And I was quite happy to wait for back-up at that point – up to and including SCO19, the SAS and/or Nightingale in full tank-destroyer mode – except I got a blast of vestigia from the house. Nothing I could identify beyond a whiff of oily water and a chill across my back.

According to the Human Rights Act (1998) as interpreted in my dog-eared copy of Blackstone’s Police Operational Handbook: Practice and Procedure, I had a ‘duty of positive action’ with regards to protection of the public. This meant I had to at least make a token attempt to make sure Phoebe Beaumont-Jones was not this moment being waterboarded by the Jack Bauer wannabes I’d watched walk in not five minutes previously.

Assuming, of course, that they weren’t in league with our Phoebe and even now sitting down for a nice cup of tea and conspiracy. And assuming that she was inside the house in the first place.

Normally the Metropolitan Police frowns on its officers rushing in without a risk assessment and/or the appropriate specialist unit. Unfortunately in this case I was the appropriate specialist unit, and the firearms officers who were on their way were unequipped to deal with a Falcon scenario. Not least because the first draft of Procedures Relating to Serious Falcon Incidents a.k.a. How to Deal with Weird Bollocks was currently sitting as a half-finished Word document on my hard drive back at the Folly.

I called Nightingale, who said he was fifteen minutes away and asked him to authorise a little look.

‘Yes,’ he said immediately. ‘But carefully, Peter.’

I told Guleed that it was standard procedure for a second officer to stay outside the immediate Zone of Potential Magical Effect (ZPME) in order to facilitate communications should my Airwave and personal phones be compromised. Guleed was rightly suspicious.

‘Is that true?’ she asked.

Just as soon as I get back to the Folly and add it to the Word document, I thought.

‘Just make sure nobody rushes in,’ I said. ‘Especially you.’

‘And when things start to explode?’ she asked, but I didn’t dignify that with an answer.

‘I’m coming at least as far as the door,’ she said.

As we approached the front door I saw that there were strips of thick perspex or glass embedded into the front lawn – skylights for a basement. I pointed them out to Guleed, who frowned.

The very rich, having fundamentally missed the point of urban living, have long been frustrated by the fact that it’s impossible to squeeze the amenities of a country mansion – car showroom, swimming pool, cinema, servants’ quarters etc. – into the floor space of your average London terrace. Those without access to trans-dimensional engineering, a key Time Lord discovery, have had to resort to extending their houses into the ground. Thus proving that all that stands between your average rich person and a career in Bond villainy is access to an extinct volcano.