‘I can get it for you.’

‘That would help.’ Neither of us says it out loud, but we both know what he means. Even if the toy boy refuses to speak to the Globe, it’s a fair bet he won’t have changed the factory-set PIN for accessing his voicemail. Wilkinson, or one of his colleagues, will be able to dial in and listen to all the messages. The first the toy boy will know is when he gets a call from a Globe reporter, probably female, inevitably speaking in a flat, matter-of-fact way, warning him that his darkest secrets are about to be all over pages 1, 7, 8 and 9 of the Globe – though he can soften the blow by agreeing to an interview. An offer that can’t be refused.

It is a hideous invasion of an innocent person’s privacy, but right now I have bigger fish – and a dead sister – to honour. Wilkinson leans back in his chair.

‘Your turn,’ I say.

‘Have you heard of the McTavish memorandum?’ Bruce McTavish is deputy chairman of the Conservative Party. But this is the first I’ve heard of a so-called McTavish memo. I shake my head.

‘That political genius, Peter Ramsey, asked Bruce to compile a dossier on all ministers and Tory MPs who have something in their private lives they would rather not read about in the Globe during a general election.’

Did I hear him right? ‘The PM commissioned a document listing every potential scandal that might befall the Tory Party? Is that what you just said?’

Wilkinson gives a sarcastic smile. ‘I know. It’s extraordinary. But Ramsey’s been so damaged these last few years by all the revelations about his misbehaving colleagues that he wanted forewarning just in case anyone’s caught with their trousers down during the election campaign.’

My brain is going into overdrive with excitement, in much the way I imagine that a prospector would have become feverish at hearing of the Klondike. An official guide to all the venal sins and misdemeanours of Tory MPs? That would be my every Christmas captured in one handy booklet.

‘Two questions. First, why in God’s name would Ramsey not see that he was inviting disaster? And second, please tell me you have a copy.’ Actually, I am praying he doesn’t, because I want it as my scoop.

‘You know why: he’s a world-class tosspot. And no I don’t. Tragically. There are only twenty copies in existence, all numbered. The reason I know about it is one copy has gone astray and Smith Square is panicking.’

Smith Square, an elegant Georgian quadrangle near the Palace of Westminster, is where the Conservative Party has its central office.

‘Bloody hell!’