I glance at Sands. He refuses to make eye contact. ‘We’re supposed to be on the same team, laddie,’ says Streatham. ‘And teammates work together and trust each other. If it’s the fucking socialists feeding you this shite, you know they’re all liars, don’t you? Especially that cunt Fisher.’

Fisher, Labour’s chief spin doctor, cut his teeth as political editor of the Globe ten years ago. He and Streatham go way back. There are Fleet Street stories of Fisher disappearing for benders that lasted days on end until Streatham caught up with him and delivered him to the rehab clinic at the Minster to dry him out.

‘Where are you going with this?’

‘I’m trying to protect you, laddie. Don’t shit where you eat.’

Sands catches Streatham’s eye. ‘I’m sure you’re perfectly aware of the delicacy of this situation. Everything Jock’s said is strictly off the record, not for repetition. Obviously, Mr Breitner would never interfere in the editorial independence of the FC. All Jock is saying is that he expects the paper to only publish stories that are well-sourced and verifiable.’

He’s emollience and reason. Their double act is a cliche. Jock gives me a Chinese burn, Sands strokes me. It isn’t subtle. And it’s pissing me off.

‘Mr Streatham – Jock – we’ve never met before, and I assume you haven’t read a lot of what I write. But you and Mr Sands should know that I never write unsourced or unverified hearsay. And you have my word that when I publish this story’ – emphasis on the when – ‘there will be multiple sources, and no one will be able to deny it.’

I’m shaking inside. I’m not sure if it’s fear, or anger, or maybe it’s both. I’ve been told that when I’m riled I shout without really knowing it, and it must have come out fiercely because even Streatham looks a bit taken aback. He and Sands exchange a glance.

‘I think you understand us,’ says Streatham, in a voice that says we’re done.

I get up to go. ‘Very nice to meet you both.’

‘Mind how you go, laddie.’ Streatham gives me a cold smile that conveys precisely the opposite sentiment.

*

As soon as I’m back on the first floor, I take out the Nokia and dial. ‘Jeremy, it’s Gil.’

‘Ah.’ I’m sensing he is as excited to hear from me as he would be if I were his dentist booking him in for root canal surgery.

‘I need to ask something important.’

‘Give me a minute. I’ll ring you back from a private phone.’

Three minutes pass, during which I have ample time to reflect that Jeremy’s paranoia no longer seems as absurd as it did. When the red light twinkles I snatch the handset before it starts ringing.