‘I’ll try to keep a low profile.’

‘Gil!’ roars a familiar voice. So much for that. Frankie Crowther is standing by the double doors that lead into the main function room, clutching a glass of white wine so full it spills on his every syllable. ‘So glad you could come. And you’ve brought Robin the Girl Wonder with you, too. What an honour.’

‘Fuck off and die, Frankie,’ says Jess. Frankie roars with laughter, as if it’s just banter. Jess purses her lips and doesn’t disabuse him. This would not be the moment to nuke him, given that we have a job to do.

‘When do you start your new life?’ I ask. My mouth is on autopilot as I scan the room for Wilkinson.

‘I’ll take a couple of weeks to decompress,’ says Crowther. I assume his rest cure will be a fortnight spent pissed out of his bonce. ‘Then it’s all systems go.’

‘You’ll be missed, Frankie.’

He taps his heart. ‘At last, you reveal your true feelings.’

‘Nothing personal. I just hate it when hacks go to the other side.’

‘Journalism is finished,’ he says, draining his glass and looking for a waitress to refill it. ‘The future is communications. That’s where the power is now. And the money.’

He’s goading me. I choose not to respond. Guests are still coming in and Frankie’s graced us with enough of his time. He turns to greet other latecomers.

‘Let’s split up,’ I say to Jess. ‘I’ll look for Wilkinson, you keep an eye out for anyone else who might be useful.’

‘Useful how?’

‘Anyone who might be able to confirm what Rep told me about Media Corp’s pension fund.’

It’s the money trail that matters. If Breitner was involved in Clare’s death, he’ll have employed enough random intermediaries to keep his hands seemingly spotless. But when pension funds are actuarially valued and takeover prospectuses drafted, there are thousands of pages of published and unpublished supporting documents. And as the financial and legal advisers do their investigations and due diligence, all it needs is just one with a conscience, who sees a deficit where there should be a surplus and whose silence can’t be bought. Just one honest banker. That’s all it takes. To lay Breitner low.

Jess and I start circulating. It’s a large room, and Frankie Crowther seems to have more than two hundred best friends, or at least two hundred thirsty contacts. They’re all here in their Hugo Boss suits and Hermès ties. Robots all. I am slightly – only very slightly – self-conscious that I haven’t shaved for four days. But in my Comme shirt and black Dries jacket, it’s a look. My parfum du jour however is not so hot: eau de Deyna trash can.