The pilots busied themselves with checking charts and finalising their computer-programmed flight plans. He rolled his eyes and said another prayer as he realised that he was probably going to be ferried back to London on autopilot, not even at the hands of a human being. People trusted computers too much these days. He’d skipped breakfast; his nerves wouldn’t allow it. He’d dismissed the chauffeur at the last minute, and the driver would be making the three-hundred mile journey now on his own. It was too late to change his mind and indeed, he saw Bart striding across the grass, beaming from ear to ear, and eager to get going.

Bartholomew Kennedy-Craig was the type of companion who could get you to do all the things you said you never would. He was the ultimate salesman. Donald couldn’t help smiling as he watched his friend climb in beside him, and some of his charm and confidence rubbed off, allaying his worst fears. Bart produced a quarter bottle of fine brandy from his pocket and winked.

‘Party’s not over, Donald,’ Bart said.

‘We shouldn’t travel together, Bart,’ Donald said. Bart had a meeting in Glasgow later this morning, to discuss the progress of various mining projects for oil and gas. Strictly speaking, fracking – a hideous term – was all but illegal, but Bart was one of the first to take advantage of the government’s desperation to wean itself off foreign energy quotas. Bart was always at the front of his game. Flying to London and back again didn’t make sense, but then, nothing about Bart ever did.

‘I know. Stop worrying, Donald, no one will ever know. I want you to see some of this stunning landscape. My friend, you need to relax.’

Donald took the small brandy bottle and took a swig, studying his friend. No one would guess that Bartholomew Kennedy-Craig had been partying all night. His tailored suit and immaculate camel coat, together with the stench of money dripping from every pore, would reassure even the severest critics about his legitimacy. He smelled of cologne and his smile was that of a man in charge. It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Donald to agree to the two of them taking the risk of flying together. In a way, it was as if the weekend hadn’t really ended, and this was their last hurrah; a toast to getting away with it all these years: the girls, the deals, and the special relationship. One day, not long off, Bartholomew would be put forward for a lifelong peerage. Donald had already paved the way, with Bart’s money, of course.