‘If they dare,’ said the Editor, ‘I’ll have them fucking murdered.’ His fore-thinking mind had already formulated a protection against leaks: he would ring the editors of the other nationals and tell them that a few kooks had been trying to break into the Beast’s compound; that the police were involved and that acting on any hysterical tips they might get would not just be embarrassing, it would put lives and national security at risk. They could, he thought, be pushed into feeling that they were doing their bit. He wouldn’t bother with Julian at the Impartial.

He said, ‘And even if it doesn’t leak, if those dolts from Thames Valley Police screech up with their sirens on, these jihadis, if jihadis they are, might explode the bus and everyone in it.’ Jeremy couldn’t help thinking that at least it wouldn’t be exploded here.

The Editor looked at his watch again and pensively said, ‘Cunts.’ He was imagining a front page with a big photograph, probably taken at night and floodlit – two figures in Islamic black putting their hands up as the police encircled them – and the exclusive headline ‘Bombers caught outside Beast’. That would be a worthy end to the newspaper era.

But he said, ‘What else do we have?’ They huddled over the flatplan, discussing alternatives; and, as on the night before, it felt as if laying out the paper conferred mastery over the events it described.

The Editor labelled the front page and the first four spreads – nine consecutive pages clear of adverts – Burqa Bombings. He said, ‘Pages one, two and three will be the splash with whatever breaks in the next couple of hours, folding in the other developments.’

Geraldine said, ‘After all, it’s not as if we haven’t got any stories. It’s as good as a war.’

The Editor said nothing to that, but Geraldine wasn’t wrong. The police were raiding Bucklebury, looking for the Muslim in the pub, and sweeping the woods between the village and the bunker. The Met’s special force of 4,000 officers was essentially occupying suburban West London, although the Strumpet was well embedded with them, and would presumably be first to anything that broke. The Met’s bosses and military intelligence were interrogating Dikhlat Choudry, the one who’d been shot but survived. Apparently he was still giving up all kinds of information. Geraldine had a source who was passing it on verbatim.

‘On three, we’ll also have two shorts.’ The Editor’s pencil delineated two boxes, horizontal and vertical. ‘One for the Dramatic Shootout with Mian and Choudry, briefly because it’s been everywhere since lunchtime, then a single col—’

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