They are also a bugger to raid, because you need twice as many bodies to secure the premises. Stephanopoulos once told me that it was like watching a clown car in reverse. Once, during a raid in Kensington, she said that after waiting outside for half an hour she went in herself to make sure none of the entry team had got lost or, worse, been distracted by the bowling alley that reputedly occupied the bottommost level.

The front door was ajar – the lock had been drilled.

Not a friendly visit, then.

I put the Airwave in my pocket on open mic. Before I could move, the door was opened from the inside. They’d left someone to guard the perimeter – of course they had.

He was shorter than the driver, blond haired, oval faced with a surprisingly weak chin. He only opened the door half-way and he kept his right hand hidden behind it so I didn’t think trying to nut him was a viable tactical option.

‘Hi,’ he said brightly. ‘Can I help you?’ I’m not that good at American accents but I guessed East Coast.

For a mad moment I was tempted to ask him if he had a personal relationship with Jesus and, if not, would he like one? But I think that was the adrenaline talking. The pistol I suspected he was concealing behind the door was weighing heavily on my mind.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘My name’s Peter Grant. I’m with the police. Is Phoebe Beaumont-Jones available for a chat?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Come on in.’

He opened the door wider and stepped to the side to let me in.

Guleed, who’d slipped to the side and out of sight when the door opened, tapped her fingernail twice on the wall to let me know that she wasn’t happy – but she stayed out of sight.

There was no sign of a pistol in either hand when I stepped inside. I figured he might have stuck it into the back waistband of his trousers, but I couldn’t be sure. And, from an operational standpoint, you generally want to avoid uncertainty about where a firearm is before you do anything stupid.

I asked for his name and he said ‘Teddy’, which made him a bloody liar.

Inside, the house had obviously been gutted, stripped down and rebuilt in the last five years. The narrow stairway typical of a London terrace had been replaced by the spiral staircase with marble risers so beloved of people who don’t have to lug their own furniture up to the floors above. It also extended down into the basement and I caught a whiff of chlorinated water that indicated a pool. I’m not very fond of the combination of underground and water, so of course down we went.