I am a creative genius. Yes, I spoke to Kim weeks ago, and she told me I was wasting my time. Yes, Jess has Elliott’s files. Beyond that, it’s grade A nonsense. I make a mental note to create those copies if I am ever out of this hell-bound limousine.

‘You might want to consider whether writing my obituary is worth all the bother it will cause you.’

For a moment, all I can hear is the hiss of the air conditioning. Breitner is staring hard at me. I read no meaning in his eyes. Has he bought my bluff? Or am I still a fly to be swatted, an untrainable dog to be shot.

He breathes out. ‘Mr Peck, I am sorry we got off on the wrong foot. As I have told you before, I admire your journalistic persistence and insights.’ He sounds as if he’s reading a statement his lawyers advised him to make. ‘But I must advise you, for the sake of your own reputation, that if you were ever to print, or even hint, at any of what you have just suggested, we would sue you through the British courts for every penny attached to your name. And then we would sue you for every penny you might earn for the rest of your life.’

He presses a button and the glass dividing screen comes down. ‘Stephen, there’s been a change of plan. We’ll drop Mr Peck here.’

I feel relief, mixed with disappointment. I wanted to see him in pain. He won’t give me that satisfaction. Breitner’s gaze flicks back to me, as if surprised to see me still there.

‘I think, Mr Peck, you may exaggerate your importance.’

Before I can work out what that means, or where we are, the car pulls over. Ali opens the door. ‘Mr Breitner would like you to leave the car now, sir.’ I step out, wincing at having weight on my ankle again. Disconcertingly, Streatham follows. Why? The door closes behind me, and Breitner is driven away. I’m in the middle of an empty street with Streatham. And Ali.

We’re outside a pub, the Old City Arms. In front of us is the monstrous entrance to a bridge, two great green blocks on either side of the road, ornamented with scrollwork and acanthus leaves like a pair of Victorian mausoleums. They’re the anchors of a suspension bridge: a chain of iron slats swoops up from them towards a pair of turrets. To the sides, I can see the black gleam of the river flowing fast underneath. This is not my part of town, but I am pretty sure we’re on the north side of Hammersmith Bridge.

‘We’re going for a walk, sonny,’ says Streatham.