And I would need Pierce to cooperate, on the record. I might secretly have his confession on tape, but using that alone, without a corroborating, sympathetic interview from him, would turn my piece into a ham-fisted assassination. Pierce would be denied the stage-managed interview he must want; instead he would get an exposé by a hostile and unscrupulous journalist.

With a tidal surge of nausea, I realised that I couldn’t get away with that. Pierce was not powerless. He could strike back, with Quin, with the information they had accumulated on my drinking and inaccuracies and lifted quotes. Who knew how much data Quin really had? They could respond with so much muck of their own that I’d be destroyed – and, in the ensuing shitstorm, Pierce might be able to absolve himself. I began to appreciate why I, in particular, had been chosen for this job: mutually assured destruction.

Involve Pierce. Get him on board. ‘If you go on the record,’ I said, ‘I’m prepared to craft the story with you, make sure you get your side across clearly and sympathetically. We can make your, ah, coming-out as gentle as possible.’

‘Well, thanks,’ said Pierce. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and shut his eyes hard, seemingly tired. ‘But let’s not delude ourselves. No way it’ll be gentle. It’ll be brutal. I’m going to get killed.’

I could not deny this, so I didn’t say anything. Instead, I thought about the DVR in my shirt pocket. If I glanced downwards, I could just see the top of it. Pierce could probably see it too, if he knew to look, but that shape against my breast could be anything – phone, vape stick, pen drive. I became very conscious that my body language might betray me, might reveal that I was wearing a wire. I rolled my shoulders, pretending to rid them of stiffness, in fact trying to get the DVR to be less conspicuous, and peered into the neck of the beer bottle, inspecting its foaming dregs. To my surprise, the bottle was already almost empty, though I hardly remembered drinking from it at all.