He raises his eyebrows, but Kevin Wilkinson is also an addict. He is the Political Editor of the Globe, the best-selling British tabloid, notorious for its bare-breasted ‘Page 5 Globes’. The Globe is the antithesis of the FC in its culture and values – but we are blood relatives. Both papers belong to the same worldwide television and newspaper empire, Media Corp. And there’s another thing we have in common: in an election, every party leader wants the endorsement of both papers, because mine speaks directly to business leaders and his to pretty much everyone else.

‘Huddle in half an hour, OK?’

‘Where?’

‘The Globe room.’

And with that, he retreats.

‘I’m going to make a call,’ I tell Jess.

*

Around the back of the Burma Road is a line of telephone booths, dark wood cubbyholes, like the phone booths in posh hotels you see in 1940s British movies. I enter one and take out the blue Nokia.

‘Metropolitan Police,’ says a male voice.

‘Kim Jansen, please.’

Kim is a contemporary of mine from Chicheley College, Oxford who did something eccentric after graduation. When everyone else in our year was applying for the BBC trainee scheme, or taking the exams for the Foreign Office or the Treasury, Kim joined the police. This was, to put it mildly, unusual, although it has turned out useful for me. She’s risen to become Deputy Chief something-or-other, and I hope one day she’ll become Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police. Though the notion of a woman becoming the most powerful police officer in the land is probably fanciful.

‘I’m so sorry about Clare,’ she says.

I’m well-rehearsed in my grunt of acknowledgement. ‘That’s what I’m calling about, actually.’

There’s a slow intake of breath. ‘I’m not on the case, Gil.’

‘But you know about it.’

‘It’s in my section.’

‘I’m not asking you to break confidences. It will all come out at the inquest in any case. It’s just . . . it would give me some reassurance.’

A long pause. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Just . . . whatever you can find out.’

‘I’ll call you back in five minutes.’

Her efficiency has always been legendary. Five minutes later, almost to the second, the Nokia rings.

‘I’ve spoken with the investigating officer,’ she says without preamble. ‘The driver of the van was a Polish builder, Henryk Deyna. Not in this country long, but perfectly legal. Breathalysed, nothing. Ditto drugs. Clare was in his blind spot and that’s the whole story.’

‘Nothing suspicious?’

This time she sighs. ‘It was a traffic accident, Gil. We get about 20,000 of those a year. Most people survive, some don’t. She wasn’t wearing a helmet.’

‘I know. I just thought . . .’

‘This is hard for you, for any brother. If you’re trying to give your tragedy a reason, give up now.’

‘I guess you are right.’