Examination-in-chief went well. Rivelli gave the answers he said he would give, making no bones about his persistent infidelities, expressing surprise and dismay that his wife would suddenly sue for divorce just when he was on the verge of signing a batch of lucrative new deals, and looking suitably remorseful on the subject of his son.

Christine would have been delighted had she been able to ignore Joseph Greenbaum’s constant smirking on the edge of her field of vision. Whichever way she turned, he was always there, a knowing twinkle in his eye, his gold watch chain flashing in the light.

It didn’t take long. Rivelli reiterated his offer, and told the court that it represented a very substantial percentage of his annual turnover, as detailed in the schedule of assets.

And then it was time for the cross-examination.

Rivelli stood in the witness box looking relaxed and confident.

‘Mr Rivelli.’ Greenbaum drew himself up to his full height – a dreadful old advocate’s trick, thought Christine, any minute now he’ll hook his thumbs behind his lapels or consult his fob watch. ‘We have heard a great deal about the success of your garment manufacturing business in the last couple of days.’

Rivelli nodded graciously. ‘It turns over well.’

‘Your business card,’ said Greenbaum, producing said card rather as a conjurer would, ‘boasts offices in New York, Paris and Milan, as well as London.’

‘That is correct.’

‘And you are registered for income tax in all these places, I take it.’

‘Alas, yes,’ said Rivelli. ‘A considerable amount of my . . .’

‘Mr Rivelli,’ said Greenbaum – Rivelli hated being interrupted, and for a moment his eyes flashed – ‘what is your connection with Egesta Holdings?’

Rivelli’s mouth froze. And then, ‘Who?’

‘Egesta Holdings. A company registered in Liechtenstein.’

‘I do not know this company.’

‘What is your connection with Knightway Holidays, a company registered in . . . let me see . . .’ Greenbaum made a play of peering at his notes, then looking up and saying, with an incredulous tone, ‘The Cook Islands?’

‘I . . .’

‘And Mr Rivelli.’ Rivelli was looking to Ferguson for guidance. ‘What is your connection with the Iambic Property Development Company of Antigua?’

Ferguson slowly shook his head.

‘Mr Rivelli?’

Rivelli said nothing. Christine’s hands felt cold.

‘I am waiting, Mr Rivelli.’ And there they were – the thumbs behind the lapels.

No response. Ferguson was scribbling.

‘There are many other companies, Mr Rivelli, all of them registered in territories known for their generous tax arrangements. I could go on.’

John passed Christine a note, with the word ADJOURNMENT writ large upon it.

‘I suggest, Mr Rivelli, that your activities as Rivelli Srl are what we might call the tip of the iceberg.’ Out came the fob watch. ‘And that your real assets are distributed in tax havens in every nook and cranny of the world.’