‘Señor Mendoza? Charlotte Fairfax,’ she said, holding out her hand.

‘Mateo, please.’ The man’s grip was strong, his black-eyed gaze direct. ‘Shall we sit?’ he asked in faultless English. He pointed to the club chairs – bleached wicker with ivory cushions, a giant coral on the table between them. They settled themselves comfortably in the shade and looked out across the undulating greens. Beyond the veranda could be heard the distant sounds of tennis balls being volleyed, electric golf carts zipping between trees that were casting stubby shadows on the perfect ground. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with me here.’

Charlotte indicated the pastoral scene. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’ She looked back, taking in his attire: white breeches, tan boots, a pale-blue shirt with a white saltire cross. ‘You keep horses at the club?’

‘My polo ponies, yes. We have a full season coming up.’ He had thrown one stocky leg over the opposite knee, fingers loosely interlaced as he took her in, and she knew he was assessing her as the person upon whom his fate seemed to rest. ‘Do you like horses?’

‘I do,’ she replied, examining him back. His hair was salt and peppered, with thick sideburns and equally impressive eyebrows, his face dominated by a bulbous nose. He was not a handsome man but there was something compelling about him: an intensity, an innate sense of confidence. Charlotte knew he was approaching his sixty-sixth birthday and was seven years into a second marriage with a former Miss Spain that had produced a longed-for son; his first wife had given him ‘only’ three daughters.

‘Do you ride?’ he enquired.

‘I did as a child. Not so much these days. I travel a lot and my work keeps me too busy for hobbies.’

‘Nonsense. What is life without hobbies? Just drudge surely?’

Drudge. Yes, that was the word. She smiled. ‘I get by okay. A yoga mat is a lot more transportable than a horse.’

He chuckled. ‘Come as my guest this weekend, I insist. We have a match against our fiercest rivals, Real Sociedad. That will revive your love of these magnificent beasts, I guarantee it.’

‘Thank you but much will depend on whether I’m still here and what happens in the next few days.’ There didn’t seem to be any point in mentioning the small issue of dinner for a hundred at the Savoy with her as the guest of honour.

The waiter came over and Mateo gestured for her to order.

‘Sparkling water, please,’ she murmured.

‘And for me, Miguel, but add my usual.’ He patted his midriff lightly, looking back at her. ‘Chilli flakes, good for the metabolism.’

They waited for the waiter to leave before picking up the thread of the conversation they were both here for. ‘Yes, as you were saying . . . shall you still be here by the weekend? Will the nightmare be ongoing? It is the question we all want the answer to, is it not?’ He looked over at her with a hooked eyebrow. ‘You have seen the report I commissioned?’