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“We have an important guest heading back to the hotel right now,” I tell him. “Georgia Ingram. She should be there in an hour or so. I want you to make sure her room is completely ready, bed turned down, everything pristine. Have some food waiting in case she’s hungry.” I pause. “Light up the Christmas tree, too.”

“Naturally, sir. Would you like me to pass on any message?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Just make sure she’s comfortable. I’ll be driving down first thing, I’ll see her then.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “And Mateo?”

“Yes sir?”

“Has there been any mention of the article in The Correspondent tonight? By the staff or guests?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir,” Matteo replies after a moment. He sounds like he knows exactly what I’m talking about. Of course he does, the man never misses a thing. He probably read every word before we did. “The evening wound down quite early once the guests began leaving or going to bed. Most people are in the festive spirit.”

Thank God. “And are there any journalists hanging around? Or paparazzi?” It’s only a matter of time before the vultures descend.

“No sir, not at all. But of course if that changes, I’ll inform you immediately.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, meaning it. “And please make sure Miss Ingram is escorted inside as soon as she arrives. I don’t want anybody taking her picture or asking her anything, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Mateo says calmly. “I’ll make sure we have the doorman ready at the entrance.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a brief pause, the kind that usually means he’s about to say something else. Mateo rarely wastes words.

“Sir, I hope you’re all right,” he says. “I’m thinking of you and your family.”

My eyes sting unexpectedly. I’m not used to anybody worrying about me. “I’m… fine,” I say. “And thank you. I appreciate your thoughts.”

I end the call and rake my fingers through my hair, turning back toward my father’s office. Even through the closed door I can hear his voice, followed by Saskia’s tinny reply on the landline speaker phone.

When I step inside, my father’s poured himself a glass of whiskey. Of course he has. Without saying a word, I walk over and swipe the glass, pouring the amber liquid into a plant pot.

“I’m back,” I say to Saskia. “Where were we?”

My father stares at the empty glass in my hand like I’ve committed some minor crime against humanity.

“For Christ’s sake, Theo,” he snaps. “I wasn’t drinking it to celebrate.”

Saskia clears her throat gently through the speaker.

“As I was saying,” she continues, her voice calm and precise, “we need to assume the authorities are already looking into the financial transfers. If the story gathers any more traction overnight, there’s a real possibility the police may want to speak to you at some point over the Christmas holiday.

My father lets out a short, incredulous laugh.

“The police won’t want to speak to me.” He scoffs. “Nobody arrests people at Christmas. And anyway, I know half of the Norfolk Constabulary. Hell, the Chief Constable is a personal friend.”

“Do you know anybody in the Serious Fraud Office?” I ask him.

He blinks. His hand curls, like he’s automatically reaching for the drink I took from him. Then he wiggles his fingers. “I haven’t committed any damn fraud.”

“I still think we should prepare a statement and be ready to issue it if things change,” she says.

“I agree.” I sit down. “And one for me, too.”

“Have you called your legal team?” she asks me.

“Yes. We’ll be meeting at some point tomorrow.” I glance at my watch. “Today, I guess.” And there’s that guilt again, because they’ll have to work on Christmas fucking Eve.

Saskia seems to sense my shift in mood. “They’ll be glad you called them,” she says. “It’s always good to get ahead of the opposition. Talking of which, I’ll meet you at the hotel later tomorrow. Maybe once you’ve spoken with your legal team?”