JOEL WOKE UP VERY EARLY on Wednesday with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Tribune’s editor had assured him that the presses could not be stopped, but he had still lain awake worrying that the Home Secretary might have been nobbled, an injunction issued. He wished Aaron was there to roll his eyes and explain that wasn’t how it worked, but Aaron would not be coming anywhere near him for some time.

The only thing more frightening than the idea that the story might have been spiked was the prospect that it was running. Joel lay in his single bed and listened out for the cries of newspaper sellers. When he heard what sounded like ‘Sammy Beech’, he let out a long breath, got up, and went to fish out his smartest clothes and his medals. He had a feeling he’d need them, and indeed, the barrage of journalists started very soon afterwards.

Joel gave every interview he could, having commandeered his thrilled landlady’s downstairs parlour. He did not mention Darby Sabini, or Aaron. He repeated again and again that Mr. Marks had come to consult him, that he had felt unhappy about the man’s death. They all asked him why he’d passed on the information to the press rather than the police. He asked them all, “What would you do in my place?”

It was long and exhausting. Towards the end of the day, some of the questions became more hostile, with a journalist from the Daily Express touching on whether he had a grudge against the Met, and asking pointedly if he’d ever been convicted of a crime.

They’d known that would come, and agreed that blaming his aberration on distress and illness after a traumatic war injury would be the path of least resistance. Joel hated that with every fibre of his being. He wanted to name Constable Sefton as an exploitative bully, to point out he had harmed nobody, to ask why it was a good use of police time to poke into his private life rather than rooting out the murderers in their own ranks.

He needed to focus on protecting Aaron, and on making sure Colthorne couldn’t muddy the waters. He needed to say, I was ill, unwell, I didn’t know what I was doing. It was an inexplicable lapse, a momentary madness. Common sense dictated he should.

Common sense collided with Joel, and lost.

“I’ve a conviction, yes,” he said. “Served my time, paid my debt to society. Who fed you that line?”

“Sorry?”

“I was just wondering, did you go looking into me of your own accord, or has a little bird in the Metropolitan Police been singing in someone’s ears?”

The journalist reddened slightly. “I’m establishing the facts, Mr. Wildsmith.”