Why has Wilkinson brought this up? I remember what Bob Ringer said, about Kendall not being able to keep his trousers on. I wonder what Ringer knows about the memo, whether he has a copy.

‘Is there anything in it about Kendall?’

‘That’s my understanding.’

‘Which is to say . . .?’

‘We’re pretty sure that it says he is a pathological shagger. But absent the memorandum, we haven’t got the detail. Yet.’

‘Yet?’

‘We’ve had one of our paps stake him out.’ The Globe thrives on offerings from paparazzi. ‘We’ve got a couple of pictures that aren’t conclusive, but they are, how can I put this, suggestive.’

‘Can I see them?’

By now, Wilkinson’s face is half hidden in a haze of smoke. ‘We’re not in the business of giving stories away. Even if we are all on Breitner’s team. Internal competition and all that.’

I don’t like being reminded of our institutional link. ‘I gave you Jackie Elstree’s toy boy.’

‘And I am grateful. But it’s not in the same league as an exclusive about the bonking chancellor. If we can prove it. Just imagine what we’d do with it.’

I certainly can. CHANCELLOR OF  THE SEX-CHEQUER. KENDALL’S MINT BABE. The cheeky girl on page 5 saying ‘Keith Kendall’s certainly raised my interest rate.’ A classic in the making.

‘What if we collaborate?’ I venture, tentatively. ‘If I can stand it up, I’ll give you everything I have, and we can do the story at the same time.’

‘Nah. We get first dibs. You’ll report it as a Globe exclusive.’

He knows he has me over a barrel. Which is why he’s remained top of his game for so long. ‘OK. Deal.’

He stubs out his ciggie. ‘Give me five minutes.’

Through the glass wall, I watch him go to the centre of the newsroom and start a conversation with a grey-haired man in pinstripe trousers and shirtsleeves. Together, they walk to the far side of the office where there is what looks like a safe. I watch, intrigued. That safe is famous on Fleet Street. Rumour has it that it’s stuffed full of cash that Globe hacks can take out and deploy to buy stories. No fingerprints, no trail, no questions asked. Annoyingly, from where I am I can’t see inside.

The safe door opens, closes, and Wilkinson saunters back holding a slim cardboard file. He locks eyes with me. ‘If you write one word about this without telling me first . . .’

‘You have my word.’

‘And I know where you live.’

He opens the file and examines the contents for a moment, then passes it across the desk. I almost drop it in my excitement.

There are five pages of contact sheets, and half a dozen larger prints. Post-it notes are attached to the A4 copies giving date and time. Each of them shows the front of a substantial Georgian terraced house.

‘That’s Kendall’s place in Chelsea,’ says Wilkinson. ‘Cheyne Walk. Rich bastard.’