Hattie parked the van round the back of the castle: the servants’ entrance. I got out and walked round to the front. I looked up at Cherwell Castle. It was lucky that Lord Wycombe ran a hedge fund. That kind of income would help pay the heating bills of a forty-room pad like this.

Hattie was going to undertake a full check of the fenced perimeter while Geraint and Pixie tried to hack into Cherwell Castle’s outdoor security feeds. Lord Wycombe had several old masters and his insurance company had insisted upon stringent security measures. The party tonight had also led to the hiring of extra security guards at the entrance. No vehicle was allowed in without its occupants being on a pre-approved list with photo ID confirmation. Wycombe’s castle was clearly pretty well fortified. Just not enough to keep a Coyote out.

Geraint and Pixie were running background searches on the hundred and fifty names on the list and inputting their photos into our system. The Coyote could have commandeered any one of the guests’ identity and be getting ready to walk across the drawbridge this evening in black tie. Geraint had also hacked the catering company’s records to get the full list of staff assigned to the event in case the Coyote was going to make a more subtle approach through the service entrance.

*

I was escorted into the castle’s drawing room. I had never been in a room with so much tweed. The Chinese had embraced the British shooting dress code with a passion. All of the delegation were suitably tweedily attired, while Minister Peng cut a particularly elegant figure in her tweed suit that was nipped in at the waist. I felt a little underdressed in black jeans, Hunter boots and Will’s old Barbour. Peng caught my eye and gave me a nod.

I scanned the room. There were no more than around forty people in attendance. This was the inner circle. The Foreign Secretary was here as well as a few MPs I recognised. All Conservative. All balding. Numerous uniformed staff flitted around proffering red wine. A couple of the men already looked quite flushed. Nothing like filling them up with alcohol and letting them loose with a shotgun.

I watched Frederick deep in conversation with Lord Wycombe and his wife. She was a round-faced blonde in a polo neck and tweed skirt. This was clearly Frederick’s set. He looked at ease here in his plus fours, hand daintily clasping a bone china teacup.

He spotted me. ‘Lex, come over here and meet Charles.’

I walked over to them, hand out, and received a vigorous shake from Lord Wycombe and a limp one from his wife.

‘Hi there.’

‘So you work with this reprobate, do you?’ Lord Wycombe had thinning hair and a protruding stomach. Looking between him and Frederick it was hard to believe they’d been in the same year at school.

‘I do indeed.’