Hattie was still at Heathrow. Peng and the delegation had gone straight from Christie’s to the airport to wait for their flight. He reported they were currently enjoying fine wine in Suite One of the Windsor Suite and that their plane, due to take off in two hours, had passed all the extensive additional security checks that he’d been able to order using his Security Services ID.

‘Any leads on Frederick?’ Jake leaned round from the driver’s seat to call back to Pixie and Geraint, whose fingers were flying across the keyboards of the computers built in to the back of the van.

‘Nothing,’ said Geraint. ‘He’s on CCTV leaving Christie’s and then appears entering Fortnum and Mason’s. No other sightings. He could’ve changed what he was wearing and merged into one of the crowds of people leaving. I’m looking further into his background, CV, known associates, for any clue as to what he could do next.’

‘I’ve got alerts out for him at all airports, train stations, even ferry crossings,’ added Pixie.

‘Problem,’ said Geraint. ‘He’s got a PPL.’ A private pilot’s licence meant Frederick could head to one of the small private airports; with less security and fewer people, he could hire a plane and be over the Channel pretty much unnoticed.

‘You need to widen the search. If he’s trying to get out to the BVIs to pick up his art shipment, he could use a light aircraft to get to any country in Europe and fly from there. You need to check passenger manifests on every incoming flight.’

We had to find him. I needed him secured. The memory of him seated next to Gigi still made me sick to my stomach.

Kenny, my commando on Gigi and Gillian watch, had confirmed everything was fine at Gillian’s flat – she’d taken Gigi back there for a sleepover as I’d said our heating was on the blink. A lame excuse for a mild October day. Gillian may have questioned it if she didn’t feel the cold so much she’d wear cashmere jumpers even in summer.

By the time we screeched past Leicester Square, Pixie had found a potential sighting of someone matching Frederick’s description at Elstree Aerodrome. We’d been promised the CCTV shots within the hour. As soon as we confirmed it was him we could track where he flew to from his flight plan.

‘I’ve got a ping on Hedge Fund Boy’s Ferrari number plate,’ Geraint shouted to us. ‘It’s now parked in front of Cipriani’s.’