A young man answers. I ask whether I can leave a message, and trudge up narrow floor after narrow floor to the attic. The flat is in chaos. There are hammers and saws and wood shavings everywhere. Only the walls, decorated in gorgeous abstract paintings, look finished.
Most people build their home first and then put up the pictures.
My phone rings. Alistair McAlpine is waiting for me at a cafe down the road. The sun is shining, McAlpine is smiling. He stands, like a landmark, in that checked suit that he's worn for ever. The former treasurer of the Tory party, Thatcher's jolly bagman, still looks as if his roly-poly body is going to topple over his tiny size six feet.