‘OK, Melissa. I wanted to talk to you, to keep you in the loop. We are going to publish on Thursday, but I don’t want to pull you in any deeper. You have done a fine job, terrific, but it would be unfair to involve you in what’s going to happen over the next few days. Forget about Artair in your next blog. I’ve had lots of questions about your blog and the informant, and I have stuck to the facts. Just to repeat: you received an anonymous tip-off, met the person in question and he promised to send documents to your editor and I have seen them. But you are not part of anything that has happened or will happen. Later we can tell the full story, but there’s a way to go.’

She sees that he is trying to protect her from something.

‘Is everything all right, Mr Tredizzick?’

‘Everything’s fine. I’ve had a few veiled threats. The usual bluster. But stay away from the office and I will call you from time to time. If they get rid of me, I’ve made sure the documents go to the right place.’

‘What do you mean, “get rid of me”, Mr Tredizzick?’

‘Oh, some snooty lawyer rang. She said her clients were taking this libel very seriously. And our HQ in London is not happy. A man I have never spoken to before told me that they were in no position to fight any legal actions. They want us to drop it. Injunctions are flying. My job is probably on the line. All the usual, as I said. So stay safely away.’

Was he aware that this business would entail threats to his job and some London bank suing him and the company? She suspects that he was. Yes, this is his last stand. He looks a little distracted and blinks a few times in the crepuscular car as though his eyes are failing him.

‘Mr Tredizzick, are you all right?’

‘You’re a sweet girl. I’m fine. OK, I have to go now, but I’ll keep in touch. Here’s a cheque for your expenses for the week.’

He hands her an envelope.

‘Look after yourself, Mr Tredizzick,’ she says as she gets out of the car. He gives her a jaunty President-Obama-entering-his-helicopter salute.

When she gets home she sees that the cheque is not from the newspaper but from a joint account in the name of Mr and Mrs Edward Tredizzick.

Julian arrives home just before eight. Olly Goldstone is already there, sitting with Kim in the dining room. He’s not in a suit, but a pair of jeans and a tight, shiny cycling jacket. His good, dark, straight Jewish hair is a little damp and sticks to his head in a boyish way.

‘Secretary of State,’ says Julian, ‘what a privilege.’

‘For me too, to talk to your wife alone for a minute.’