‘No.’

Willoughby was genuinely surprised. ‘She’s always in the newspapers,’ he said.

‘Not on the racing pages.’

‘She’s the Mendale heiress. There’s an estate in Yorkshire, a villa in Jamaica, as well as Rome and a flat here in London, near us in Eaton Square.’

‘What about her?’

‘Her husband’s got a lawyer’s mind and reads the small print. A year ago I underwrote a replacement cover policy on her jewellery. It’s coming up for renewal. First time value was one and a half million, but the indexed rise will bring it up to two million. I’ve got to agree the adjustment in writing and he’s asked that I do so.’

‘What exactly do you want me to do?’

‘Guarantee the protection,’ said the underwriter. ‘It’s listed in specific detail on the policy, but before I agree the rise I’ve the right to check the alarm system and the protection…’ Willoughby smiled. ‘Father always said you were the most security-conscious man he had on the staff.’

That wouldn’t be the assessment now, thought Charlie. The same bastards who set him up for sacrifice manoeuvred Sir Archibald’s replacement as director, but Charlie knew the old man would never have condoned the retribution. ‘ Morals are important in an immoral business, Charlie.’

When Charlie didn’t reply immediately, Willoughby repeated apologetically, ‘Not quite the sort of thing you did before.’

It wasn’t, thought Charlie. Clerk’s stuff. Senior clerk, maybe, but still a clerk. But it would be better than getting so pissed by nine o’clock every night that he couldn’t count the bridges on the way home.

‘I’d like to do it,’ he said.

‘Sure?’ said Willoughby.

‘Quite sure,’ said Charlie. ‘Where?’

‘Rome,’ said Willoughby. ‘Sir Hector Billington is our ambassador there.’

Charlie felt an abrupt stomach emptiness, the sort of sensation that comes when a lift goes down unexpectedly. Seven years, he thought; nearer eight. Diplomatic turnaround averages three years, four at the most. He’d never been attached permanently to any embassy anywhere, just used the facilities passing through. And never Rome. What he’d done would have remained a secret, apart from those at the very top. So what was the risk? Less than 50 per cent. Acceptable enough, to lift himself out of the shit in which he’d been wallowing for too long.