She taps on Mr Pickford’s door and pushes it open. The room is even thicker with smoke than the hall. She presses a gloved hand to her nose. He is standing, hands on hips, cigarette in his mouth, staring down at some papers on his desk.

‘Mr Pickford, I have a story.’

‘How decent of you to show up, Miss Littlemore. I assumed you weren’t coming in today. What are you doing here?’ He barely raises his eyes from the desk.

‘It sounds interesting to me, sir,’ Jimmy says at her shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should let her tell you about it.’ He closes the door behind them.

Pickford lifts a hand, and she supposes this means she should speak. Still, he stares at the papers in front of him.

She opens her handbag and removes her notebook, talking as she does so, before he changes his mind. ‘Mr Enderby, he owns a jewellery shop on Gloucester Road, he lost three sons in the war. I watched a couple – a young woman and a man – run off with trays of jewellery. They had a motorcar pick them up. A Vauxhall it was. She was wearing a lovely coat, it looked like Poiret, or possibly –’

Now he lifts his head to stare at her.

‘Would you slow down, Miss Littlemore?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Pickford. It’s just that this is so very important.’

‘Important to you, yes, I can see that. But if you can be more precise in your retelling, then I can judge whether it will also be important to our readers.’

Harriet takes a breath and begins to explain what happened, as carefully and as slowly as she can. She tells him not only what she saw, but what Mr Enderby has told the police. Mr Pickford does, to his credit, pay attention.

‘And I think this was the same girl who stole the mink coat from Hartleys,’ she finishes. ‘One of the Forty Thieves.’

‘Perhaps we should let the police decide,’ Pickford says, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for another.

‘They are becoming a menace,’ she says, gazing at her notes. ‘I understand larger stores are employing store walkers to watch out for thieves. They swarm over the river from Southwark, like rats.’

Pickford catches Jimmy’s eye.

‘Well, I don’t think that two thieves can be classed as a swarm, Harriet,’ Jimmy says. ‘Although Mr Enderby is lucky not to have been hurt.’

‘He was hurt,’ she says. ‘He’s not a well man. And his daughter will have nightmares, I just know it.’

‘Possibly,’ he says, turning away and opening the door to the hall. ‘But our job is reporting, not speculating. Concentrate on the facts for a news piece.’ He wanders back to his desk, threading his way between the other reporters, collects his notebook and pencil and then slips out.