Through the viewfinder, Anna saw the Editor standing monumentally with Adrian stretched at his feet: a news photograph that would become immortal as soon as it was taken. She took it.

Geraldine had understood what he was going to do. Bittersweet respect unbalanced her voice as she said, ‘Tomorrow’s front page.’

‘World-exclusive interview with Daily Beast Editor Charles Brython, who tells candidly how he shot journalist Adrian Trent. Exclusive pictures of the scene and of Brython in handcuffs. Exclusive account of the shooting itself.’

‘It’ll be the most sensational story we’ve ever printed.’

‘Yes. You’ll have to order an even bigger run.’

‘And we can leak it as much as we want; it’ll only make more publicity for our scoop. They’ll be tearing them off the shelves. No one else’ll be able to get anywhere near it.’

‘Except this boy.’

Brython and Geraldine examined Gavin, who stepped backwards as if to defend himself. As they moved, Jeremy saw that the dark puddle of Adrian’s blood must have run up against Brython’s shoe when he was posing over the body. The sticky puddle had congealed around its curve and, where grooves had been cut into the sole, oozed underneath to form three red ridges.

Gavin said to Geraldine, ‘I recognize you! I saw you in the corridor! You pointed me in here!’

Geraldine was unperturbed. ‘Yes, you duped me. Good reporting instincts. How would you like to be a reporter on the most important newspaper in the world?’

‘On the Beast?’

‘Yes, on the Beast. We’ll even make you a senior reporter.’

Gavin asked stupidly, ‘A senior reporter? What do I have to do?’

‘Nothing. I’ll get you a contract and a confidentiality agreement.’

Gavin didn’t know what any of this meant. He automatically asked, ‘How much will you pay me?’

She gestured bitterly at the corpse. ‘It’ll be more than he was getting.’

‘But what about Adrian?’ With that, he seemed to apprehend the enormity of Adrian’s death and started to cry, mutely at first and then with uncontrolled gulps and sobs, his boyish shoulders shaking as he brought his hands in front of his face.

Geraldine said to her reporters, ‘Put him back in that room and have HR give him a confidentiality agreement right fucking now. Backdate it by a week. Is that clear? Charles—’

‘Your byline will be on the splash, but I’m going to dictate it. Get ready to break the story online. No pictures, no location, no names except mine. Very brief, just that the Editor of the Daily Beast has shot someone dead and a statement that full exclusive coverage, pictures and interviews will be in tomorrow’s print edition. Get that ready, then we’ll ring our man in the Met at the same time, to report it. And find something to cover the body till they arrive.’