Frankie Crowther is lecturing Patrick Munis, who looks bored. Elliott is at the bar, chatting up the Globe’s glamorous showbiz editor. I catch his eye, to prove to him that I can’t be the tea leaf who pinched his sports bag, as and when he discovers it’s gone walkies. But where’s Kevin? For an anxious moment I think I’ve missed him. Then that familiar throaty laugh assails me. He is in a corner, holding court to awestruck young hacks who seemingly view him as some kind of Solomon of the Lobby.

The waitresses are tidying up, but there are still a few glasses of the mediocre white clustered pathetically on the long table at the side of the room. I scoop one up and meander towards Wilkinson. As I approach, I can hear the laughter of men who have had too much to drink, and who excuse their sexism as ironic.

‘Did you see Miss Whiplash giving dictation to Peck earlier this evening?’ roars Wilkinson, who presumably hasn’t spotted me. ‘Seems to me she’s got him where she wants him.’

A porky young reporter from the Globe, whose name I can’t remember, roars as though he’s never heard anything quite so witty. Public school pillock.

Wilkinson spies me. ‘Speak of the devil. How are you, old fruit? I understand you’ve been a bit tired and emotional.’

I grit my teeth. This is a moment to turn the other cheek. ‘Could I pry you away for a moment or two for a quiet word?’

‘I’m off duty, old son. You look like you’ve been sleeping rough. Not a great look for a representative of Her Majesty’s Lobby.’

‘I’ve been busy. Assumed you’d want to know I’ve made progress on that story we were discussing at your shop.’

I have his attention. The one thing Wilkinson and I have in common is that when there is the possibility of reeling in a front-page scoop, we are never off duty, whatever he claims. He apologises to his disciples and we move out of the hall and into the deserted corridor.

‘I hope you aren’t wasting my time, Peck. What have you found? I’m assuming it’s about the sexual habits of our friend Mr Kendall.’

‘I’ve tracked down his boyfriend.’ I instantly feel a pang of guilt. Am I really offering up Jeremy as bait? I have no choice. I’ll find a way to protect him.

‘Tell me more.’

‘He works in the Treasury. And I think he is ready to tell all. Kendall shafted him, literally and metaphorically. And he wants revenge.’

‘Ah. The noble emotion, the lust for vengeance. What’s he got?’

‘Apparently Kendall likes to wear a giant man-size nappy and to be spanked.’

‘Really? The Chancellor of the Exchequer?’ Wilkinson’s eyes are on stalks.