‘Well, sanctions, of course.’

‘Really,’ said Henry, laughing out loud, ‘I’m amazed that you think we’d even contemplate such a thing. We’ve got a $700 million surplus with Iraq. Confidentially, there’s going to be another four or five hundred where that came from in a month or two. If you think we’re going to jeopardize all of that …’

He tailed off: the sentence didn’t need finishing.

‘Yes, but what about Mark’s little … line of business?’

This time Henry’s laughter was shorter, more private. ‘Put it this way: how on earth can we impose sanctions on something, when we’re not even selling it in the first place. Mm?’

Thomas smiled. ‘Well, I can see you have a point there.’

‘I know Major hasn’t been in the job for long and we’re all a bit worried that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s playing at. But take it from me – he’s a good boy. He does what he’s told.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘And besides, he might be moving again soon.’

‘What, already?’

‘It looks that way. Margaret and Nigel seem to be heading for a final bust-up. We suspect there’ll be a vacancy at Number Eleven pretty soon.’

Thomas tucked this information away at the back of his mind for future reference. It had considerable implications, which he would need to contemplate and examine at his leisure.

‘Do you think they’ll hang him?’ he asked suddenly.

Henry shrugged. ‘Well, he was a rotten chancellor, it has to be said, but that would be a bit drastic.’

‘No, no, not Lawson. I mean this journo character. Bazoft.’

‘Oh, him. I dare say they will, yes. That’s what happens if you’re silly enough to get caught snooping around Saddam’s arms factories, I suppose.’

‘Making trouble.’

‘Exactly.’ Henry stared into space for a moment. ‘I must say, there are one or two snoopers over here that I wouldn’t mind seeing strung up on Ludgate Hill, if it came to that.’

‘Nosey parkers.’

‘Precisely.’ Briefly a frown crossed his face, comprised half of malevolence and half recollection. ‘I wonder whatever happened to that scruffy little writer that Mad Tabs set on us a few years back?’

‘Him! Good God, that fellow got up my nose. What on earthshe was thinking of …’ He shook his head. ‘Well, anyway: she’s just a poor witless old fool …’

‘You spoke to that chap, then, did you?’

‘Invited him up to the office. Gave him lunch. The works. All I got in return was a lot of impertinent questions.’

‘Such as?’

‘He had a bee in his bonnet about Westland,’ said Thomas. ‘Wanted to know why Stewards had been so keen to support the American bid when there was a European one on the table.’

‘What, and he supposed you were snuggling up to Margaret in the hope of a knighthood or something, did he?’

‘Even more devious than that, I’m afraid. Although, now you come to mention it, I seem to remember there was something promised …’

Henry shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I haven’t forgotten, Thomas, really. I’m seeing her tomorrow. I’ll bring it up again.’

‘Anyway, he’d got this absurd theory that Sikorsky had tied up some huge arms deal with the Saudis, and the only reason we all wanted to climb into bed with them was to get ourselves a slice of the cake.’

‘Preposterous.’

‘Outrageous.’

‘And so what did you say to that?’

‘I sent him packing,’ said Thomas, ‘with a few choice words once directed at myself, on one very memorable occasion, by the late, great and much lamented Sid James.’

‘Oh?’

‘I said – and here I quote from memory – “Do us all a favour, laughing boy: piss off out of it and don’t come back.” ’

And then the room echoed as Thomas attempted his own version of the comedian’s smoky, inimitable laugh.

∗

It had happened in the late spring of 1961. Thomas arrived at Twickenham Studios at about lunchtime and made his way to the restaurant, where he spied three vaguely familiar faces at a corner table. One of them was Dennis Price, still best known for his leading role in Kind Hearts and Coronets twelve years earlier; another was the wizened, eccentric Esma Cannon, who reminded Thomas irresistibly of his mad Aunt Tabitha, still confined to a high-security asylum somewhere on the edge of the Yorkshire moors; and the third, unmistakably, was Sid James, one of the stars of the film currently in production – a loose comic remake of an old Boris Karloff feature, The Ghoul, under the new title What a Carve Up!

Thomas fetched himself a tray of corned beef hash and jam pudding, and went over to join them.

‘Mind if I sit here?’ he said.

‘It’s a free country, mate,’ said Sid James, indifferently.

Thomas had been introduced to all three actors a few weeks ago, but he could see that they didn’t recognize him, and their conversation, which had been lively, dried up when he sat beside them.

‘We have met, I believe,’ he said, after taking his first mouthful.

Sid grunted. Dennis Price said, ‘Of course,’ and then asked, ‘Are you working at the moment?’

‘Well, erm – yes,’ said Thomas, surprised.

‘What are you in?’

‘Well, I don’t know how you’d describe it really: I suppose I’m in stocks and shares.’

‘Stocks and Shares, eh?’ said Sid. ‘That’s a new one on me. Something the Boultings are cooking up, is it? Taking the lid off the City: Ian Carmichael as the innocent young bank clerk, Terry-Thomas as his conniving boss. Sounds good. Should be very droll.’

‘Not exactly: I think there might be a small misunder–’

‘Hang about, I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.’ Sid had now been studying his face for a few moments. ‘Didn’t you play the vicar in Two-Way Stretch?’

‘No, silly, that was Walter Hudd,’ said Dennis, before Thomas had had the chance to deny it. ‘Surely, though, you were the policeman in Dentist in the Chair?’

‘No, no, no,’ said Esma. ‘That was Stuart Saunders. Darling Stuart. But didn’t I see you in Watch Your Stern?’

‘Come off it – I was in that one,’ said Sid. ‘You think I wouldn’t remember? No, I’ve got it: Follow That Horse. You were one of the spies.’

‘Or was it Inn for Trouble?’

‘Or Life is a Circus?’

‘Or School for Scoundrels?’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ said Thomas, raising his hand. ‘But you’re all quite wide of the mark. I’m no thespian, I’m afraid. When I said I was in stocks and shares, I meant it literally. I work in the City. I’m a banker.’

‘Oh.’

There was a longish silence, broken at last by Esma, who said cheerfully: ‘How fascinating.’

‘What then brings you,’ said Dennis, ‘to these foreign shores? If you don’t mind my asking.’

‘The bank I represent has invested heavily in these studios,’ said Thomas. ‘They like to send me down occasionally, to see how things are coming along. I thought that, if it wouldn’t be too intrusive, I might watch some of the filming this afternoon.’

Dennis and Sid exchanged glances.

‘Well, I hate to say this,’ Sid ventured, ‘but I think you’ve cooked your goose there, mate. You see, it’s a closed set today.’

‘Closed set?’

‘Just Ken and Shirl and the technicians. They’re filming what you might call a rather intimate scene.’

Thomas smiled to himself: his information had been correct.

‘Well, I’m sure that nobody would mind – just for a few minutes …’

But this time, it looked as though he’d finally found himself out of luck. When he strolled over to the set a few minutes later, he learned that the scene to be shot that afternoon involved Kenneth Connor wandering into Shirley Eaton’s bedroom just as she was getting undressed. Onlookers, the assistant director was at pains to make clear, would not be welcome.

Inwardly seething, Thomas withdrew into the shadows beyond the arc lights and contemplated his next move. He could hear the director and the two performers going over their lines, discussing floor-markings and camera angles; and soon after that, there was a call for quiet, a cry of ‘Action!’, and the cameras had presumably started rolling.