I’ve never understood why he decided to cultivate me, or why he tells me so much of what is supposed to be in his vault. Maybe he’s just showing off. That said, the risks of spilling the beans to me are not as great as you may think. A lot of what he gives me is of no interest to the FC, compelling though it may be, and much of the rest is unprintable. Ringer can offer up whatever salacious revelations he likes, because he knows there is only the remotest prospect of me finding a corroborating second source. I have tried, repeatedly, to persuade Ringer to give me documented evidence of what he says, but he normally fobs me off with flattery. ‘Over to you. You’re the brilliant journalist.’

So why do we have these lunches? I suppose they stem from my vanity, my need to know about the misdeeds of those who run this place, even when I can’t report them. And there are usually a few crumbs of information that lay a trail to a printable story.

Ringer plonks himself back down and lights another Silk Cut. He’ll have another packet with him, just in case. He beckons the waiter to refill the champagne. ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ he growls. ‘The socialists will be back in a few weeks, won’t they?’

I’m not sure whether it’s a rhetorical question, but I answer anyway. ‘It is not 100 per cent, but likely. By the way, Todd isn’t really a socialist you know.’

He snorts. ‘If he isn’t, he’s certainly surrounded by them. But I shouldn’t complain. He’s no worse than Ramsey.’

The uselessness of Sir Peter Ramsey, the beleaguered Prime Minster, is a recurring theme of these lunches. ‘How did my party ever choose such a wanker? Poor Margaret is beside herself.’

‘He’s all right. It’s just the party is ungovernable.’ I am deliberately winding him up.

‘You would say that. You’re another bloody socialist. Everything Margaret did is being dismantled. Taxes up. Brussels in charge. It’s appalling.’

‘But Kendall . . .’ I say, knowing full well the reaction that will get.

‘Worse still! So wet you could mop him off the floor.’

This is where I wanted to steer the conversation. ‘You know my sister worked with him at the Treasury?’

‘Poor girl.’

‘She hatched a plan to raise several billion a year from pension funds, by abolishing the tax credit.’

‘Never heard of it.’ Did he say that a shade too quickly?

‘It was never public. And just before they were going to announce, Kendall killed it.’

He peers at me over the top of his rectangular spectacles.

‘What’s your interest? If it’s not happening, why does it matter?’

Not that again!