‘Well, I made sure the Globe would cushion my fall, if it comes to that.’ He sounded almost happy. ‘They’ve given me quite a decent safety net.’

‘How much?’

‘Fifty thousand.’

‘Jesus.’

There was a pause. Then he said, ‘Do you think she would have approved of what I did? Clare, I mean?’

He has touched a nerve. Recent events have shown me how much she changed during our estrangement, so I may be the worst person to ask. But I am certain of one thing. ‘I’m not sure she would have approved of your choice of publication, but she always stood up to bullies. And Kendall is a bully.’

This seemed to reassure Jeremy. And I assume he was gratified when, the following morning, Downing Street issued an exchange of terse letters between the Prime Minister and Chancellor, in which the Chancellor’s resignation offer was accepted. The absence of the normal pleasantries from the Prime Minister – the habitual and clichéd thanks for service to queen and country – was conspicuous.

‘Why do you think Breitner decided to destroy Kendall?’ I asked Jess when I returned to fill her in. ‘Obviously he sanctioned the payment to Jeremy. No one else would have had the authority to pay fifty grand.’

‘He’s clearing the decks,’ she replied. ‘As we know better than anyone, his empire is close to collapse. Anything could tip it over the edge.’ She explained that if I had found a way to publicise my knowledge that he’d been blackmailing Kendall, that might have been the last straw for his bankers and been curtains for his business. ‘By bringing down Kendall in the pages of the Globe, any suggestion of blackmail would seem ridiculous. Breitner strung up Kendall to save himself.’

I poured myself another glass of Sancerre. ‘It won’t be enough to save him.’

At that moment, the Nokia rang again. It was Marilyn. I went back to the foyer. ‘This is un-fucking-believable.’

‘You’ve seen the news, then?’

‘Your fingerprints are on this, aren’t they?’

‘Are you suggesting I derive any satisfaction from the fall of Keith Kendall?’

‘They’re finished, those lying, cheating Tories. We’re going to do it. Even Johnny might relax now. Maybe.’ She was so excited, her sentences fired out in staccato fragments. ‘We’re going to thump them, bury them. It’s a new start for Britain.’

*

The traffic lights turn green and the bus lumbers on. Unusually, I’ve allowed plenty of time and I arrive at the school five minutes early. Maybe the shame of keeping my dead sister’s children hanging around by the school gates on their own was too much even for me. There’s a mob of mostly women gathered by the wrought-iron railings, surrounded by a mess of prams, toddlers and dogs on leads. They all seem to know each other. I am the stranger from another planet.