Tamara walked down the long line of desks to where Mark was sitting. The news team’s semi-official turf at the heart of the Clarion’s office. No seat reservation allowed, of course. Not with hot desking even more rigidly enforced by social distancing. But the team’s cut and no prisoners taken thrust of “witty banter” usually saw off intruders from those members of the features team adventurous enough to venture into the office.

The two of them were busy working out what their next reportage target should be. Having found themselves shot to stardom – of a sort – by the events of the night before last. Tamara still reeling from being appointed the title she had coveted. Reporter. The object of praise to her face. And, she was only too well aware, derision behind her back.

As she walked, she glanced across the office to where Anthea, their editor, sat. A malevolent spider at the heart of her web. From where she barked terse commands. Issued incandescent bollockings. And, Tamara suspected, occasionally ensnared the unsuspecting and injected them with venom. Liquefying their innards for later consumption.

It was a rare moment of perfect synchronicity. Her chance moment of observation had coincided with the exact spot from which Anthea’s screen protector was ineffective. A micro-mesh filter across the editor’s main screen. Designed to prevent a chance – or deliberate – oversight revealing anything that wasn’t anyone else’s business. Totally effective at preventing eyeballing of her screen from any angle but ninety degrees. But completely useless if a person was directly behind her. Precisely where Tamara was standing. With a startlingly clear view of who it was that she was talking to. Whereas, to the person on the other end of the video call, Tamara was just a blurry blob of pixels in the background over Anthea’s shoulder.

‘Isn’t that…?’

Mark looked up from his screen. ‘Isn’t what?’

She beckoned him over. With enough surreptitious urgency in her gesture that he stood up and strolled over. Trying, and largely failing, to look innocent.

‘Take a look at Anthea’s screen – a good look – then keep walking. Tell me who you think it is, then go get us both a coffee.’

Mark played his part with just-about acceptable aplomb. Took a long hard look and then turned his back on Anthea.

‘Yeah. It’s that police officer. What was her name…? Jasmine?’