‘Jess, you know there is a bloody amazing story here. We’d want to stand it up, whether or not it involved my sister.’

I hit the brake a bit too hard because I misjudged the turning of an amber light to red.

‘Jesus, Gil!’ She grips her seat. ‘The first lesson you taught me was never to let any story become personal. You said the rubbish journalists are those who don’t know when to drop an investigation. We’re never going to get this in print. We should drop it.’

She may be right, but I won’t debate it.

I drift absent-mindedly to the left, which elicits a long beep from a Ford Mondeo. As the Mondeo accelerates past, through the window I see the driver shouting something. I am not minded to work out what he’s saying. Jess is holding the handle above the window with grim determination.

‘It’s Lorimer I’m most surprised by. People like Sands and Streatham are paid to be cunts. But I took Lorimer at his word when he said the paper’s independence was worth more to him than his job.’

Jess shoots me a sideways look. ‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.’

I’m startled by a motor cyclist who shoots in front of me. ‘Shit!’ I shout. ‘Sorry, go on.’

‘I read something I shouldn’t have done. And the moment I tell you, I am breaching confidentiality. I’m breaking company rules.’

‘Yeah, but no one will know. Spit it out.’

We’ve crossed Pentonville Road and are on Islington High Street. Traffic has thinned out and I drive with fewer manoeuvres. Jess relaxes a little.

‘You know the fax machine we use has almost the same number as the one in Lorimer’s office?’

‘Yup.’ The fax numbers are identical, except that ours ends with an 8 and Lorimer’s with a 9. On a few occasions, a fax has come through for Lorimer on our machine because someone pressed the wrong button. Generally we find out when Lorimer’s PA comes racing to our office, red-faced and swearing.

‘An intriguing fax turned up yesterday. Addressed to Lorimer and marked “confidential”. I couldn’t resist giving it a quick once-over.’

‘Naturally.’

‘The heading was “Media Corp Share Option Scheme 1997”. There was a covering letter and several pages of technical detail.’

Another traffic light is on orange, but this time I accelerate rather than brake.

‘It included his personal allocation of Media Corp options.’ She reaches down to the rucksack in the footwell and pulls out a piece of paper. ‘It’s probably easier if I read you what it says.’

I take my eyes off the road and glance at her with a mix of pride and anticipation. ‘Please tell me you didn’t half-inch a private letter to the editor?’

‘Of course not,’ she says indignantly. ‘I left it exactly where I found it. After I’d taken a photocopy.’