‘Only last night?’ He’s lighting another cigarette already and the smoke is making me nauseous, the revulsion of the recently reformed. ‘So we understand each other, if I find you are holding out on me, you are dog meat. Understand?’

His swagger is what I need to displace the shock of the photo. I grit my teeth. ‘Kevin, we have a deal. And if you knew anything about me, you would know I don’t break contracts. If I find anything printable, I’ll let you know. Now go fuck yourself.’

My aggression reassures him. He grins. It’s funny how I can tell such a big lie with conviction. Not in a million years am I going to allow my sister’s photo on the front page of the Globe, in what would presumably be a mocked-up embrace with the Chancellor of the Exchequer. My mission is to prevent the Globe from publishing.

Now I feel trapped in this glass box, Wilkinson’s second-hand Marlboro smoke is poisoning me and I’m desperate to wash my hands after touching the floor. Got to get out of here, got to get out of here, got to get out of here. The silent chant, the reassuring troika, I calm a little.

‘I’ll keep you posted,’ I tell Wilkinson.

‘And the number,’ he reminds me. ‘Jackie Elstree’s toy boy.’

‘You’ll get it.’

‘I’ll show you out then, squire.’

Before leaving, I head for the men’s room. As I diligently wash my hands, every digit, under the nails, I stare at myself in the mirror. I am startled by how stretched and pale the skin seems, by how deep my eye sockets seem to have sunk. Is that really me?

I escape from the building in the grip of panic. It’s not far to the river and that’s where I want to be. Looking out across the brown water. I can see a couple of mudlarkers on the opposite bank with their metal detectors, scavenging for the detritus of our past. Over the centuries, everything from clay pipes to corpses has been tipped into this river. I feel envious of their carefree investigations. For a moment I imagine an escape to a different life where no one knows me and I can calmly potter in the mud.

Then I come back to myself. What did I just see?

A photograph of Clare leaving the Chancellor’s chi-chi house, alone, at 3 a.m. Is there an innocent explanation? I struggle to think of one. Even if they needed to work on a big policy announcement or speech in the early hours, it would have been at the Treasury.