When the phone on his desk rang, George Gorman was preparing the schedule to be typed up for the five o’clock conference. He was harassed. It had been one of those afternoons. Five dead in a fire in Glasgow; the Prime Minister’s press conference to be held before his election rally at the Usher Hall; a ScotNat MP claiming a political motive behind a burglary at his home. Important documents on the SNP’s election strategy were missing, he claimed. There were the diary entries for the daily round of press conferences each party insisted on giving in the run-up to polling day. And he had two reporters off sick. But if he were to stop and think about it, this was how Gorman liked it.

‘Dave!’ he barked, as a copy boy dropped long, ragged-edged sheets of pink paper on his desk. A young reporter with a thick dark moustache and a broken nose ambled across the newsroom. Gorman held out the pink sheets. ‘Press Association copy on the fire. Better check we’ve got it all.’

‘Course we have!’ The reporter grinned and ambled back to his seat.

Finally Gorman picked up the phone. ‘News desk.’

‘George?’

‘Neil?’

‘Listen, I’m in a hurry . . .’

‘Hold it, hold it! Where in the name of the wee man have you been, Neil? Tait’s been looking for you for the last two days. Ever since Slater’s girl went missing.’

‘You know about that?’ Bannerman was surprised.

‘They told Tait. But he won’t run anything. He’s been going spare, and I’ve been getting the shit end of the stick all day every day. Where have you been?’

‘I don’t have time to go into it. I want a number from my contacts book.’

Gorman interrupted. ‘Fuck sake, Neil, you’ve got to talk to Tait.’

‘I’m through talking with Tait, George. I guess he didn’t tell you I’m on notice?’

Gorman’s mouth fell open ‘You’re joking.’ Then, ‘Yours or his?’

‘Probably both. We had a little disagreement in Brussels. But I don’t suppose he would tell you about that either. When I’ve filed this story, George, I’m through.’ Gorman heard him draw breath. ‘But that’s neither here nor there. I need that number. A guy called Hector Lewis. He’s got a small enterprise in Geneva which does company searches, among other things. I need to get in touch with him tonight. The book’s in my desk drawer.’

Gorman was still in shock. He and Bannerman went back a long way. ‘Hold on.’

He made his way across the newsroom. In the last week he had missed the familiar sight of the cantankerous Bannerman sitting at his desk, shouting at copy boys and being thoroughly objectionable. It didn’t seem possible that he might not be back. And he wondered when it would be his turn.