‘You know that break-in I had here?’ I say. The change of topic catches her by surprise.

‘I thought there was no evidence it was a break-in? Weren’t you too pissed to shut the door.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m not like that. Please humour me. Let’s say it was a break-in. Who can do something like that? Who can break in noiselessly and leave without a trace?’

She shrugs. ‘I’m an economics geek, remember? But I suppose you want me to say the security services?’

‘Precisely. And which minister ran the security services until two years ago?’

‘Hmmm. Kendall. He was Home Secretary before he became Chancellor.’

I don’t say anything. A face is forming in the jigsaw puzzle. Wherever I look for clues for why Clare died, Kendall turns up.

Marilyn gives me a harsh look. ‘I see where you’re going with this. You’re mad.’

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Thursday, 3 April – 28 days until Election Day

‘SCHON PARTNERS,’ SAYS A CLIPPED female voice. ‘How can I direct your call?’ Poised, cool: a voice that says immaculate hair and make-up, ineffable boredom, and a daily commute from comfortable Essex suburbia. She is the gatekeeper to a world of power and money, which she sees but can’t enter.

‘Robin Muller, please?’

‘Please hold. I’ll see if he’s available. Who can I say is calling?’

‘Gil. Gil Peck.’

‘And where can I say you are calling from?’

‘Don’t worry about that. He knows me.’

I am projected into the no-man’s land of being placed on hold. ‘Winter’ from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons assaults my ears. I stare at the tiny winking light on the multi-channel phone that the FC has installed for all of us. Serendipitously, the light is blinking in time to the cresting violin. This is the fifth time I’ve heard it in the past two days. Its trills and acrobatics haunt my sleep.

The receptionist comes back. ‘Mr Muller sends his apologies. He has back-to-back meetings. He says he got your earlier message and will ring you when he has a moment.’

‘OK,’ I sigh petulantly. And then, checking myself, add, ‘Thank you so much for your help. Just in case I’m on the line when he calls, can I give you a second number?’ Which I duly recite, though only out of habit rather than any expectation that he will actually ring. Pothead Muller is blanking me.