‘Good morning, Max. Did you manage to wangle yourself an invitation?’
Stupid people with stupid coughs shouldn’t try to be cryptic, Clayton felt like shouting down the receiver.
‘You’d better explain, Graham.’
‘Your Ramli friend—Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi. There was a function at his mansion last night.’
‘I thought you weren’t watching the house anymore?’
Smug laughter. ‘We’re not. Don’t have to—heard it from the horse’s mouth this morning. Friend of mine from Oxford was on the guest list. Small show, but very chic, by all accounts.’
Clayton jumped up from his seat.
‘Friend of yours? I want to talk to him, Graham. Can you give me his number?’
‘Nothing simpler, Max. He’s a superintendent in the Thames Valley Police. Name of John Whitaker.’