He played protective and asked, ‘Are you OK?’ He found he was less jangled as soon as he’d assumed an attitude.

Her head bobbed rapidly. ‘How did they find us here? I thought this was supposed to be secret. Do you think it was that guy from the pub? Or that he tipped them off?’

It flashed across Will’s mind that he’d have had good reason to – maybe he’d tweeted where they were – but in a tone that reassured one of them he said: ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. We’re completely safe in here.’

She lurched closer to hiss, ‘Don’t worry about it?! Have you—’

Just then they saw a hastily assembled posse bearing down on them: the Editor, the chief, Max, Geraldine, all the senior reporters and two snappers. The chief was lavish with ill-concealed rage: ‘Rosie, darling, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your chit-chat, but—’

The Editor spoke over him, not breaking his long stride, ‘Take me to them.’

Rosie was too taken aback to say anything other than, ‘Um.’

‘Look sharp, damn it.’

‘You – do we… You want us to go outside?’

‘How else are you going to show me? Who are you anyway?’

Will said helpfully, ‘I know where it was. I’ll show you.’

‘Get moving then.’

As Will led them outside the posse crowded attentively around him, asking him questions. He answered, at the centre of things. Rosie followed them back outside and tried to think that this was a normal thing to do.

As they came in sight of where the torn fence sagged over itself, the Editor said, ‘Stay back, everyone. Don’t contaminate the scene.’ They eyed the trees for whether any had a man behind it. After only a few dozen yards the trunks had overlaid one another sufficiently to have hidden anything at all. No one spoke. The journalists listened, not knowing for what, but heard only stillness, rustling leaves and their own breathing.

The Editor said, ‘Snappers, all this needs to be documented.’

Geraldine, who was thrilled by being back in the field, as in her cub days, added unnecessarily, ‘Don’t move a blade of grass till it’s been photographed. Ben, Stephen, go twenty yards down the fence, climb over and see if you can pick up their trail. And whatever you do, don’t jolly well get shot.’

A couple of the reporters smiled at that and the Editor, too, seemed pleased.