‘Everything is going to plan,’ I announced, feeling deservedly pleased with myself. I was in Paris at the beginning of the annual finance conference, which the Mole had organised despite many setbacks and dealing with French hotel staff who took pleasure in refusing to confirm or deny the availability of flipcharts in the breakout rooms.

‘Ahh,’ said Wiktoria, with a guilty look, realising she was about to become a human dark cloud. ‘It seems Mary has gone missing.’

‘When you say missing,’ I began, trying and failing to keep my voice on an even pitch.

‘It seems she checked in at Heathrow and ate lunch in Wetherspoon’s with everyone else. Then she said she had personal issues and disappeared. She didn’t board the plane.’ Wiktoria looked relieved the news was in the open.

‘Well