I slow my pace and jog away from the river towards a bench near a child’s play area. Two boys of maybe six and eight are swinging from the jungle gym. A couple of glossy-haired girls far too young to be their mothers sit on another bench, gossiping over their lattes. Snatches of French drift towards me on the summer breeze.

As I stretch out my calves against the bench I see the older boy shove the younger one from the jungle gym. The kid falls six feet onto the rubberised matting, landing heavily on his left shoulder and letting out a yelp of pain. The French nannies don’t even look up.

‘You’re not at work, are you?’ Stacey asks me.

‘Out for a run,’ I say, still slightly breathless. ‘What’s up?’

‘If my lawyer finds out I’m talking to you—’

‘Wait,’ I say, instantly alert. ‘This sounds like a conversation we shouldn’t have on the phone. Are you at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be there in fifteen.’

The older boy is sitting on a swing now, playing with an ice-blue robotic dragon that seems to be breathing smoke. The smaller kid is on the ground beneath the jungle gym with his arms wrapped around his knees, sobbing.

I jog back towards the river. As I pass the obnoxious bully, I snatch the dragon out of his hands and toss it into the Thames, winking at the little kid without even breaking my stride.

I’m surprised when Felix answers the front door.

‘I told her not to call you,’ he says sourly, but stands aside to permit me entry.

Despite all the glass, it’s cool inside the house. The whisper-quiet central air-conditioning keeps it a temperate twenty degrees.

I follow Felix upstairs to the kitchen where Stacey is sitting at the island, still dressed for the television studio in a pink capped-sleeve dress. The heavy camera make-up ages her, and fails to conceal the dark shadows beneath her eyes.

Or the bruises on her arms.

Felix leans against the fridge, his arms folded. He looks as defeated and exhausted as his wife.

‘Who wants to tell me what’s going on?’ I say.

Stacey glances at her husband, and then quickly looks away.

‘My company’s about to go bust,’ Felix says baldly.

He works for a private investment firm called Copper Beech Financial: I’ve seen it mentioned in the financial pages more than once.

‘Does that mean you’ll be out of a job?’ I ask.

‘I’m a director,’ he says. ‘If the company goes down, I go down with it.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say. ‘But I’m not sure why you’re telling me.’