‘Please,’ said the old man behind him and Edgington turned round to see him holding out his hands. ‘Please, the picture.’

Edgington took over the big framed photograph and handed it to him. He didn’t speak, he didn’t know what to say.

The old man cradled the frame in his arms and then hugged it to his chest. There were no tears and he made no sound, but the intensity of his grief was painful to watch.

‘Who did this to my family?’ he asked eventually.

‘The IRA,’ said Edgington. They were the first words he’d spoken in the room and his voice sounded thick with emotion. He cleared his throat and Griffin looked up, surprised that he’d spoken. ‘The IRA have claimed responsibility,’ he said.

‘IRA,’ said Nguyen, saying each letter slowly as if hearing them for the first time. ‘What is IRA?’

Edgington looked at Griffin and she raised her eyebrows. Was he serious? He sat down next to the old man.

‘Terrorists,’ he said quietly.

‘What do they want, these terrorists?’

Edgington was stumped for an answer and he looked helplessly at Griffin. She shook her head, knowing that what the old man needed was sympathy and a sedative, not a political discussion. The man turned to her. ‘What do they want?’ he asked her.

‘They want British troops out of Ireland,’ she said reluctantly.

‘How does killing my family do that?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘Is there someone I can get to come and take care of you?’ she asked. ‘Do any of your family live nearby?’

‘I have no family,’ he said quietly. ‘Now I have no family. I am alone. These IRA, will you catch them?’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking him in the eye.

‘And will they be punished?’

‘Yes,’ she repeated. Lying was coming easily to her today.

‘Good,’ said the old man. He nodded as if satisfied.

The second edition was coming off the presses when Woody finally got back to the office. He slumped in his chair still wearing his raincoat. He’d spilled something down the front of it and when he dropped his head on his chest he could smell whisky. ‘What a waste,’ he mumbled.

The reporter at the desk next to his leant round a potted plant and said: ‘Simpson is after your arse, Woody.’ There was more than a hint of sadistic pleasure in his voice as he passed on the bad news. Like Woody he was a freelance and each time a freelance was shafted there was more work to go round for everyone else.