‘Gil. Forgive me.’ That’s a first. ‘But I tried to tell you the bit that mattered. I told you to think about your own pension?’

I remember that – although at the time I was distracted by the lobster. So he was confiding that the Media Corp pension fund is in trouble. Which is what Clare had worked out. Clever Clare.

‘Can you tell me precisely what you said to Clare?’

‘I thought I just did.’

‘So you gave her the lowdown on Media Corp?’

A pained sigh. ‘Sometimes I despair at your obtuseness. Now listen carefully. Media Corp is an occasional client. It would be a gross breach of confidentiality for me to reveal anything they had not explicitly authorised me to say. So for the avoidance of doubt, at no point did the words Media Corp pass my lips. And I don’t think I said anything to you about Media Corp, either.’

God, I hate this game. Being lectured on confidentiality by Bob Ringer is like getting lessons in marital fidelity from almost any member of the cabinet. I suck it up.

‘Yes, Bob,’ I say wearily, ‘the idea that you would say anything disloyal about a client is absurd. But to be clear, Clare did speak with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘And she asked me about a client, and I told her I was unable to tell her anything.’

I clock his stress on the ‘I’.

‘You’re not someone who likes to be unhelpful, are you, Bob?’

‘You know me so well.’

‘So if you were bound by confidentiality, is it possible you might have directed her to someone less constrained, someone who could talk to her more freely?’

‘As you say, I try to be helpful.’

‘You’ve always done your best for me. And as you know, I very much appreciate that.’

‘Think nothing of it.’

‘This person who would have been able to give Clare the information she needed: is this someone who I can contact?’ I am trying to keep it light, though this feels like life and death.

‘That’s not how it works,’ he says. ‘This is someone you don’t contact. But I will pass on your message and we’ll see what happens.’

An articulated lorry swings past me and round the great Elephant roundabout. Brake lights and tail lights streak the darkness. Turning and turning in the widening gyre. I feel a little dizzy.

‘Thanks, Bob. When can I expect . . .?’

‘Leave it with me.’

*

I’m outside my front door, trying to put the key in the new lock, when Bob rings back.

‘Tomorrow night. Be at the Eldon Street entrance of Broadgate at eleven o’clock.’

In a career not short on strange meetings, these are eccentric instructions. But I am not going to argue. ‘Should I carry a copy of the paper tucked under my left arm?’ I ask, as a joke.