‘But they can take it. They were around in the gravy days; they’ve all already got their big houses in West London and cars and cottages in France and money for school fees. And when they retire on their guaranteed pensions, you and me are going to have to pay for them.’

‘No gravy for us, only gruel. And even the chief is leaving – can you believe that?’

‘Well, I’m not sorry he’s going.’

‘No, me neither really. But does it ever feel to you like we’ve come in at the end of something? Like before it was all japes and expense accounts and martini lunches and now we’re here just to do a bit of donkey work while we wait for it to be over?’

‘I don’t really want to drink martinis for lunch, but I do—’

They heard a heavy thud, a cry of pain and the wild ringing of the chain-link against its metal uprights.

Their gazes jumped to each other. The ringing quickly abated, leaving a yet more frightening quiet. Rosie turned to run towards the bunker. But Will, the greater instinctual journalist, whispered throatily, ‘Come on,’ and ran not away from but towards the noise.

Rosie, aghast, followed. Struggling in her high heels, she fell a little way behind and Will came alone upon the tear in the fence. Close to one of the poles, a long swathe of mesh was curling over itself into the compound, the metal links bent and snapped. On the other side of it, three roundels of chopped tree trunk had been stacked against the pole, though one had slipped and was lying on its side. Scuffed into the ground beside it were the footprints and knee-marks of the person who’d tumbled off the fence when it tore.

Rosie arrived breathlessly. ‘Oh my God, did someone try to break in?!’

‘Yes, look over there, the wood!’

Rosie was casting about for danger. Will, through his fear, his attention darting frantically from tree trunk to tree trunk, knew that there was an opportunity in this. He tried to think.

‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed again. ‘We have to get out of here! They could be anywhere! Do you think it was the guy from the pub?’

‘I don’t know. We’ve got to get inside.’

‘We’ve got to tell the police! Where are they?’

‘No, we’ve got to tell Newsdesk. No. Max. It’s Max we’ve got to tell. He’s going to be the next chief; we can’t go over his head.’

There were too many alarms screaming in Rosie’s head for her to make sense of what he was saying. ‘Let’s go then!’