‘Trying to get my life back on track.’

‘Excellent! Kids all better?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘I do hope we’re still picking up the therapy bills.’ He glanced at Rose, who nodded curtly. Ian had made great play when Kate left the Service of how her children needed ‘proper help’ to deal with the trauma of being kidnapped during Igor Borodin’s aborted defection, which the Service would ‘of course’ pay for in perpetuity. Since it had gone wrong, he had of course forgotten all about Borodin’s offer to defect, for which, when the prime minister’s demise had seemed certain, he had briefly been a great enthusiast.

Ian’s ability to tack to catch the passing wind was legendary. It was, Kate supposed, what many careers were made of.

‘You look well,’ Sir Alan told her. He gave her a sly wink and she smiled back at him. He seemed to be enjoying Ian’s preening more than she might have imagined. Perhaps his successor’s vaingloriousness was obvious enough to lend him an air of absurdity, which he worked so hard to avoid. Ian hated not to be taken seriously.

‘Alan has just been telling me how much he’s been enjoying retirement.’ Sir Alan offered his successor a flinty smile. ‘Pottering around in the garden, lunch in the shade of the big beech tree by the river. Sounds idyllic.’ Ian glossed over the fact that his predecessor was still wrestling with the loss of his wife of almost forty years to cancer. ‘Not that any of us believe you would really retire,’ he added, though he offered no clarification of what he meant. He looked across the table. ‘We’re keeping things ticking over here. Just carrying on in your own image.’

‘Is that so?’ Sir Alan said. ‘I heard you were intent on remaking the wheel.’

‘No, no. That hasn’t been the message at all. Your sources fail you there, I’m afraid. We’re just trying to tackle a – how can I put it? – somewhat cavalier attitude to the budget.’

Now it was Rose’s turn to offer her boss an icy stare.

Ian really did have a unique ability to put people’s backs up, Kate reflected.

‘I seem to recall,’ Sir Alan went on smoothly, refusing to take the bait, ‘that only one section head was notorious for budget overruns. The controller, Europe.’

‘Well, yes,’ Ian conceded, ‘perhaps there is a touch of poacher turned game-keeper, but I recognize that constant over-spends, however good the reasons, are putting terrible pressure on Rose and her team in Finance. And more to the point, given our track record …’

‘By which you mean my track record,’ Sir Alan said.

‘Let’s not get into that. I’m just not prepared to ask Number Ten or the Treasury for a subvention again. There’s no excuse for us failing to observe basic budgetary discipline.’ He took a mouthful of bacon and eggs and chewed without finesse. ‘Which brings me to the issue at hand. I cannot authorize this Serbian girl’s transfer here. And I won’t.’