Jimmy Cartwright breezes in, a leather satchel slung across his body as always, and heads straight for his desk without speaking.

Harriet feeds a sheet of paper into her typewriter, observing him. He throws the bag on his desk and pulls out his notebook, oblivious of everything around him. He is like this when he is investigating. This is not reporting; it is scenting out news, and he is like a dog after a fox. When he is writing about something that has already happened – the robbery at Mr Enderby’s, for instance – he is gregarious. He laughs with the other men, slaps them on the back, hail-fellow-well-met. But when he is investigating, operating on a hunch, a tip from an informant, an overheard conversation, a whisp of a story on the wind, Jimmy becomes withdrawn, secretive, focused.

Harriet pulls the sheet out of the typewriter, feeds it in a second time – straighter – and taps the carriage return twice. She puts her fingers to the keys, pauses, then types: ‘The Cocktail Hour’. She will write a piece about the American Bar at the Savoy.

Jimmy is flicking through his notebook, a well-chewed pencil between his teeth.

The clock on the office wall tells her that it is already nearly eleven. She has written only three words. It is time to go and make the morning tea.

When she reaches Jimmy’s desk with the tray, she sees that he has finished reading his notes and has pulled a copy of the Daily Express from his satchel. She puts a cup of tea in front of him.

‘Thank you.’

‘Are you seeking inspiration?’

‘Just seeing what they’re leading with today. How about you?’ He folds the newspaper and drops it on the corner of the desk. ‘Are you still basking in adulation for your girl-thief article?’

She feels the heat rising at her neck. ‘No. Not really. I had some letters… Mr Pickford…’

‘Good. I’m glad. It was a great piece. Are you following it up?’

The compliment is unexpected. ‘No. At least, not immediately,’ she flusters. ‘I’m back to the women’s section. Trying to conjure something breathlessly exciting.’

‘Hats or handbags?’ he laughs, not unkindly.

‘I thought I’d try cocktails.’

‘Really? For the matrons of Holland Park? Audacious.’

She giggles. ‘I know. My mother and her friends will have kittens. What about you? You were distracted when you came in. What are you chasing? A murder?’

‘Corruption.’

‘My father is always fulminating about corruption, usually from behind the Times, over the breakfast table. What is it now? More American businessmen paying to become peers?’

‘Viscount Astor, you mean?’ His eyebrows raise. ‘That was a couple of years ago, and I’d hardly call his peerage corruption.’

‘My father would disagree. Says he bought his title when the war was at its height. That greedy Yankee, he calls him.’