‘You’ll be young investigative Cornish journalist of the year. Got to go.’

He seems quite cheerful now.

‘Bye.’

He walks off towards the fountains, and she catches sight of him once more, heading for the street, refracted by the water. She sits wondering what to do. God, she’s babbled away so unprofessionally. She tries to get a grip. She hopes the recorder has worked properly. She writes down everything she can remember in her notebook.

Now she calls the editor.

‘Tredizzick. Ah, Melissa, how did it go?’

‘He came. He said that Tubal’s is basically bankrupt and he can give us the proof, documents I think, about fraudulent –’

‘Let me call you back. Just wait.’

He calls back on an unfamiliar number.

‘Sorry, we need to be careful. Go on.’

‘Yes, he can give you documents about fraudulent movements of money to boost – I think he said – the asset value so they can sell the bank. And that’s why all the charitable grants have been cut. They got out of their comfort zone, he said.’

‘Why is this bloke telling us this? Did he say?’

‘No. He says he will give us all we need after he’s spoken to you, but we mustn’t ask questions about him.’

‘There are two possibilities. One is revenge – he may have been fired – the other is some sort of scam. Short selling is one of those, but the bank is not publicly quoted. I’ll ask around discreetly. I still know a few people up in London, you may be surprised to hear.’

‘He said you were something to do with Mr Maxwell.’

‘Did he? Interesting. Well done. Come in tomorrow early for a meeting. Come at eight.’

Her train doesn’t leave Paddington until mid-afternoon. She goes back to the hotel and changes out of the classic suit in the ladies’ lavatory. She walks down to the river, pulling her bag behind her. How’s all this going to help Artair MacCleod, she wonders? Her phone rings; it’s the editor.

‘Did he mention the death of Sir Harry Trevelyan-Tubal?’

‘No.’

‘OK. There may be a connection.’

He rings off. Does he mean murder? Surely not. She remembers something her mother says: if you put it in a book nobody would believe you. But actually the things her mother believes should be in a novel – true love and nice people, for instance, are way less believable.

She walks down the river towards Tower Bridge and the familiar skyline. The water is high and lapping the granite of the Embankment. All the energy of the country seems to have congregated here along this river. The rest of us are just the extras, without speaking parts, just filling in the blank spaces in the frame.

Chapter 15

Chapter 15