The club occupied a regency terrace on a street just off Piccadilly, less than two hundred metres from Lady Ty’s house and almost on top of the underground course of her river. Curzon Street to the north was still partially closed as the Fire Brigade and Thames Water dealt with the flood damage.

I didn’t think it was a coincidence. And the chance that Lady Ty was also using Reynard as bait had been factored into our operational plan, such as it was, and our risk assessment – such as that was.

Me, Guleed and Nightingale were designated Alpha. David Carey and a couple of guys from Belgravia MIT were in Charlie covering Half Moon Street at the back of the club. A couple of PCs in plainclothes on ruinous levels of overtime were in what any other nick would call Bravo but inexplicably Belgravia MIT always called the Banana car. I asked them why, but nobody could remember.

Stephanopoulos and Seawoll were trying to rustle up some armed response, but apparently there was some anti-terror operation currently live in East London so we couldn’t count on getting them until that was done.

Kubat called to report that he had eyes on Reynard.

‘At a table in the main saloon,’ he said. ‘He’s holding some chairs free, too – he must be expecting someone.’

Nightingale told him to hold position and we heard him ordering a pint of lager. A pint is a good drink for undercover work since, unlike a short, you can get away with drinking it slowly, it has low alcohol by volume, and if you keep moving it about people can’t tell how much you’re drinking.

I suggested that we grab Reynard then and there. But Nightingale said wait.

‘I don’t think we’ve played out the line fully yet,’ he said.

Poor Reynard, I thought, demoted from fox to fish – he must’ve done something shitty in a former life. Although how it could be worse than what he was doing in his current life took some imagining.

You don’t half end up thinking strange things when you’re on a stakeout.

Nightingale was proved right when we got a call from the Banana car saying they had eyeballs on an older IC1 and a younger IC3 female heading for the club.

I asked whether the IC3 female was over six feet tall.

‘Definitely,’ said the Banana car.

‘I thought this might happen,’ said Nightingale. ‘Lady Helena is still trying to secure The Third Principia for herself.’

‘Should we stop them?’

Nightingale hesitated – tapping his finger on the steering wheel.

‘No,’ he said finally. ‘If I’m right, then Mr Fossman will either hand it over directly or take them to it.’

‘And if Martin Chorley crashes the trade?’