Anna looked at him in surprise, then said into the phone, ‘Ken? The Editor says fuck this up and you’re both sacked. Now drive in front of him already and tell Dan to wave the money so the driver can see it. Tell him to wave his Press card as well…’ She listened. The Editor and his newsroom watched her.

‘What’s he doing? What?… Wind down the window and signal to him… Just signal that you want to talk and show him the money… What do you mean he’s freaking out? Has Dan shown him the money?… Don’t fucking frighten him, just make nice and get him to stop… Just point, point, push him on to the hard shoulder and show him the money… Drive closer and shout to him… Get close enough to shout to him… What do you mean he’s speeding up? How can he speed up if you’re in front of him?… We want him on the hard shoulder… But how—’

At this, the Editor’s large frame twitched and, a second later, he stepped forward and snatched the phone from Anna, yanking the base on to its side. He spoke into the handset: ‘What’s going on?… Back off then; he’s only panicking because you’re panicking him… Signal that you’re not a threat and show him the money… I don’t give a fuck about the speed limit… How fast?… Just show him the money. Have you shown him the money? Why aren’t you showing him the fucking money, you cunt? What are the two burqas doing? The driver’s what?… He’s what?… He’s…?’

His head jerked away from the receiver. He stood as if stunned, the phone useless in his hand. His great voice mumbled, ‘The bus has crashed.’

Pandemonium in the newsroom. Everyone shouting at once. Geraldine with her hand over her mouth. The Editor paralysed.

Anna grabbed the phone from him and, covering her other ear against the uproar, yelled into it, ‘Ken! Ken! How bad’s the crash? What the fuck’s going on?’ She listened, then spoke as if speaking a judgment: ‘The bus has gone through the barriers and rolled down the verge. It’s on its side. What do you want to do?’

Muscles clenched at the Editor’s jaw and temples. His handsome face flushed red. There was an instant in which he quaked for what he’d done. But he’d stood at the helm for so many years that the helm itself now held him steady. He took the phone. ‘This is Charles Brython; who’s this?… Dan, if you want to stay out of jail, do exactly as I tell you. Get over there and start taking pictures. Get the first shots through and on my desk in the next five minutes. Is that understood? We’ll take care of the police. Now give the phone to Ken.’