The first part done, he looked up. At Newsdesk, Jez was now explaining himself to two other reporters, who were standing in front of him and writing shorthand into their notebooks. That meant Newsdesk was acting on the bomb story. He bit his pencil thoughtfully, tasting wood and metal on his tongue. What would a bombing in the newsroom even mean? While his thoughts struggled to dissect something so far from the page and the Beast’s internal politics, the first thing that popped into articulacy was a name: the Burqa Bombers, like the Shoe Bomber or the Pants Bomber.

That would do as a tag as long as no one got killed. Then the tag would have to be something understated and momentous, like the 22/6 bombings. There were only so many times, however, that you could use the numbers before it was no longer understated or momentous, but merely a convention, which meant: no bite. It could probably stretch to one more, but 22/6 was nothing like as catchy as 7/7 or 9/11. Perhaps they’d have to call it the Kensington Bombing or – yes – they would call it the Beast Bombing and with that, just as a flourish, force every other paper to name the Beast in their front-page headlines.

Light of heart, he looked again at the Benefits Cheat. After the first few percussive pars had blasted a path through the reader’s indifference, the story filled in the details. The Cheat had registered several months beforehand with a temping agency, which had then called and asked her to start at the council the following morning. She claimed she hadn’t had time to inform the Benefits Office. Max contracted it to read that she’d had to start ‘at short notice’. That was a fair representation. And it turned out that she’d been ‘temporarily promoted’ – a quote from an anonymous colleague – while someone was ill. Well, ‘temporary’ had still happened. He would let the readers make up their own minds.

As he was tidying it up, Jez came back over from Newsdesk in a state of misery. Behind him Max could see the two reporters he’d spoken to loping out the door. He asked, ‘So?’

Jeremy dropped unhappily into his chair, ‘They’ve got it into their heads that there’s something to it.’

Max absorbed that information. There was no reason to assume that Jez’s assessment was more accurate than the Newsdesk’s. The story was live. But he did not seriously think that he, a future chief sub, could be touched right here in the heart of the Daily Beast’s newsroom. The important thing was to get the edition out smoothly. He said, ‘In the time you’ve been chatting, I’ve already finished shaming this Benefits Cheat.’