back up the brick path, through the little avenues of red tulips and yellow irises, through the box parterre and up the steps to the back of the house. Julian feels his head filling dangerously.

‘Nige, if anyone asks about the hedge fund, we need to bring up Professor Kuhn’s name: his model, his bloody Nobel-prize brain’s model, for which we paid him $7m., proved faulty. Kuhn and many people believed that risk could largely be taken out of investing and I have already held my hand up, and said yes, we were taken in. But we are on top of it and the bank is properly capitalised as will become apparent as soon as the accounts are published. That’s our story. Right?’

‘Yes, that’s it. You sound just like your father.’

‘Oh shit, not really?’

‘To the life.’

The Slovakian comes out with a plate of muffins, a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and a new pot of coffee. Julian asks her to get his Migraleve from the bathroom cabinet. She smiles complicitly. They share a little conspiracy on domestic matters.

The editor receives his first call just before lunchtime. It’s the assistant to the deputy financial editor of The Times. She says her boss would like to speak to him.

‘Fine, put him on.’

‘David de la Selle is on the line for you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Hello, is that Mr Tredizzick?’

‘It is. To what do I owe the honour of a call from the Thunderer?’

‘Don’t piss about. I think you know. We are obviously interested in your story and your sources. Have you actually seen the documents mentioned?’

‘We have never mentioned documents. We have never said anything, as it happens.’

‘No, not in print, but somebody’s leaking.’

‘Mr de la Selle, we do have a big story. And we will handle it in our own way. Why would I give it to you?’