I put down the phone and stare out of the Burma Road’s neo-Gothic mullioned windows, at an identical set of windows across the yard. A wave of exhaustion comes over me and slows my thoughts. Why is it so hard to do this one final thing for my sister? The two-day-old Evening Standard is open on my desk, with Muller’s face – so much more knowing than when we ran our dope rota – taunting me. He’s not looking at the camera: half-turned, it is as if someone out of shot has just said something to him.

Come on Robin, talk to me, for old times’ sake. It is irksome that Muller has worked out that the best policy of dealing with the press is never to engage. Many people, who quite frankly should know better, get a thrill from talking to journalists like me and from the knowledge they’ve played a secret role in a story that causes a sensation. I don’t pretend to understand the psychology of those who leak to me just for the hell of it, but I am grateful to them: I’d be out of a job without them. And thanks to years of learning how to persuade them to say more than they planned, I have a ruse to get Muller to spill. I will imply to him that others are talking and that he is damaging himself by keeping shtum. But first I have to somehow get him on the end of a phone.

It’s 10.30 in the morning and the only other person in the cavernous room is the political correspondent of the Western Mail, who is pounding the keyboard with the fury of a young reporter terrified of missing the deadline. He won’t pay any attention to me. I won’t be overheard.

I take out my Nokia and dial.

‘Boss,’ she says brightly.

‘You sound cheerful.’

‘Well, I was. What’s happening?’

‘Are you still following the Capital deal?’

‘Course.’ It’s the biggest story in the City right now, and the politics of Breitner becoming so powerful are seismic.

‘Tell me about the role Schon is playing.’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Breitner wants the deal so he’s hired Schon. Schon are never on the losing side.’

‘There’s something else, I’m sure of it.’

‘That’s not a lot to work on.’

‘I know. Sorry. The partner on the deal is Robin Muller?’

‘Yes, Muller. Classic public school wanker. Though brighter than most.’

‘I knew him at university.’

‘You mean you knew him at Oxford. I hate it when people like you say “university”.’

People like me. Ha.

‘Muller won’t take my calls. He’s avoiding me. Which tells me there is something dodgy.’

‘But what?’ she asks.

‘You remember that pensions story we looked at.’

‘You’re not still on it?’ I hear concern in her voice. ‘Gil, Lorimer told you to back off.’