‘Don’t bother, they’re just window dressing,’ he said. ‘As far as we can tell nobody lives here.’

I looked at a framed photograph of a young white woman with a dog.

‘Who owns the place, then?’ I asked.

‘Some tax dodging shell company out of Jersey,’ said Seawoll, running his fingers along the bottom of the desk top – looking for secret drawers, I guessed. ‘We won’t be able to trace that until the lads at Proactive Money Laundering can drag one of their experts out of bed.’ He gave up on the idea of secret drawer and jabbed a finger at Guleed.

‘Sahra,’ he said. ‘Get on the phone and give them a kicking.’

‘Gladly,’ said Guleed, and left.

‘Her brother’s an accountant,’ said Seawoll, watching her go. ‘So. What the fuck are you doing here?’

I considered lying for all of about two nanoseconds, but I don’t have a death wish – not even a figurative one. Of course, philosophically speaking, truth is a slippery concept and one should always be alive to nuance.

‘I got a tip off from a source that there might be some tangential Falcon involvement,’ I said. And because I saw Seawoll begin to draw himself up, ‘Lady Cecelia Tyburn-Thames believes her daughter may have been here when the incident occurred.’

‘And she wants you to put the fix in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what the “incident” is?’

‘Accidental drug overdose,’ I said.

Seawoll nodded.

‘So I bet you’re wondering what the fuck I’m doing here?’ he asked.

I felt a trickle of sweat work its way down my back.

‘You wanted a peek into the lifestyles of the rich and shameless?’ I said.

‘Because nobody was supposed to have access to this flat,’ he said. ‘Did you see the DPG cars downstairs?’

The Diplomatic Protection Group do bodyguard work for Royals and those people HM Government would rather were not done-in while resident in the UK. They’re routinely armed and drive around in red liveried vehicles – red to indicate that they are not there to break up fights, find your toddler or tell you the bloody time.

‘No, sir,’ I said.

‘Really?’ said Seawoll. ‘The lazy buggers must have sloped off for refs.’

He explained that, what with the screened entrance, bulletproof quality glass on the lower levels and the kind of semi-professional security that would gladden the heart of a putative generalissimo, this was the sort of place that the DPG knew they could park their high value targets.

‘Qatari Royal Family amongst them,’ said Seawoll.

And then not have to worry about them until they ventured forth to shop at Harvey Nicks or go to the opera or impoverish a small nation – or whatever else it was the very, very rich did when they had time on their hands.