No, I didn’t know. ‘I thought he and Amanda were the perfect shire couple.’ I read a recent profile in Tatler. Cotswold farmhouse, Range Rover, equestrian daughter. The Tory squire’s idyll.

Ringer gives me a disappointed look. ‘Keith Kendall is a naughty boy who can’t keep his hands to himself.’

‘Oh yes?’

Again, that ‘I know everything’ smirk. ‘Talk to your sister paper. They know.’

‘You’re saying he’s had an affair? Having an affair?’

‘Did I say that?’

‘You think the Globe has the story.’

‘You’d have to ask them.’

‘So why haven’t they run it?’

‘I couldn’t say. But if I were you, I’d also have a look at who’s funding Kendall’s constituency office, who pays his bills. That might be interesting.’

My heart sinks. Pretty much the only way to get to the bottom of where the money comes from in politics is to hire one of the dodgy firms, normally set up by ex-coppers, who bribe bank staff to supply confidential details on customers’ bank accounts. I occasionally use these services, though only in extremis, because doing so is contrary to all the rules of the FC. And it’s a real bugger getting the fee back on expenses.

‘I can’t tell if you’re saying Kendall was bribed, or blackmailed, or both.’

Ringer laughs. ‘This is England, for God’s sake, not Italy. We don’t do bribery and blackmail.’

‘Then . . . what?’

‘In Britain, all our leaders are expected to do their patriotic duty. Occasionally, it has to be pointed out to them what that duty may be.’

At that point, the intoxicating smell of garlic and seafood announces that the waiter has arrived with our main courses. Ringer tucks his napkin into his collar, spreads it carefully over his shirtfront like a child’s bib, and plunges his fork into the linguine. With unexpected delicacy, he slowly winds the linguine around the fork.

‘How old are you, Gil?’ he asks.

An odd question, but I see no reason not to answer. ‘Thirty-five.’

‘Thought much about your own pension?’

‘That’s an odd question.’

‘It’s a relevant question. Go away and consider it.’

By that, I gather it’s the end of this strand of this conversation. What is he trying to tell me? I’m left with the feeling that I’m missing something obvious, like a crossword clue I haven’t cracked. Kendall, his marriage, sources of funding, pension schemes – how do they connect?

Too many puzzles. But he’s made no attempt to put me off the scent that there was something funny about why Kendall dropped Clare’s policy. In fact, he’s deliberately stoked up my suspicions. Everything comes back to Kendall. And even though Ringer won’t say more, I know someone who will.

I twirl the slippery linguine onto my fork, inhale the aroma, and wonder whether anticipation is better than gratification.

Chapter 12

Chapter 12