‘Find out what?’

Rosie started to become flustered. ‘There’s something strange about it. She’s blind but it doesn’t mention if she had a stick or a dog or anything.’

The chief looked at Max, who said, ‘The story’s taking a redraw anyway.’

‘Fine. Get it through. It’s going on seventeen.’ Rosie, humiliated, turned back to her screen. The chief carried on: ‘The botched execution is going on twenty-two.’

‘What, next to the Tragic Schoolgirl?’

‘No, she’s moving, too, towards the back of the book. Final resting place is…’ He scanned the flatplan with the tip of his pencil. ‘Page twenty-seven, where, just so it’s not all miserable, she’ll be next to the couple who bought a Ming vase for thirty quid at a car-boot sale.’

Max said, ‘And when can I expect the splash?’

‘Any minute.’ He barrelled over to Newsdesk to wrest the copy from them.

Max was too professional to rub out the mark the chief had put on his flatplan, but said, ‘Will, your parrot’s moving to thirteen, in bold, the headline’ll still fit. Also, the headline for your story about Paul Roux cheating on Kate Kloss with Edith Bohler is going to be:

NO, PAUL, YOU CAN’T HAVE

YOUR KATE AND EDITH TOO’

Will opened his mouth to say something about his own idea, recognized he couldn’t top that, and closed it again.

‘If that doesn’t fit let me know and we’ll widen the box. Rosie, your Bulgarian’s moving to thirty-two; the page’s taking shape now. Forget the stick or the dog, just get it in and put it in revise. And Jez, did you hear that? Your Schoolgirl’s going on twenty-seven.’

Jeremy said, ‘Naomi doesn’t have a useable figure for the equipment.’

‘What a surprise.’ Max had already rewritten the headline assuming that would be the case. Just then the chief shouted across from the Newsdesk: ‘Max, sweetheart, the splash is attached to six and seven.’

Max took the pencil from his mouth. This was a moment worthy of him. Subbing a late-breaking splash while revising all his pod’s work? No one else in the newsroom would even attempt it. The rising din around him – of the chief asking, with the threatening politeness he affected under strain, ‘Is there any reason that page hasn’t been sent yet, darling?’ and of Geraldine shouting for copy and Turkish Anna cursing down the phone, ‘You can go home if you want, but if that terrorist comes out of his house and fist-fucks his girlfriend in the street, and we don’t get the shot, it’s your head on the block…’ – it all dampened down to a distant circumference of information. Max was conscious of becoming calm.