‘Clarrisa’s out,’ said the underwriter, leading Charlie in. ‘Got herself involved with some charity for abandoned animals.’

Charlie thought he made it sound a sudden hobby that would soon be discarded, like collecting train numbers or cigarette cards. ‘You should have called if it was inconvenient,’ he said.

‘She wouldn’t hear of it,’ said Willoughby. ‘And it gives us time to go through the insurance file.’

A man appeared at the door and Willoughby motioned him away. ‘It’s all right, Robert; I’ll do it.’ The underwriter came back to Charlie. ‘Drink?’ he said.

‘Scotch,’ said Charlie. He was glad Willoughby was wearing a lounge suit. On the way from Sloane Square underground Charlie had wondered if he were expected to dress: he’d hired a dinner suit the last time and kept being mistaken for someone brought in to help for the evening.

Willoughby handed Charlie the drink and said, ‘I’ve got the stuff in the study.’

It was miniscule by comparison to the City office, but still opulent, red-felt walls, a small antique desk and chair, a soft light apart from the single anglepoise lamp, a storage bureau, roll-top and antique again, and some photographs. They were predominantly of Willoughby, at school and university, but then Charlie saw the wedding group and moved closer to it.

‘Father used his influence and managed to get Westminster church,’ said the underwriter. ‘It was 1970.’

‘I remember,’ said Charlie. He had an operation to date it. Moscow: July. A randy MP crying foul because he’d been photographed with his trousers around his ankles with an Intourist interpreter looking irritated because she hadn’t been able to take her suspender belt off for the camera. Charlie had done the only thing he could to reverse the scandal; exposed the silly bugger himself and made a fuss about entrapment of British politicians on a supposedly friendly trade visit.