‘That’s just what Clare asked. Kendall wouldn’t say, but he was obviously nervous, anxious. He begged us to swear that if any reporter contacted us, we would just say we went to his home to deliver policy papers.’

‘Did Clare agree to that?’

He nods. ‘Her priority was to protect me. If Kendall wasn’t bothering me, she saw no reason to blow things up.’

My mind is racing with possibilities. Who was trying to put the squeeze on the Chancellor?

Time to try a different angle. ‘When we met in the park, you said Robin Muller from Schon Partners had been to see the Chancellor. Was that meeting before or after Kendall told you about the paps outside his home?’

‘Oh gosh.’ He rubs his glasses. ‘Before. I think about three days before. Definitely before. Why does that matter?’

‘I think Robin Muller was there representing Media Corp, which owns the Globe – and, as you know, my paper too. Media Corp would have been in serious trouble if the Chancellor had pressed ahead with Clare’s plan to impose the tax on pension funds. My hunch is that Clare was aware of that.’

My pizza arrives. It looks delicious, but I ignore it. ‘Did she ever mention Media Corp to you?’

‘No. But I knew she was refusing to just let the pensions thing die. I told you she kept vanishing to meetings outside the office that weren’t in the diary. I wonder if she was trying to find out who had got to Kendall? She must have been doing something she thought was important because when she returned she was usually on an up.’

‘Any idea where she was going, who she was meeting?’

‘She never said. Though she used an odd turn of phrase after one of her disappearances.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I asked her where she’d been and she said she’d been put through the wringer and laughed, as if it was some kind of joke.’

The wringer? The Ringer! It’s not possible.

Jeremy gawps at me. ‘Are you all right? You’re looking a bit flushed.’

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

‘DEAR BOY, HAVE THEY LET you out of the funny farm?’

How does he know? I’m outside the pizzeria, freezing my nuts off, wondering what savage stacked these concrete blocks here to create this hideous shopping centre, and marvelling at Bob Ringer’s omniscience.

‘Who told you?’

‘I think you know.’

I’m not going to play his tedious game. ‘It’s about Jimmy Breitner that I’m ringing you, actually.’

He bursts into laughter. ‘I’ve remembered why I like you. How can I help?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me that my sister had been in touch with you?’

He takes a moment. Has a trace of conscience survived all those years of scheming for whoever pays him best.