Tom knew he could count on his father not to swim with the tide. In fact, he made a habit of taking the contrary view, something that had brought a good many dinner parties to a premature halt, requiring Mary’s anxious apologies to smooth things over. It occurred to Tom, perhaps for the first time, that it was one way in which they were alike.

‘What do they think in here, the powers that be?’

Hugh looked round. ‘Well, Chatham House rules, of course, so one can’t pass anything on. But there were very strong words on the subject in here last night. A chap who’s quite high up in the civil service hinted that the government’s terrified. They daren’t do anything drastic for fear of alienating parts of the electorate. And public confidence in the cabinet is ebbing away, never mind in Parliament itself. So the MoD and the police have been meeting privately to lay out emergency measures – even talking about putting your lot on the streets, if things don’t die down. The PM’s buggered off to the States, you know, and that woman Garvey’s been left holding the fort.’

Tom winced inwardly at the reference to ‘your lot’ but let it go. His father was getting into his stride and at least it deflected the conversation away from him. ‘Well, she is the home secretary, Dad.’

‘Of course, of course.’

Hugh leaned across the table and dropped his voice. ‘You know what I think? There are some people who actually want things to get worse, precisely so they can take drastic action.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, you know, dumping some of this human-rights legislation that keeps coming at us from Brussels, all the politically correct stuff that ties the hands of the police and the judiciary.’

‘You agree with that?’

‘Trouble with today is, the collective memory of the last war – I mean the Second World War, when our fore-bears had to muck in and all pull together, when there was a real threat of invasion – has pretty well died out. The truth is, us baby boomers have had it too easy. So we’re panicking.’

The lamb arrived: two huge plates of roasted meat and a bowl of vegetables. Gradually, Tom felt himself perking up.

‘And let’s have some of the house claret to keep this company.’

As they tucked in, the waitress returned with a bottle and two fresh glasses.

‘That’s the one – just pour it.’

Hugh fell silent as they attacked their food. Tom was well aware of how little he was giving away, but Hugh would have to lump it as he topped up the claret, no doubt hoping it would oil the wheels.

‘Did you um, get back to Rolt?’ The question broke the silence. Tom stared at his father warily. ‘Vernon Rolt. You were at school with him.’