Now I am interested. Clare avoided conflict. Except with me, when we were children and I deliberately tormented her. ‘She blew up with the Chancellor? Really? Why?’

‘You may think this is strange, but it was over some work we had been doing on the tax breaks available to pension funds.’

A furious argument about the tax status of pension funds? Seriously, I would laugh if it weren’t my sister’s funeral.

‘We were just a couple of days away from putting out a white paper on it when the policy was canned.’ Yes, that would be frustrating: a white paper is a government document setting out an intention to legislate. Once published, it means the reform is more or less set in stone. ‘Kendall went into Clare’s office and I could hear them shouting. When he left, she followed him out. She said he was a coward, that she had lost all respect for him. In front of everyone. It was painful.’

‘Wait. Let me get this straight. You think my sister’s death is in some way connected to the tax status of pension funds?’ Jesus. This guy’s losing it.

‘No, you’re right. I’m not thinking straight.’ He bows his head and puts his hands in his pockets. ‘Kendall is a decent man,’ he says, a propos of nothing. ‘It is just that Clare had not been herself. I felt I had to tell someone.’

I put on a reassuring voice. ‘Look, all of us who knew Clare are feeling confused and upset.’ I finding myself trotting out a familiar line. ‘I’ll make some calls, have a dig around.’

He looks grateful, making me feel guilty. His expression suddenly changes.

‘Obviously this is all off the record?’

‘Obviously,’ I sigh. If this were any other setting, I would educate him that when talking to a journalist, invoke the confidentiality clause before the conversation, not after.

His naivete is touching. One day I will share with him Peck’s First Law of Scandal Dynamics: the British way of catastrophe is born of cockup, not conspiracy. Nine times out of ten – ninety-nine times out of a hundred, even – a tragic accident is simply that.

‘Let’s keep in touch,’ I say.

He takes a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose. ‘See you at the wake.’

Before he can suggest we travel together, I say, ‘I’m on my bike.’ I walk fast, without looking back, to the railing where it’s attached. As I reach into my jacket pocket for my cycle clips, I can’t resist checking my phones. Nothing on the blue Nokia, but on the silver phone – select contacts only – there are three missed calls from a familiar number.

I know it is a terrible idea, but I cannot resist. I press the green button to dial the number back.

‘It’s me.’

‘Sorry, I know I shouldn’t have rung you.’ I’m relieved you did.