The street was empty, the journalists and photographers long gone, a tinge of ice in the midnight air. Even in the midst of personal crisis, he took a moment to admire his Mayfair townhouse, with its painted black railings and chequer-board pathway. It was mortgage-free, the reward for a life in the City before politics consumed him.

The roll-top shutter that led to his underground garage was open and he climbed into his bottle green F-Type Jaguar. The cold air had sobered him up and the masochist in him wanted to know exactly what tomorrow would bring. He withdrew his mobile phone and looked at the Sun’s Twitter feed, to see if tomorrow’s front page had gone live yet. The headline blared at him.

EXCLUSIVE: ‘SECRETS FOR SEX’ SCANDAL

The bottom of his stomach dropped out.

He clicked on the link to the story.

Another photograph of the interior of his Westminster office, but this time a close-up of the paperwork relating to the Sara Carter case – the green light for her new identity – which he’d left on his desk. Strictly speaking, he ought to have filed it away when Anna showed up, but he’d been . . . distracted. He scanned the opening paragraph of the story.

Pervy prisons boss Geoffrey Heathcote let his mistress read confidential files during their steamy sex sessions.

Oh fuck, the bitch had really done a number on him. He read down. The Right Dishonourable Heathcote . . . He slammed the flat of his hand against the steering wheel and reversed out of the garage at speed.

He tried to call Anna on hands-free as he drove west across London to the M40 but it rang once and diverted to voicemail. The cunt had blocked him. He tried Barbara again. And again. And again. After seven rings, she picked up, her tone threaded with weariness.

‘What do you want?’

He’d bloody well known she was at home. A Bruce Springsteen song came on the radio. He turned it down. A flurry of snow hit the windscreen and the wipers automatically sprang into action, dragging across the glass. His mouth tasted of whisky and regret.

‘I’m on my way to see you,’ he said, forcing a bright note of conciliation into his tone. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to say why. He would talk her round when he got home. In the morning, she could put on a nice dress and some make-up, and they would drive back to Essex and pose by the gate by the holly bush, a picture of cosy domesticity. The snow was falling faster now, and he squinted into the darkness, an ache in his temples.

‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘I won’t be here.’

‘What do you mean?’ he said, his eyes glancing into the rear-view mirror and back at the road. And then again, more sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m going to stay with my sister for a bit.’