A wave of resentment surged up in his son. One thing to be seen as a school kid by Sling’s defocused gaze, quite another to be fossilized in that role by his father.

Out in the world he was the golden boy, expecting and receiving deference, even from those who disliked him. Why make an enemy of a man who was the hottest long-term bet for Downing Street in the last fifty years?

It was only those most intimately linked to his political career who refused to defer. Like Cameron and his attendant clones. And Maggie bloody Pinchbeck, who tried to control him like a performing dog. At least he could sack her. Maybe.

But his father was the worst offender. Sometimes the appellation David Gidman the Third sounded more pecking order than genealogy. OK, he couldn’t sack Goldie, but maybe it was time he understood that the wide and glittering world of political power into which he’d launched his son didn’t end at his mansion gates.

He picked up the remote and stopped Hendrix in mid-syllable.

‘OK, Pappy,’ he said, already appalled at his own boldness. ‘I need to know what the fuck’s going on.’

Goldie Gidman turned his head and regarded his son blankly. Inside he wasn’t displeased at this show of spirit. Life had given him only two things he wouldn’t ruthlessly discard in the interests of his own comfort and security. One was Flo, his wife, and the other was his son. He’d kept them at a very long arm’s length from the world he’d grown up in, a world where you learned to survive by being harder than those trying to survive around you. With Flo, it had been easy, despite the fact that she was by his side almost from the beginning. Her love was unconditional, she saw nothing he did not invite her to see, asked no questions, passed no comments.

Dave the Third was harder. Brought up to a life of privilege, it was simple to put a firewall between him and his father’s colourful past. But protection was no protection if it weakened what you were trying to protect. In the career he was launched on, he would need the same skills as his father-a nose for danger, an eye for the main chance, and a ruthless instinct for survival at no matter what cost to others.

By this small act of defiance he was showing himself flesh of Goldie’s flesh, blood of his blood, and that was good.

On the other hand, he needed to be reminded from time to time that, whatever power he now wielded and would in the future wield in the great world out there, in his father’s world he was and must remain a cipher.

He said, ‘What you talking about, son?’

‘I’m talking about Gwyn Jones ambushing me at the opening.’

‘Jones?’ He could see he’d caught his father’s attention. ‘That Jones the Mess?’

‘The same. The last guy a politician wants to see at his door if he’s got anything he needs to keep hidden. Have I got anything I need to keep hidden, Pappy?’

‘Just tell me what this Jones fellow said. I mean, the words he used.’

Dave Gidman had a power of recall that came in very useful in the House and he was able to repeat the journalist’s words almost verbatim.

When he finished, Goldie said, ‘What did Maggie say about this?’

Dave felt hugely irritated. The degree of respect, indeed of affection, both his parents showed to Pinchbeck really pissed him off.

He said, ‘Nothing. Why the fuck should she say anything?’

‘It got you worried, son. Anything you see, Maggie would see two minutes earlier, that’s for sure. Now go and see your mammy. Tell her you’ll be staying for supper.’

‘Is that it?’ demanded Dave, incensed by the implication that his PA was brighter than he was.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Nothing for you to worry your head about. You just concentrate on kicking them government bastards while they’re down.’

Dave the Third took a step closer to his father and glared down at him. Goldie stared back up at him with a lack of expression that those who had received the hammer treatment in his youth might have recognized. It felt like a defining moment.

Which in a way it was.

It was the younger man who broke off eye contact first and stalked out of the room.

Goldie felt almost disappointed but not quite. Now wasn’t a good time for young Dave to be rocking the boat. Way things were going, it would take a steady hand on the wheel and a clear eye at the helm.

Maybe, he thought, I should have left this alone.

But all his life he’d dealt with stuff as it came along. Tidy up behind you and you didn’t leave a trail.

Except sometimes, if things didn’t fall right, the trail could be the tidying-up.

Long way from that here, and anyway, he thought confidently, he’d got friends in high places who’d make sure the trail got brushed out long before it reached him.

Politics was a lot like fucking. Same rule about relationships applied here that he’d tried to drum into young Dave after the business with his tell-tale PA. Always make sure the woman you’re boning has got more to lose than you have if you get found out.

It had taken a conversation with Fleur Delay to show that would-be blabbermouth, Nikki the Knockers, just how much she had to lose. In the world of politics and finance, you got heavy in a different way, but it came to the same thing in the end. Over the past few years he’d made sure that Westminster and the City were full of folk who would shit bricks if they thought that Goldie Gidman was running into trouble. Couple at the Yard too. And his lunch today with that poncy peer had reinforced his protection. So he was fire-proof.

Not young Dave, though. A political career was like a delicate flower. Leave the wrong door open and a cold draught could kill it off overnight.

He’d sent Fleur Delay up to the frozen north to close a door. No one he trusted more than Fleur. So there’d been a glitch. Despite her efforts to cover for him in her phone call, it was clear that the glitch had been down to that dickhead brother of hers. But you could rely on Fleur. She always came through in a crisis. And if she didn’t, well, all relationships that aren’t blood relationships come to an end.

How did Jones the Mess play here?

No way to know yet.

Jones. The name might mean something, might not. Like young Dave had said, every second fucker in Wales is called Jones.

Time would tell.

He picked up the remote and pressed the start button. On the screen Hendrix sprang once more to noisy life.

As always when he watched this video, his mind drifted back to the sixties. He’d started them as a skinny teenager, subject to all the conflicting impulses of the time and of the times. Change had been in the air, particularly for the young. He’d wanted to be part of it, but wanted even more to be able to afford all the new goodies on offer. He’d known one or two kids who’d actually made it to the States, been at Woodstock. By ’69 he could have afforded to fly over there first class. But of course he hadn’t. Too much business to look after, too much wheeling and dealing to be done, too many people to keep in line. What the hell, those kids probably ended up in dead-end jobs, were sitting even now in some shitty little house, seeing their grandchildren yawn as they started to reminisce about Woodstock.

But watching the video, listening to Jimi, it always felt like an opportunity missed.

One thing was certain, his boy was never going to look back on missed opportunities. The world was his inheritance and his father was going to make sure he got it.

And if that long-gone loser, Wolfe, really had come crawling out of the past to threaten young Dave’s future, he’d quickly find that Goldie Gidman could still wield a mean hammer!

He pushed these thought from his mind and settled back to enjoy the music.