‘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.

There’s a lot of election chatter. Most have already voted and there is a buzz of change in the air. This is prosperous, university-educated North London, a land of broadcasters, advertising executives and celebrity academics. Which means they hate the Tories and are what would once have been called class traitors. I am picking up a lot of ‘We’re really going to get them out this time’; ‘I’m not sure I completely trust Todd, he is a bit too slick, don’t you think?’; ‘But he’s so much better than Ramsey and the Tories’; ‘Absolutely!’

The end-of-the-day bell rings and suddenly there’s a cacophony of shouting kids swarming towards the exit. I scan for Sam and Luke, but Luke spies me first and – nice surprise – runs towards me and gives me a hug. ‘Uncle Gil, Uncle Gil,’ he shouts, beaming and bouncing around like a puppy on two legs. Sam, as the elder brother, is more restrained. ‘Hello, Uncle Gil,’ he says formally, though he smiles too.

‘Uncle Gil, Uncle Gil, can we go to Imran’s?’ asks Luke, as the lollipop man ushers us across the pedestrian crossing.

‘What’s Imran’s?’

‘That shop over there. Can we buy sweets?’

‘Does Daddy let you buy sweets?’