He considered for a few moments, his thoughts lucid and unhurried, then spoke louder, to address the newsroom and bring it to order. ‘Quiet now. Show your respect.’ The newsroom hushed. ‘This is a heartbreaking tragedy. And the Daily Beast will accord our fallen comrade every tribute a newspaper can. We will print a black border around tomorrow’s edition, on every page, and below the masthead we will print the dedication: “In memoriam, Adrian Trent, newsman”, with his dates. Mr Trent has given his life in service of the noble profession in which we are all engaged. To break in to the most sensitive building in England in pursuit of a story, while the country is up in arms, is no minor feat of daring. We will remember his courage.’

Two reporters had stripped a thin orange sheet from one of the beds and they uncomfortably draped it, fluttering, over Adrian’s body. The Editor remained silent until it was done, then said to Geraldine, ‘Send someone to his family’s house to present our condolences and record their last tributes to him.’ He carried on to the newsroom: ‘We will honour his memory in many ways and first among them will be our continued devotion to the news for which he died. You will understand that his story is my last as Editor of the Daily Beast, and that this will be my final edition. You may never see another like it. I wish you all good luck.’ No one reacted except Geraldine, who blinked hard, her eyes bloodshot. She supposed she would be Editor, but that prospect was no solace yet.

‘There will be time for nostalgia later. For now there is work to be done,’ he said, but nonetheless went on: ‘Goodbye to you all. The burden of upholding this newspaper’s proud standards now rests on you. And remember: I will be reading.’ He lost the direction of his thoughts and looked down at his father’s pistol. The dull metal gleamed at him. He supposed they would destroy it. ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘Now everyone back to your places. Each story needs to have crossed my desk before we let the police in. Quickly now, if you’re still newsmen and not just bystanders.’

Some of them righted chairs, moved towards their seats. The chief, who was already adding to his personal legend that he’d kept working with a body bleeding out on the floor behind him, translated the order into his own terms: ‘You heard the Editor. Dry your eyes, you snivellers. Any of your lives would be improved by getting shot. Pod leaders, get your teams working!’

But Max recognized how malleable this moment was and pressed his imprint into it. He spoke up: ‘Excuse me for interrupting, Charles, but is it a good idea to put an edition this important into the hands of someone who’s already signed a contract with the Fun?’