‘You told us that at your interview. Remember? I was impressed – a woman after my own heart. It was partly why you got the job.’

‘I also said the British government would be dragged in because of all the London-based investors cashing in on land deals.’

‘You were bloody right about that too.’

‘That’s the bit the FCO didn’t like. I say FCO, but the paper only got as far as Missenden. He killed it.’

‘You’re losing me. Who’s Missenden?’

‘The guy who called me this morning. Anyway, the call was a sort of warning. That was the word he used.’

‘Warning?’ Anton’s voice was a few decibels higher. ‘I hope you told him to fuck off.’

‘That’s not quite how I put it but, yes, I told him to mind his own business.’

‘Anyway, who does he work for now?’

‘That’s my next task of the day.’

Clive Missenden looked out over London. He had the best view in town. He’d made the most of the revolving door between government and business. People paid to see the cityscape he now took for granted. His office was high up in the Shard, which, like so much real estate in the city, was now owned by foreign conglomerates – in this case the Qataris. He swivelled his leather and steel chair to face the sheet-glass desk. Apart from a laptop, a landline, a mobile phone and a mug of coffee, it was entirely bare. Here was a man who saw no need to commit anything to paper. Hanging on the wall that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows were several framed photos: an aerial view of a phalanx of tractors ploughing a vast field, another shot of a plantation of some sort, and a third, taken against a backdrop of verdant foliage, showed two men shaking hands, one of them suited and white, the other black and in traditional garb. His office, sumptuous in a clinical sort of way, and an anteroom with a secretary, were all there was to show for Africa Rising Investments. The company was registered in the British Virgin Islands, and its British CEO was a one-time City trader who now seemed to spend most of his time in hotels and the back of a private jet. This CEO was the man in the photo.

The mobile phone vibrated on the desk. Missenden saw that it was Jake Willemse in South Africa and pressed the green icon to answer.

‘Returning your call.’ Willemse was curt. ‘I haven’t got much time. I suppose you’ve heard about Motlantshe’s son?’

‘That’s why I rang. What the hell was Motlantshe’s boy doing there? So much for you reining him in. Now we’re going to have every friggin’ journalist nosing around.’

‘It’s okay, we’re dealing with it. I’ve spoken to Josiah and it doesn’t change anything. He’s still on the case.’