At four o’clock he calls the editorial staff together in the canteen. He stands with his back to the high windows that look out over a few neglected warehouses and a canal. The windows are all broken or crazed. He explains to the staff what is happening and apologises for the secrecy. He mentions Robert Maxwell and says that, like the Maxwell case, this one demonstrates arrogance on a Homeric scale and contempt for the little people who don’t live in London and don’t make a habit of stealing other people’s money. Melissa is standing by the huge tea urn. A few people clap when the editor pays tribute to her. She is embarrassed as her colleagues – there are eleven of them – applaud her.

Back in his office the editor receives a call from South West Distributors.

‘Mr Tredizzick, I am sorry to say we cannot distribute tomorrow’s paper.’

‘Why not?’

‘We had a call from the managing director.’

‘What managing director?’

‘From Twelvetrees Media. A Mr Lionel Beck.’

‘Nonsense. Just distribute. I will take the blame.’

‘Can’t do it, Mr Tredizzick. They said your newspaper has been sold. It may even close. We won’t be paid for the last six months if we distribute. I’m very sorry, Mr Tredizzick.’

The editor speaks to his managing editor, who doubles as chief accountant. He’s in the dark; he’s been told nothing, but the editor can see that he fears the worst already. The superior logic of money always dominates these people’s thinking.

‘We’ve got to get the paper out.’

He probably sees a heroic action, papers smuggled out, samizdat plastering the walls of the town. He calls Melissa into his office. He tells her that there is an attempt to suppress the story: she must stay in the building and blog and upload the story so that it gets out regardless. One of the techies will help her. She thinks: he cannot win this battle. But she sits at a workstation and Gavin, the techie, comes through to help her upload the editor’s op-ed on to her blog.

At five, just as she sees the material integrated into her blog, there is a stamp of feet on the stairs and four security guards in blue uniforms and bulky body armour enter the room. With them is a lawyer who asks for the editor. He enters the editor’s cubicle and the security men stand at the exit to the stairs. They fold their arms in a passive-­aggressive gesture. It’s unmistakably a signifier. Melissa asks them what they are doing, and they say they are protecting the property of the new owner: you wouldn’t believe what people run off with.