So not long afterwards he was loitering near a gym in north London, head pounding, eyes bloodshot, but upright, showered and dressed, which, given that it wasn’t yet half seven, suggested from a distance that he was a productive member of society. More productive members had jobs to do: while he waited, a van dumped bundles of newspapers outside a shop, their headlines variations on the same theme, that the waves made by the recent suicide of an American billionaire in his prison cell were still breaking shore this side of the Atlantic. The man had been a sex trafficker, and a well-connected one. A particular connection was mentioned by name in 48-point font. Not a happy day at the Palace, John surmised.

He was spared further contemplation of this odious pairing by the appearance of the woman he’d been hoping for.

She emerged from the gym with the air of one for whom the world has been on hold while she’d been otherwise occupied, a gym bag over her shoulder, her hair tied back. She was wearing sunglasses, possibly to avoid being recognised, but more likely because it was already bright, already warm. John wished he were wearing shades himself. At the very least, they’d have helped disguise his bleary appearance. But too late now. She’d already spotted him.

“John Bachelor,” she said, making little attempt to hide her contempt.

“It’s important.”

“It had bloody better be.”

She was all in black: black sweats, a black hoodie. Only her trainers offered colour: black too, but with a crimson band. Her hair was wet, and though she was still recognisably Diana Taverner—Lady Di—First Desk of Regent’s Park, he’d never seen her looking like this before: like someone who had a life. He suspected few people had. He wondered how many of them dared boast of the experience.

“How did you know to find me here?”

This was disingenuous. She liked it known that she did a ninety-minute early morning workout three times a week, and this was the most expensive place near her private residence. So he’d got lucky that this was one of those mornings, but everyone deserves the occasional break.

All he said was, “I didn’t. Not really.”

“Do I need to press a button?”

Which she’d have in a pocket, and would bring the Dogs running. That was all he needed, second morning in a row: to be tossed into someone else’s vehicle and taken somewhere he didn’t want to go. “No. Please don’t.”

She pushed her sunglasses up her nose. It was an oddly endearing moment, which was not something he’d ever expected in her company.

“There’s something you need to know about,” he said.