Jeremy Beaumont-Jones had been lucky enough to be born rich. He wasn’t in the mad oligarch class but once you’re past a certain point, the sheer weight of your money sucks in wealth like a financial singularity. If you’re sensible enough not to blow it on race horses, cocaine or musical theatre, then it becomes a perpetual-motion money making machine.

He’d also been to Oxford, although he wasn’t on any of the Little Crocodile lists.

‘Where is he now?’

‘The Bahamas,’ said Guleed. ‘Business convention.’

‘Do you think he’s on his way back?’ I asked. Having the daddy arrive with a legal posse would put a crimp in the investigation. Since Lady Ty had all but shut us down, I really didn’t think we wanted another pile of influence landing on our heads.

‘He’s at least five hours away,’ said Guleed. Although apparently there was a private jet.

I eyed the, it had to be said, fairly nondescript late Victorian terrace – even in this area it couldn’t have been worth more than three million, four million pounds tops.

‘This is a bit pokey for someone with big money,’ I said.

‘It’s one of five,’ said Guleed. ‘Oh look, there goes the maid.’

A thin, washed-out white woman with sandy hair opened the front gate and headed up the road towards Swiss Cottage. Probably Polish or Romanian. Mum said the rich private clients always preferred to use white cleaners rather than Africans. Actually they’d prefer Filipinos or Vietnamese or, well, anyone really rather than Africans. Mum said she preferred offices anyway, because you didn’t have to deal with some posh woman standing over you and telling you your business.

And the way she said it was a lot ruder in Krio – trust me.

Guleed hadn’t spotted anyone else going in or out, and if it turned out Phoebe was currently residing at one of the other four properties – Lombardy, Ireland, the Cotswolds or Santa Barbara – then there was no point us sitting outside like muppets.

We were just gearing ourselves up to leave the car when Crew Cut from Harrods arrived.

I recognised him immediately and so did Guleed, who was calling for back-up before I’d finished swearing.

Crew Cut had come with friends, three other white guys with the same army-surplus muscularity and haircuts. They all wore off the peg black suits cut baggy for comfort, and all the better to cover any concealed weapons.

En masse they couldn’t have stood out as Americans more if they’d painted their faces red, white and blue. They went up the steps and paused in front of the door; two kept watch while a third bent over to do something to the lock. I couldn’t see what, but I doubted it was anything legal. Whatever it was, it was quick. The door opened and the whole group slipped inside with a practised lack of fuss.