Charles Cochrane MP cradled the receiver of the red phone under his pointed chin and examined his nails.

'No, sir,' he said softly.  'No problem at all.'

He frowned, greatly displeased at the quality of his morning manicure, and very carefully snipped away at the side of his thumbnail with a pair of shiny silver scissors.

'Very well, sir.  Of course.'

He sat up straight and smiled smugly to himself as the man on the other end of the line showered him with praise!  'Thank you, Prime Minister.  My pleasure.'

He put down the phone and spent another five minutes attending to his nails before spinning round in his swivel chair and examining his face in a big, gilt mirror which hung just above his desk in the old, dark-panelled room.

He had handled the situation well, it was true, and it would only be a matter of time before the PM moved him upwards in the next reshuffle.

He tightened the knot of his Old Etonian tie and smoothed down the waistcoat of his favourite three-piece suit, then cocked an eyebrow at his reflection.  His impish features stared back.

Handsome devil, he thought.

'Clever devil,' he said aloud.

He swung back round and turned his attention to his morning mail.

Cochrane was, by general agreement, one of the government's brightest stars.  A high-flyer who had risen from Chief Secretary to the Treasury to Secretary of Defence in little more than eighteen months.  Well bred, well educated and with a beautiful wife, he was still only forty-one years old and the way he had forced unpopular defence cuts on to the Chief of Staff had hugely impressed the Prime Minister.  The House Office beckoned, he was sure of it.

He was still smiling to himself when he opened an envelope and three freshly printed photographs spilled out on to the desk.

He could smell the fresh developer on them.

Despite the fact that they appeared to have been taken through a hotel window, they were staggeringly clear.  Cochrane appeared in all three.  He wasn't alone.  And he wasn't wearing his three-piece pinstripe suit.

Cochrane felt a wave of fear wash over him like cold water.

When he finally pulled himself together, he opened the envelope wide and checked it for further contents.  A tiny slip of paper fell out.  On it was printed a phone number.

Cochrane rubbed his eyes and then, with shaking hands, picked up the phone and dialled the number.  There was a click at the other end but no one spoke.  Not at first.

Cochrane swallowed.  'This is Charles Cochrane.'

He turned the photographs over one by one so they were face down on the desk.

'What... what do you want?'