A man in a bowler hat and charcoal overcoat dashed out of the alley and through the pounding rain. Just as he did so, a sleek black car pulled up to the kerb. He glanced left and right, then quickly folded his umbrella and jumped into the passenger seat.

The driver gave a swift nod. ‘Good evening, Sir.’

‘I’d hardly call it that, old chap,’ the passenger replied, brushing the droplets of water from his shoulders.

The windscreen wipers swiped at the deluge as the driver checked his side mirror and pulled out into the deserted street. Without a word, he handed the passenger a manila folder.

The man scanned the contents, a row of frown lines settling on his forehead. ‘Why her?’ he asked. ‘She’s not a relative.’

‘No, but she makes perfect sense. Rich parents, adored by all and apparently just about the sweetest child you’ll ever meet. She’s a natural target.’

‘Do you think this is enough to force Her Majesty’s hand?’ the passenger asked.

‘That, and this.’ The driver passed the man a plastic sleeve containing a single document. ‘Everything we need is there.’

The passenger nodded. ‘So it’s true, then?’

‘Yes. It was never witnessed and countersigned. It should never have been her and it most certainly won’t be him.’

‘How did you get this, or do I not want to know?’

‘I have someone on the inside. Very reliable and even more ambitious,’ the driver replied.

‘It’s not the original, is it?’

‘Heavens, no. But don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll have it when we need it.’ The driver slowed down as the traffic lights ahead turned red.

‘When do we begin?’

‘The first letter will arrive tomorrow, then there’s no going back.’ The driver swallowed hard. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Since I was fifteen years old,’ the man in the bowler hat said.

‘Very good, Sir.’ The driver pulled up outside a row of Georgian townhouses.

The passenger shook the other man’s hand. ‘No going back,’ he said firmly and opened the car door. The man popped up his umbrella and scurried away towards the yellow glow of a porch light.