They laughed, Jeremy wincing again, and Will joined in when he saw it was alright. He turned the pages as the chief, regaining some animation, told more stories. Will’s eye fell on isolated sentences: ‘…and therefore advise against publishing even the anonymized version suggested by Ms Enderling, “Troubled Hollywood actress who came to London for the theatre turns tricks at fashionable club/restaurant”, and reiterate that the picture series obtained is not legally conclusive.’ ‘…but his lawyers insist that they will sue over any hint, however oblique, of the Gay Pop Mogul’s “Son” Is Really His Nephew story, especially as…’ ‘They claim that the Duchess has never frequented or “moonlighted” in any capacity at the Horns table-dancing club, Shoreditch, or any other similar establishment, and on the day of the alleged sighting was on an official engagement [This cannot be independently verified. However, you MUST contact the legal department before taking ANY action on this story].’

Reading greedily as he recognized the names, Will tried to fix in his memory every detail of this initiation into some of the newspaper’s secrets. He asked the older men, ‘How far do these books go back?’

‘There was an archive,’ said the chief. ‘But I don’t know where it went. I once, when I first worked here, saw a Beagle with all the Nazi stuff from the thirties.’

‘When you first came,’ asked Jeremy, ‘did you work with John Dyson?’

‘He interviewed me!’ To Will he said: ‘The knackered has-been who got banged out yesterday. How old must he be now? Probably losing his teeth already. He’s been semi-retired since you were in nappies. But fucking hell, he was from a different time; you knew him, didn’t you, Jez?’

‘Not really, to be honest. I think he was already officially retired when I came here. He was doing some subbing for extra cash, but I don’t think he liked it very much.’

‘No, he wouldn’t have, bit beneath him to actually do any work, especially something as menial as subbing. He was comment editor on the Chronicle before we swallowed it up. But, fuck me, he really was from a more gentlemanly time.’ The chief was smiling. ‘The interview he gave me was in El Vino’s, off Fleet Street. There’s only lawyers in there now, but in those days the place was heaving with hacks, all of them in there from lunchtime onwards, knocking them back – even Dyson, who always pretended he didn’t really drink. We wouldn’t let you do that now, would we, youngling?’

Will shook his head, listening.