‘Morning, Neil.’

Bannerman turned from the window in time to see George Gorman drifting past. ‘Morning,’ he called after him, and watched the retreating figure as he headed for the news desk. Bannerman felt some sympathy for his news editor. Gorman was a dapper little man, good at his job without being inspired, nervous under pressure. A nice man, just waiting for the axe to fall.

It had already fallen on a number of his colleagues: John Thompson in features, Alex McGregor in sport. And there had been casualties in the reshuffle on the subs desk. It had been inevitable really, ever since it was announced that Wilson Tait was being brought up from London to fill the recently vacated editor’s chair.

The Edinburgh Post had never been able to boast a particularly high circulation. For years it had lived off its reputation as a serious newspaper of quality and reliability. It was read by politicians, members of the legal and medical professions, teachers, academics. But their patronage alone was no longer enough to balance the books. Profit was more important than prestige. Hence the appointment of Tait, a hard newspaperman of the old school; a Fleet Street-toughened Scot returning to his old hunting grounds and bringing with him his personal hard core of hatchet men whom he was moving into key editorial positions. Blood was being spilled. And only the approaching general election – just three weeks away – had provided a stay of execution for Gorman. When it was over, he would receive a quick sideways promotion to make way for one of Tait’s rising stars. And while Gorman was allowed to vegetate quietly in some out-of-the-way office with an ambiguous brief from the editor, the paper would move slowly but surely downmarket, where it would endeavour to pick up new readers, almost certainly alienating its existing readership in the process.

It was then, Bannerman thought, that he would have to consider his own future with the paper. Though that was already in doubt. He and Tait had clashed almost immediately over Bannerman’s role with the Post. And there was no love lost between them.

The phone rang on Bannerman’s desk. ‘Bannerman.’

‘Good morning, Neil. You’re in early.’

Bannerman smiled. ‘What is it, Alison?’

‘The editor wants you.’

‘You mean he’s in early, too?’

‘Ha, ha.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

Alison smiled up at him when he came into her office. ‘Set your alarm an hour early by mistake?’

Bannerman grinned. She was a good-looking girl, easygoing but very efficient. ‘Actually I came in early to ask you if you might be free tonight.’

‘Oh, that’s nice. I am actually. But you’re not.’

Bannerman frowned. ‘Oh? You know something I don’t?’

‘Only that you’ll be too busy packing. I’ve just booked you on the first flight to Brussels in the morning.’ She nodded towards the editor’s door. ‘Orders from His Imperial Highness.’