‘That was Clare.’ I’m back at a family dinner – spaghetti Bolognese and iceberg salad, my mum’s speciality – with Dad lecturing me on how I will never do as well as my sister if I don’t apply myself; how my study habits are a disgrace and how it’s impossible to know whether my homework is an ‘A’ or a fail, because nobody could possibly read my scrawl. Clare interrupts that he shouldn’t expect everyone to do things the way he used to, that everyone’s different, that he should back off and give me a chance.

Jeremy breaks in. ‘What was it you wanted? Have you found out anything?’

‘Nothing solid.’ Or rather only speculation that may see me joining him in the club of unhinged conspiracy theorists. ‘I’ve been looking at the pensions policy you mentioned, the dividend tax credit raid. There are loose ends, about your boss, the Chancellor. Can you help?’

‘I’ll try.’ I’m taking him seriously at last; fingers crossed, he will tell me what I need.

‘When Clare had her row with Kendall, remind me what she said. Exactly, if possible.’

He nods. ‘She said – these were pretty much her words – “You’re all so bloody corrupt”.’

‘She said that? To the Chancellor of the Exchequer? Christ.’

‘I’d never heard her like that with anyone, let alone the boss. And in front of everybody.’

I’m as stunned as he must have been. Clare did not like scenes. Usually she was the family diplomat, brokering uneasy truces between me and Mum and Dad – perhaps the best training for a future mandarin. So what could have triggered her to fire both barrels at the Chancellor?

I remember Ringer’s hint. We don’t do bribery and blackmail. This is England, not Italy.

‘“Corrupt” is a very precise word,’ I observe. I can’t believe Clare used it thoughtlessly. ‘“Bloody corrupt”. You’re sure that’s what she said?’

He pauses, blushing. ‘Not exactly.’

‘Well, what?’

‘Actually it was “fucking corrupt”.’

I laugh. Can’t help it.

‘Do you have any idea why she said that? Was it connected with the pensions thing?’

By now we’re halfway around the lake, on the Blue Bridge. Beyond the budding trees, the towers and domes of Royal Horse Guards building on Whitehall frame a crystalline sky. Jeremy leans on the railing, takes off misted glasses and wipes them on the lapel of his jacket.

‘Have you heard of a bank called Schon Partners?’

I bridle. ‘That’s a bit like asking a twelve-year-old girl if she’s heard of the Spice Girls.’

He peers at me.