‘Everyone knows Gil’ says Ringer. ‘Or at least, everyone who counts.’ And he directs a hint of a smile at me. Ringer’s Hermès tie is immaculately knotted, his hair flawlessly blow-dried, nothing to suggest he’s not in control – but I see just the faintest shadow of anxiety behind his grey eyes. ‘You’ll deliver that message to our mutual friend,’ Breitner says to Ringer. It’s an order, not a question. ‘If he wants our backing, he can bloody well work for it. We’re not being taken for granted.’

‘Righty ho, Jimmy.’ Bob Ringer nods his head, pays obeisance to the baron. He’s dismissed. I turn to nod goodbye to him and when he’s out of Breitner’s line of sight he winks at me.

I follow Breitner through the inner door. If the waiting room was Jane Austen Georgian, his office is Versailles. Huge, ornately-framed mirrors and oil paintings cover the walls, while the furniture is fussily carved and gilded. It is overwhelming. There is nothing subtle about the message Breitner wishes to convey: the Sun King had nothing on him.

‘Sit down, Mr Peck.’ He waves me to a Louis Quatorze sofa and I sit on it, straight-backed and terrified to move. The paintings in my eyeline are all nudes: big-breasted women, small-breasted women, women crouching in their baths or reclining invitingly on chaises longues. They look nineteenth-century French – Gérôme, Ingres, Degas, Manet. Presumably they are real.

Breitner enjoys my discomfort. He’ll play a game with you. ‘You like my collection?’ he asks. ‘I like to surround myself with beautiful women.’

‘What’s that?’ I ask pointing to a modern painting of a heavyset Rottweiler with lachrymose eyes, pride of place behind Breitner’s desk.

His amused expression doesn’t change. ‘Nelson was my best friend.’ This monster of a man is sentimental. ‘I miss him. Do you like dogs, Mr Peck?’

‘I have a cat.’

That was definitely the wrong answer. ‘A cat!’ The contemptuous way he says it carries an unmistakeable if unspoken subtext. Cats are for grannies. Are you a granny, Mr Peck? ‘I judge a man by how he relates to a hound. And vice versa.’

‘We had a dog when we were growing up,’ I say, and then feel this sounds lame. It’s not going well.

There’s a knock at the door. Breitner says, ‘That will be our mutual friend, Mr Streatham. Jock, my lad, come in.’

And then to me, ‘I thought it would be helpful for Jock to join us. He’s always accusing me of getting carried away, when he’s not around.’ He gives me a big wink, which has its desired menacing impact.

‘So we’re on the record,’ I say, chancing my arm, and then I instantly regret it. The rule is everything is on the record till you’re told otherwise. I am being an arsehole today.