‘He has a creative consultancy,’ I said, fearing I was letting the defensiveness tell in my voice, and wondering why it was there at all. I revered Errol. His eye for the new, the pre-popular, was without parallel. He could make a magazine sing with metropolitan desire. He was the modern urban lifestyle, without doubt, and without visible effort. Eddie didn’t encourage the Errol cult too much, which I could understand. They had been difficult shoes to step into. But sometimes, when Kay or Freya or I were convinced an idea was interesting and could not be dissuaded, Eddie invoked Errol. What would Errol make of this? He was more than the first editor: he was the first reader, the perfect reader, the one we had to please.

But when this had to be explained to an outsider, it could sound stupid. What would Errol have made of Pierce?

‘And he publishes a magazine, Networth, for, uh …’

‘Very rich people,’ Pierce said. ‘Yeah, I know it. They asked me to write a piece about Hackney Wick just after the Olympics. “London’s Meatpacking District” or something.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said yes, what do you think?’ Pierce chuckled. ‘Pound a word, fucking phenomenal. It was funny. “So you want me to sell the place?” I said. “Make it sound good?” No, no, they said. Make it sound dirty, edgy. That’s what’ll sell it. Like it’s got potential.’

‘Quin said something similar,’ I said, not loudly.

Pierce drummed his fingers on the table, an impatient look coming over him. ‘Honestly,’ he said, ‘I thought you’d be more excited about this. Great colour for your piece, isn’t it? Better than a trip to Dagenham in the rain.’

Perhaps I should fake some enthusiasm, some crackle and verve, to make the excursion into the kind of zany adventure that I had once wanted to write about. But I could not. Since the loss of the recording, it was no more than an uphill slog, a Quixotic errand on the road to maybe avoiding losing my job. ‘It’s difficult for me,’ I said, choosing not to share those musings, and use my victimhood instead. ‘I really don’t want to be involved in another mugging. Even to watch. That’s assuming that it happens, and I don’t think it will.’

‘You don’t have to worry,’ Pierce said, without much sympathy in his voice. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll make myself the focus. You can – I don’t know – recede. Not too far, though.’

I frowned. Pierce’s conception of what would happen clearly resembled a chat with a charity fundraiser or an encounter with a street performer, not a terror-based robbery. If it happened – if! – I sincerely doubted that it would be something I could just step back from. The whole art of mugging was to shut off the exits, to enclose the world and charge for readmission.