‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘IRA bomb. A big one. Knightsbridge.’

‘Christ. How many dead?’

‘They’re saying twelve now, no make that thirteen, but they’re still counting. Get out there and get the colour. Link up with the monkeys while you’re there, they’ll need their captions written.’ Woody heard Simpson call out for the names of the photographers. ‘Dave Wilkins is the staffer, find him,’ he said.

‘I’m on my way,’ said Woody and hung up.

He took the glass off the bar and swallowed it down in one.

‘You off, Woody?’ said the barmaid, surprised.

‘Duty calls, darling,’ he said. ‘Can you cash me a cheque?’

‘Fifty?’ she asked.

‘Fifty is magic. You’re a life-saver. If ever that husband of yours . . .’

She waved him away and counted out the notes as Woody handed over the cheque.

‘See you later,’ he said, and walked down the dimly lit corridor and out of the pub door into the street. He turned right and walked the short distance to The Highway and hailed a cab heading towards the City.

The driver looked over his shoulder when Woody told him where he wanted to go. ‘We’ll never get near the place, mate,’ he said. ‘There’s a bomb gone off.’

‘Yeah I know,’ said Woody. ‘I’m a reporter.’

‘OK,’ said the cabbie and sped off down the road. ‘Which paper d’yer work for then?’

‘Sunday World,’ replied Woody.

‘Yeah?’ said the cabbie. ‘What happened? Page Three girl killed was she?’ His deep-throated laughter echoed around the cab.

They hit unmoving traffic long before they reached Knightsbridge and though the cabbie tried to find a way through the side-streets they were soon helplessly locked in.

‘Best I can do,’ said the driver apologetically, his professional pride wounded.

‘No sweat,’ said Woody, getting out. He handed a ten-pound note through the window. ‘I’ll walk from here. Call it a tenner and give me a receipt, please.’

‘Clamping down on expenses, are they?’

‘Yeah, tell me about it.’

The cabbie signed a receipt and handed it to Woody. Then as an afterthought he ripped off a few blank receipts from his pad. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘fill these in yourself.’

‘You’re a prince,’ said Woody, and put them gratefully into his raincoat pocket.

He began to jog slowly towards the sound of sirens, his feet slapping on the wet pavement and his raincoat flapping behind him. Despite the cold he soon worked up a sweat. Ian Wood was not a fit man. He was slightly overweight but that wasn’t the problem, he was out of condition because he never took any exercise, hadn’t since his schooldays.

The police had cordoned off the area around the store and a burly sergeant blocked his way when he tried to duck under the barrier. He fished out his yellow plastic Metropolitan Police Press card and after the copper had scrutinised it he was waved through.

It was a scene from hell. Wrecked cars were strewn across the road, still smoking and hissing. There was an assortment of emergency vehicles, all with their doors open, radios crackling and lights flashing. There were two fire engines though their hoses were still in place, unused. There had obviously been a number of small fires burning but the firemen had used extinguishers to put them out. There were half a dozen ambulances, and as Woody walked towards the police top brass one of them pulled away and its siren kicked into life. Something squelched under Woody’s shoe and he looked down. He was standing on a hand. It was a small girl’s hand, the skin white and unlined, the nails bitten to the quick. The hand was attached to a forearm but that was all, it ended in a ragged, bloody mess at the point where there should have been an elbow. Woody’s stomach heaved and he pulled his foot away with a jerk, a look of horror on his face.