Geraldine was voluminously coiffed, a head shorter than him and dressed as if for a country wedding in a navy-blue jacket over a floral summer dress. She’d crumpled the sleeves up to her elbows and delicate silver bracelets clinked expensively on her wrists as she gestured at her reporters. When she saw Jeremy coming, she exclaimed, ‘There you are, old thing! We thought you’d already been blown up. Jeremy, isn’t it? Come and sit down, there’s a good fellow, we’ve saved you the place of honour.’ With the flat of her palm, she tapped the top of an office chair standing empty at the centre of their cluster, as if for an interrogation.

Jeremy sat, surrounded by standing reporters. That Geraldine had been told his name made him feel that what he’d been dreading was now taking place. The newsroom gossip was that there hadn’t been any ‘old things’ when she’d started out in the pit as a hungry crime reporter on the Fun. But with every rung she’d schemed and bullied and toiled her way up to the level of executive, she’d more completely adopted an oddly placeless and timeless posh-person’s voice. Her sons were at Eton, so she’d made it work, but it implied a willingness to sacrifice bits of herself to reach what others might have liked to. Although, given that she’d worked the crime beat on the Fun, he presumed that more of the sacrifices had been made by other people.

Geraldine gave him a practical smile. ‘So, you’re the one who spotted the terrorists?’

‘Well, kind of.’

A wrinkle of dissatisfaction disturbed her brow. ‘What do mean, “kind of”? Did you see them or not?’

Jez had to try very hard to appear relaxed. ‘Listen,’ he said.

Geraldine’s eyebrows jumped; it had been a very long time since anyone told her to listen. She appeared to indulge him.

Jeremy could see that that had been the wrong way to put it, but he pressed on. ‘They were just two people wearing burqas. It could have been anyone.’

‘Yes, I suppose it could have been Mahatma bloody Gandhi, but it wasn’t, was it?’

‘Erm.’

Geraldine feigned astonishment. ‘Was it?!’

‘Well, no, it wasn’t—’

‘Now that would be a splash! Gandhi, back from dead, becomes suicide bomber. Man of peace turns to hate. Second-ever instance of Lazarus phenomenon, scientists baffled, Jesus unavailable for comment. My dear man, that’s the story of the century! You’re quite sure it wasn’t him?’

Jeremy was hating this. He said, ‘Yup.’

‘Rats!’ said Geraldine, facetiously clenching a fist so the bracelets trembled, entertaining herself and her reporters while she stared Jeremy right in the eye. ‘But at least we’ve succeeded in getting one fact established. Gandhi not one of the bombers. Lennard, take that down.’ A few of the reporters sniggered.

Jeremy tried to interrupt. ‘Yeah, but—’