There was a light knock on the door and Terrance entered with a tray of breakfast things. Fabian used to love the ceremony and grandeur of such routines, but now it felt hollow. The tray was huge and silver, and on it were delicately cut pieces of toasted bread in a basket, jams and preserves, solid silver cutlery – slightly tarnished – which was intricately carved; as well as napkins, orange juice, pastries and tea. The smorgasbord jarred him as something that was served to the living. The contrast between this luxurious sustenance being brought to him and the treatment his poor father’s lifeless body would be receiving hit him in the gut. He knew that his father was awaiting further humiliation at the hands of a pathologist in the arse end of nowhere in some poxy local NHS hospital. The police had already informed them that the body would be released after examination.

And so would begin the official cover-up. The minute it had been reported in the press that his father’s passenger was Lord Reilly, Fabian knew they’d never get to the truth. The institution looked after its own interests, at the expense of anybody in its way, and the truth was always the first casualty. The PM, a dithering Old Etonian wanker, would do anything to save his own skin, and distancing himself from Tactika money, Fabian knew, would be a priority. He couldn’t trust anyone with ties to the British government, including the NHS hospital holding his father, or the police investigating the case, who were only there because of Lord Reilly.

He eyed Terrance, who looked a little too smart for a butler, in a tailored three-piece suit and, he noticed, a rather expensive watch from his mother’s favourite Swiss dealer. Terrance bowed, as was customary, and retreated.

On that note, his phone buzzed. It was George Fellows.

‘George,’ he answered.

‘Fabian, I’m so sorry about your father. Am I right in thinking that your phone call is perhaps something to do with that?’

‘You guessed correctly, George. I don’t care how much it takes. Name your price. I want to know what happened to my father, and I want to know why Lord bloody Reilly was with him,’ Fabian said. ‘I assume you’re still there?’

‘Indeed I am,’ George said. ‘I’ve already started to look into it.’

‘Good man. I’ll be in touch with a phone number to use from now on. You talk to nobody else, especially my mother,’ he added.

Fabian heard George suck in his breath a little.

‘George, she’s been through enough, and she’s emotional. I don’t need that. I want a clear head on this. Please promise me,’ he asked.

‘Done,’ George said.

‘I’ll arrange for payment to be left at the usual place. Send me a box number.’ They hung up.