News of the event at the Meyer farm would have spread from farmstead to farmstead quicker than a dose of foot and mouth. And yet the magazine had chosen not to report any of the detail. Anton Chetty thought he had the answer. They were frightened of contagion – not of the agrarian kind but the political variety.

It was enough to get his blood up. God! This was like the old days. A cause to get stuck into. He flipped the cover back over his tablet, chucked it into his rucksack and headed for the door.

‘Hey! I’m running a business here – what about some money?’ shouted Saleh.

Too late. Anton was already out of the door. He darted across York Way, all traces of the hangover now miraculously gone.

He plunged into his office building, which overlooked the Eurostar railway line to Paris.

Wayne, whose job description as the building’s janitor was entirely at odds with his preferred occupation of reading the Sun newspaper while slumped on his seat, barely looked up when Anton shouted, as he did every day, ‘Stop reading that fucking rag,’ while bounding up the stairs – the closest he ever got to a daily exercise routine.

‘Nice of you to make an appearance, Mr Chetty,’ Lindi called, as he rushed past her desk.

‘Stop being an old bag and come into my office. And bring me some bloody coffee.’

He peeled off several layers of clothing. More than two decades abroad, first in Stockholm and latterly in London, had failed to make a dent in his sartorial tastes. He still wore a selection of safari suits – the only allowance he made for the inclement weather was to wear a woolly jumper under the jacket. It made him look bulkier than he was – comically so, given his spindly legs. He was short, no more than five foot six or seven but, unlike many men of his stature, he was entirely relaxed about it. ‘Sit down, you bugger. My head is going to fall off if I have to look up at you any longer,’ was a refrain directed at ministers and minions alike.