‘It’s obvious. The government dropped the policy because it didn’t want to be seen to be punishing pensioners ahead of a general election. Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is the truth.’

I reflexively stand up in exasperation. ‘My dad used to say that Occam’s razor is just an excuse for shallow thinking.’

I think I hear Lorimer grinding his teeth. ‘Well, we’re going to have to agree to disagree.’

‘Does that mean you’ll agree to let me pursue the story?’ Of course it doesn’t: I’m not obtuse. But I want to make him say it.

‘It means I’m telling you to leave this story alone. Apart from anything else, there’s an election on, you’re the political editor, and that’s the biggest story you’ll have this year. You haven’t got time for this nonsense.’

‘You’re the boss.’

‘I’m afraid so.’ He breathes outs heavily, as though relieved. ‘Let’s have a fun dinner as soon as the election is over.’

I hear the click as he hangs up.

My sensible sister died with the equivalent of eight glasses of wine in her system, carrying a child by an unknown father. She’d been working on a policy that could have cost some of the most powerful men in the country billions of pounds. And my employer is somehow up to his own neck in this.

‘Fuck you, Lorimer,’ I say to the ringtone of the handset. ‘And if you’re listening, fuck you, Jimmy Breitner.’

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

‘YOU’RE TOO CLOSE TO THE kerb!’ Jess shrieks. ‘Please remind me never to get in a car with you again.’

She’s not the first of my passengers to regret the offer of a ride. What they hate is that I drive the battered blue Peugeot hatchback like I ride my bike. I don’t quite take it up on the pavement to get around traffic, or routinely run red lights, but I am impatient and can be aggressive when overtaking on the outside – or the inside.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my driving.’

‘Er, more or less everything is wrong with your driving. How on earth did you pass your test?’

‘A posh accent, and sexism. I simply persuaded the examiner I was the sort of man who ought to have a licence.’ I am only half joking. My driving instructor was horrified I passed.

‘Sexism and a posh accent’ she repeats. ‘Jesus. Welcome to how Britain works.’

We’re crawling along the Embankment towards Blackfriars in rush-hour traffic. It’s early evening, grey sky, lights gradually being switched on. Our destination is north east London, Wood Green.

‘You never slow down, do you?’

‘I’m going about ten miles an hour.’

‘I’m talking about the way you work. The editor has told you to back off. Streatham has said the same. And you just keep going.’

‘And you wouldn’t?’

‘Dunno.’