Fleet didn’t watch TV, and he didn’t socialise, and he’d stopped being interested in politics since he’d split up with Holly. But even he knew that Callum Richardson was all three of the things Randy had mentioned, and plenty more besides. The son of a world-famous philanthropist, he’d first come to public prominence in his twenties, when his drink- and drug-fuelled exploits had ensured he was never far from the spotlight, and more often than not on a tabloid’s front page. For a time he’d been everybody’s favourite scoundrel, insulated from the newspapers’ scorn by the sheer reportability of his bad behaviour, and – more importantly – his good looks. Then, in his thirties, and after his father’s death, he’d reinvented himself, exploiting his considerable media presence to decry his former misdeeds and lay bare the hypocrisies and immorality of the high-flying world he’d grown up in. He’d even renounced his inheritance, dismissing his father’s philanthropy as just another form of politics – but worse, because rather than being democratic, it was a flagrant attempt to buy influence in the world. Somehow, in spite of his privileged upbringing, Richardson had managed to establish himself as a voice of the people, and he used that voice to tear into the rich and powerful. He was now the anchor of the highest-rated breakfast show on television, with a personal social-media following of several million, and was rumoured to be on the verge of launching his own ‘non-political’ political party.

‘Wait,’ said Randy, as another thought evidently occurred to him, ‘are you saying Callum Richardson was one of the kids who were playing with Ben when he went missing? Hide-and-seek, right? They were having a game of hide-and-seek, and Ben Draper was never found. So Callum Richardson was one of the children looking for him?’