There’s a pause while he takes that in. Then he snorts and starts roaring with laughter, so loud it almost bursts my eardrum.

‘Bob?’

‘I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me.’ He’s struggling to keep a straight face at the other end of the phone. ‘I know this must be painful for you. But it’s priceless.’

‘Enlighten me.’

Another burst of laughter, that he finally chokes off. ‘Do you really not know?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Your naïveté is endearing, dear boy. The journalist who knows everything.’ More chuckles. ‘To coin a phrase, let’s go back to basics. Kendall is married because he always wanted to be a Conservative MP – and local Conservative associations who choose the candidates tend to prefer married gentlemen. But our Mr Kendall swings both ways. And his preference, if he has to choose, is to take it up the chuff.’

I grimace at his language. ‘Sorry?’

‘How graphic do I need to be? Kendall’s a shirt lifter. A woofter. He likes pretty young men. Always has.’

‘You’re saying . . .’ I feel moronic. I think back to the snaps Wilkinson showed me. I was so convinced I was looking for Kendall’s girlfriend, I didn’t look closely enough at the young man coming out of the flat.

I need to back up. ‘Does Lady Mandy know about the Chancellor’s extra-curricular activities?’

‘Of course. That’s how the other half live. Separate bedrooms. She’ll be fucking the tennis coach, or her Italian teacher, or probably both at the same time. We live in an age where Confessions of a Window Cleaner is a political documentary.’

I feel a powerful sense of relief. Ringer has proved I wasn’t completely wrong in what I thought I knew about Clare: she really wouldn’t fuck a fat Tory. ‘I take it this boyfriend works in the Treasury?’

‘Spot on. Ramsey’s having kittens about it. He thinks if it gets out that his chancellor is buggering a male employee it’ll cause so much noise no voter will hear a word he says.’

I wince again at his crudeness. ‘Thanks Bob. Anything else you know about the affair?’

‘Apparently the young man is a bit sensitive. Thinks he’s in love, can you believe it? With chunky Kendall. You couldn’t make it up.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘Aaaah. Well, that’s for you to find out. Sorry, old bean.’

I can’t work out whether he’s pretending to know, or does know and wishes to withhold. Ringer never likes to hand over quite everything. No matter, an idea is forming. Young man, highly strung, works at the Treasury. And then I am back at Clare’s funeral, in the colonnade, Kendall recoiling from an official, as if he was radioactive.

‘Thanks again, Bob. You’ve been a great help.’

*