‘Christ, Ellen, these people. They come over here, we give them homes, we give them money, and still they want more. If they don’t like this country the way it is, why don’t they just get the hell out and go back to where they came from?’

‘He’s still in shock, poor man,’ said Ellen. ‘His whole family was wiped out. Think how he must feel.’

‘That was four months ago, Ellen. And there have been what, two or three bombs since then. And how many other victims? Yet you don’t hear their relatives demanding that we pull in IRA members off the street and pull out their fingernails.’

‘He wasn’t actually saying that, Sir John. He was . . .’

The MP snorted angrily. ‘Bullshit! That’s exactly what he wanted. And can you imagine what the Press would do if they even thought we were considering something like that? They’d scream “Big Brother” and “Violation of Human Rights” and you know they would. Remember Gibraltar? They don’t think about the people whose lives were saved when the SAS stopped the car bomb from being detonated. All they remember is the IRA being shot while they were on the ground. Remember the uproar over the Belgrano?’

Ellen didn’t argue. She knew full well that there was no point in taking sides against her boss. She was there to learn from him, not to antagonise him. She smiled and brushed a loose strand of hair off her face. ‘I’ll get the next one in for you,’ she said sweetly while wondering how such a racist could ever get elected. There was so much she still had to learn, she realised.

Jon Simpson took the call from the uniformed security guard at reception. ‘There’s a chap down here wants to speak to a reporter,’ he said gruffly.

‘What about?’ asked Simpson.

‘Dunno,’ said the guard.

‘Do me a favour and ask him, will you?’ sighed Simpson. The security guards weren’t paid for brain power, just for bulk, but there were times when Simpson wished they were a mite brighter. There was a pause before the guard’s laconic voice returned.

‘Says it’s about the bombs.’

Simpson felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The IRA bombing campaign had been going on for more than four months and the police seemed to be no nearer catching the bombers. Maybe the punter downstairs held the key, it was amazing the number of times that they came to the paper rather than going straight to the police. Or perhaps it wasn’t so surprising – the paper paid handsomely for information. The news editor looked around the newsroom to see who was free and his eyes settled on Woody who was reading the Daily Star and picking his teeth with a plastic paper-clip. It had taken Woody weeks of plaintive phone calls before Simpson had allowed him to start shifting again and only after he’d promised not to drink on the job. Not to excess, anyway. Expecting Woody not to drink at all was asking the impossible. And he was a bloody good journalist.