‘But not on Park Lane?’ Hepton asked, growing uneasy.

Parfit caught his tone. ‘Just off it,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Because Cam Devereux’s in the Achilles.’

‘Ah.’ Parfit nodded his understanding. ‘Don’t worry, we’re in the Bellevue. Two streets back from the Achilles. Not so expensive either.’ He turned to Sanders, who all but stood to attention. ‘You can go home, too, Sanders. Get some rest. But I’ll want your report on my desk by ten o’clock.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hepton knew Sanders would get precious little sleep: he’d work through the morning to perfect his report and buff it to a conspicuous sheen. He was a company man all right. Hepton shook hands with Izzard.

‘Thanks for your help,’ he said.

‘Any time,’ said Izzard, easing himself off the stool. ‘But try to make it daylight hours, okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Hepton, with the glimmer of a smile. Then, to Parfit: ‘Let’s go see Mike Dreyfuss.’

‘Wait a second,’ said Hepton, checking from the car window. ‘This isn’t the way to Park Lane.’

‘A slight detour,’ Parfit said. ‘It won’t take long.’

They were in a maze of elegant town houses, somewhere in the midst of unimaginable wealth, otherwise known as Belgravia. The car pulled in to the kerb. The streets were silent; there was little to remind Hepton that he was living in the dangerous tail-end of the twentieth century. But there were subtle hints: alarm boxes above most of the tightly shut doors, a latticework of metal bars across a basement window. Little Fort Knoxes all in a row …

‘Here we are,’ said Parfit.

‘Where?’

They were standing at the bottom of a short flight of stairs leading to a doorway. To the side of the door were a dozen nameplates, evidence that the house had been divided up into apartments. Hepton turned at the sound of a car door opening. The vehicle had been there when they’d arrived, but he’d spotted no signs of life. Now two men emerged. One stayed by the car while the other came to the steps, climbed them, and turned keys in the door, opening it. Coming back down the steps, he handed the keys to Parfit.

‘Thank you,’ said Parfit. The man returned to the car. Both men got in. Hepton realised that they were keeping guard.

‘What is this place?’ he asked.

‘This is George Villiers’ home,’ Parfit explained. ‘Come on, let’s take a look.’

The reception hall was huge and elegant. There was some mail on a marble table. Parfit browsed through it, finding nothing of interest. They took the near-silent elevator to the third floor, where Parfit opened one of two doors on the landing. The nameplate had been removed.