Within his business, he has two incarnations. Sleeves rolled up, eating and joshing in the canteen with the hacks that work for his newspapers and television stations. And plotting the next phase of his ambition to own the whole world, shielded from prying eyes in an exquisite, absurdly over-priced Georgian townhouse, hidden in a traffic-free street in St James’s.

Which is where I was instructed to present myself at 10 a.m. It’s now eleven, and I have been here well over an hour, having – against the habits of a lifetime – bowled up fifteen minutes early. With every tick of the elegant grandfather clock in the corner, I become jumpier and more on edge. On the walls are eighteenth-century rustic scenes in gilt frames, originals, I presume. I’ve had more than enough time to study them in minute detail, to interrogate the symbolism of the milkmaids and shepherdesses and fauns, and also to scan every page of the Tatler and Country Life mags that are on the walnut Queen Anne table. It’s meant to feel like the London home of the heir to a historic estate – except that everything is too perfect and coordinated to have been inherited. It all speaks of money, power and secrecy.

My nervous energy would send a Geiger counter into overdrive, the kind of feeling I had years ago before a make-or-break exam. Perhaps this is an exam. I’ve worked for Media Corp for the best part of a decade, but this is my first meeting with Breitner. He’s the most powerful media owner in the UK, perhaps in the world. He controls the destiny of my industry. And arguably me along with it.

The inner door swings open. I’m already rising to my feet, springing up like a jack-in-the-box as a well-tailored man steps out. He’s tall, thin, with ash-blond hair and blue eyes. In his narrow-lapelled suit and horn-rimmed glasses, he’s like something out of a 1940s Carol Reed film noir. Not Breitner, nor a direct employee. He is the elusive Third Man I’ve been chasing.

‘Robin.’

Muller halts and turns. He flashes a smile, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world that I’d be here. It’s a smile my female friends at college told me was irresistible, so it gave me pleasure to reveal that he was more interested in my sex than theirs. Yes, I know, ‘I’m an arsehole’, as Marilyn would say.

‘Peck. It’s been a while. How are you, old bean?’ he says, as if blissfully ignorant of my frantic attempts to contact him. ‘Nice suit, I must say. Inky-fingered hackery has worked out for you.’

‘I get by,’ I reply. ‘I’m not sure if your office told you, but I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’