‘Yes. I know. So sorry not to make myself available. Busy time. We will catch up, I promise.’ I don’t believe him. He gestures with his head towards the doorway he’s just exited. ‘First time with Jimmy?’

‘Yuh. He summoned me. But –’

‘Word to the wise. He’ll play a game, always does with people he hasn’t met before. Take it in your stride.’

‘Right.’ Muller hasn’t changed. Charming. Clever. Selfish. And I’m not going to let him go now that I have him. I’ve left the waiting room and am blocking his path to the stairs. He is beginning to feel uncomfortable. ‘We need to speak, Robin. Seriously.’

His eyes dart over my shoulder, calculating how far I will go to obstruct his departure. Perhaps he remembers the time in the Chicheley junior common room when I very loudly and publicly called him a ‘Tory cunt’ after an argument about Thatcher’s privatisations. Discretely, he removes a business card from a silver holder and scribbles on the back.

‘This is my private mobile number. Call me.’ No trace of a smile now, as I pocket his card. ‘Toodle pip,’ he mouths. Just in time. As the card slips into my pocket, the inner door opens and a great hulking bear of a man strides out. Instantly, the atmosphere changes. It is as if someone’s thrown a switch and four million volts of electricity are fizzing.

Jimmy Breitner is a presence. Only about five foot ten, but seemingly as wide as he is tall. Although fat, he carries a good deal of muscle with it, like a retired boxing champ. He wears black trousers, a crisp white shirt, tight around the biceps, and – disconcertingly – leather mule slippers.

He’s showing someone out, who was presumably in the meeting with Muller. I hear a jocular voice I know only too well. It’s Mephistopheles Ringer. Of course he’s here. Again, I puzzle over which side Ringer is on, what’s motivating him. After all, it was he who nudged me into thinking that it was Breitner putting the squeeze on Kendall to drop the pensions tax.

No time to solve the mystery. Hands so vast that they seem more suited to the building site than the boardroom engulf my right one and shake it so hard that I fear my arm will be wrenched from its socket. ‘Gilbert Peck,’ says Breitner, booming, as if I am a long-lost friend. It’s one of those voices so deep it could make glassware tremble. ‘How the hell are you? Thank you for coming. I gather you know Sir Bob.’ He lingers on the title, teasing Ringer with it.