The Restaurant Noir was set back from the street. In the window, thick red curtains hung on rings from a polished brass rail. Menus were displayed outside beneath elaborate imitation gas lamps. Expensive fare. You did not eat here unless you had a fat wallet. And HMG had plenty of taxpayers’ money at their disposal. It was in a good cause, after all. Wasn’t it? What price the goodwill of the press? A commissionaire in maroon uniform and gold-braided cap held the door open for Bannerman and he stepped inside.

The muted sound of voices, of knives and forks on plates, of bottles kissing the rims of glasses, drifted softly from a dining room set behind stained-glass screens of medieval knights and gracious ladies. Less muted voices came from an adjoining bar.

A face hovered darkly behind a cloakroom counter away to his left and a flunky in a black suit and white starched collar approached on tiptoe. He smiled with the ease of a professional smiler.

‘Monsieur?’ Bannerman held out the battered invitation card which the flunky took between thumb and forefinger as though it might somehow be contaminated. ‘Ah, bien. May I take your coat?’

The newspapermen were in the bar with the Minister, a junior member of the Foreign Office staff and a government press officer. There was a distinct lull in the conversation as Bannerman came in. Without exception every face turned in his direction. But it was a moment that passed quickly, and afterwards everyone pretended not to have noticed him. All except for the press officer who pushed forward to shake his hand in greeting. ‘Neil Bannerman, isn’t it?’ His well-practised smile widened and his dimples threatened to swallow the rest of his face.

‘I’ll have a whisky,’ Bannerman said.

‘Of course.’ The PR man scuttled off to the bar.

A few of the faces in here were familiar to Bannerman. Others were not.

‘Here you are.’ The press officer handed him his whisky. ‘My name’s Holt, Harold Holt.’ He was young, with thinning mouse-brown hair. No more than twenty-five, Bannerman thought. He oozed confidence and the ersatz camaraderie that was the hallmark of his profession.

‘Well, Harold, how would you like to tell the Minister I’d like a word with him?’

Holt’s face darkened, though his smile never wavered. ‘I don’t think the Minister will want to discuss . . .’

‘Just a chat, that’s all. Off the record, of course.’

He watched the reluctant Holt approach the Minister, touch him lightly on the shoulder and utter a few words close to his ear. The Minister half-turned and smiled in Bannerman’s direction, raising one finger to indicate that an audience would be granted in just a few moments. Holt scurried off to the bar to fetch more drinks. Bannerman took a mouthful of whisky, swilling it slowly before swallowing.