had been hot-headed. Also that you must have had personal issues with Dom. Perhaps they’re not my business,’ I add with meaning.
‘What else did Dom tell you about our conversation?’
‘Nothing of substance.’
‘He didn’t perhaps refer to his very lovely lady wife the Baroness Rachel, Tory peeress and wealth manager?’
‘No. Why should he?’
‘You’re not a pal of hers by any chance?’
‘Never met her.’
She takes a pull of red burgundy, follows it with a pull of water, measures me with her eyes as if questioning whether I’m a fit recipient, takes a breath.
‘Baroness Rachel is CEO and co-founder, along with her brother, of an upmarket wealth-management company with prestige offices in the City. Private clients only need apply. If you’re not talking upwards of fifty million US, don’t bother to call. I assumed you knew that.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘The company’s expertise is offshore: Jersey, Gibraltar and the island of Nevis. Do you know about Nevis?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Nevis does peak anonymity. Nevis out-obscures the world. Nobody on Nevis knows who the owners of its numberless companies are. Fuck.’
Her irritation is directed at her knife and fork, which are trembling out of her control. She lays them down with a crash, takes another pull of burgundy.
‘Want me to go on?’
‘Please do.’
‘The Baroness Rachel and her brother exercise non-responsible, unaccountable oversight of four hundred and fifty-three unconnected, no-name, arm’s-length offshore companies registered principally in Nevis. You are listening, right? It’s just your face.’
‘I’ll try and adjust it.’
‘In addition to demanding absolute discretion, their clients demand high returns for their investment. Fifteen, twenty per cent, or what’s the point? The expertise of the Baroness and her brother is the sovereign state of Ukraine. Some of their biggest players are Ukrainian oligarchs. One hundred and seventy-six of the said no-name companies own prime properties in London, mostly in Knightsbridge and Kensington. However, one such prime property is a duplex in Park Lane owned by a company that is owned by a company that is owned by a trust fund that is owned by Orson. Facts. Non-contestable. Figures also available.’
I don’t do dramatic response, and the Office doesn’t invite it. So no doubt I annoyed her when instead of emitting a cry of startled outrage I noted that our wine glasses needed filling and interrupted a long-running dispute between three waiters to make it happen.
‘You want the rest or not?’ she demands.
‘By all means.’
‘When Baroness Rachel is not tending her poor and needy oligarchs, she sits on a couple of Treasury sub-committees as a co-opted member of the Upper House. She was in the room when Rosebud came up. No minutes of the meeting survive.’
Now it’s my turn to take a lengthy pull of wine.
‘Am I right in thinking that you have been pursuing these supposed connections for some while?’ I enquire.
‘You could be.’
‘Setting aside for the moment the question of how you think you know this and whether it’s true: how much of it did you tell Dom at your face-to-face meeting with him?’
‘Enough.’
‘What’s enough?’
‘The fact that his lovely lady wife manages Orson’s companies while pretending not to, just for starters.’
‘If she does.’
‘I’ve got friends who are into that stuff.’
‘So I’m beginning to gather. How long have you known these friends?’
‘What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?’
‘What about Rachel’s membership of the Treasury sub-committee? Is that something you had from your friends?’
‘It could be.’
‘Is it also something you mentioned to Dom?’
‘Why should I? He knew.’
‘How d’you know he knew?’
‘They’re married for fuck’s sake!’
Is this a jibe at me? Probably it is, even if the fantasy of our non-existent affair is more deeply rooted in her imagination than in mine.
‘Rachel’s a great lady,’ she goes on sarcastically. ‘The glossies adore her. She’s got medals for good works. Fundraising dinners at the Savoy. Slums it at Claridge’s. The lot.’
‘But the glossies don’t mention that she sits on top-secret Treasury sub-committees, presumably. Or perhaps the dark web does.’
‘How should I know?’ – too indignantly.
‘That’s what I’m asking you. How do you know?’
‘Don’t interrogate me, Nat. I’m not your property any more!’
‘I’m surprised you ever thought you were.’
Our first lovers’ tiff and we never made love.
‘And how did Dom reply to whatever you said to him about his wife?’ I ask, after allowing a delay for passions to cool – notably hers, and for the first time I see her waver in her determination to treat me as enemy. She leans forward across the table and lowers her voice:
‘One. The highest authorities in the land are conversant with all such connections. They