‘Yup’. I can hear the contained rage in her voice above the hiss of the mobile phone connection.

‘We’ve got to find a way to fuck Elliott.’

‘Thanks for the kind thought, boss.’

‘He won’t get away with it,’ I insist, though not really believing myself. This world seems made for the Alex Elliotts. Their lies and dishonesty, even when found out, only serve to make them stronger. ‘Anything else I need to know?’

Jess ticks off the important facts. ‘Media Corp is being advised by Schon, so I was right about that too. Schon have underwritten the new shares that are being created and are offering a £7.20 per share cash alternative.’

‘So they’re massively on the hook.’ That’s important. If the market doesn’t like the deal, and Media Corp’s shares go down, Schon will lose a ton of money.

It is a remote risk. ‘Investors think it’s a steal,’ she says. ‘Both companies’ share prices have soared.’

‘They’ll make out like bandits.’

‘Like bankers.’

I am now on Charing Cross Road, heading towards Trafalgar Square. I admit to being an erratic driver at the best of times; spatial awareness is not my thing. Nor is my driving improved by the rain on a smeary windscreen and the effort of trying to keep the phone from falling. I stray into the centre of the road and swerve back just before a Jag almost clips my side. The irate driver thumps his horn.

‘Shit, Jess. Can I call you back? When I’m not driving?’

‘Course, boss.’

I park in my grace-and-favour parking place on the Mall, just outside the white Regency elegance of the Institute for Contemporary Arts, three hundred yards from the eyesore that is Buckingham Palace. The car-parking space is an amazing perk of the job, which I barely use, but which insidiously buys my loyalty to the institutions of Parliament and government.

By now, the rain has eased off. I fit the crook lock on the car’s steering wheel, which I know is over the top: there must be more cops within a hundred yards than any other place in the country. And there’s the other relevant point, made by Marilyn, cigarette in mouth: ‘Do you actually think someone is going to steal that pile of junk?’