On the dance floor, six young dancers took position in readiness. Lord Lagan licked his lips as he stared at them, his eyes fixed with an intensity that he attempted to hide. Pre-recorded music began and the girls curtseyed to the top table before starting their routine, skirts whirling and tartan sashes a blur. He surreptitiously checked the other tables. People were engrossed with the food, the dancers or each other – comparing partners, outfits, company – the usual fascinations for those with nothing but time and money to waste. The entire event was making Lord Lagan feel slightly nauseous, as though these tempting morsels were put there to tease him, kindling an appetite that he’d managed to keep under control for many years.

Outside, dusk was falling, and the hotel floodlights cast a yellow glow over the car park and immediate environs. A slight breeze ruffled the canvas, the flapping sound lending a soporific quality to the peace of the evening. The uniforms stood outside the entrance, grumbling amongst themselves of time wasted as the ceilidh band struck up for the first dance. A waitress came outside and beckoned them into the kitchen – a second tent attached to the main marquee where catering staff were starting to clear up after the meal. The policemen disappeared from sight, their mood greatly improved by the offer of refreshments.

Above them in the car park, a figure looked down through binoculars as the men left their positions unattended. Leaving the safety of her car, she carried a small parcel under her arm and made directly for Lord Lagan’s new Jaguar. She keyed a remote and the doors unlocked, indicator lights flashing acceptance of the digital radio code she had cloned back at the country house hotel. In the space of a few seconds, she had removed the driver’s headrest and fitted an identical fawn coloured leather replacement. The headrest slid neatly into place, twin metal runners engaging with the seat’s receptacles until it was positioned at exactly the same height. She closed and locked the Jaguar door, making her way back unnoticed to her own car, before driving off into the night.

At the stroke of midnight, strains of Auld Lang Syne alerted the uniforms that the evening was drawing to an uneventful close. Lord Lagan made his way back to the Jaguar, swaying slightly on his feet as he fumbled for the key and sat in the driver’s seat. With a slight gesture of acknowledgement to the policeman tasked with accompanying him back to his car, he drove carefully out of the car park. The uniform watched him go, a feeling of resentment fading as he realised there were some people it was better not to breathalyse. At least he didn’t have to be the one acting as an unofficial taxi service for the ACC.