‘I never knew why the money needed to be handed over.’

‘Well, that’s convenient for you. I’m telling you now, you were paying off a thug. A hitman.’ I have to summon all my self-control. ‘You realise you are an accessory to the killing of my sister?’

‘I don’t believe you! I was just doing what I was told.’

‘That’s your defence? Pathetic. Who gave you your orders?’ I am so wound up that my early warning system fails.

‘I did, of course.’

The menacing Glasgow Gorbals accent. Shit.

I turn to face Jock Streatham. He’s wearing a grey suit with a faint lilac check in it, a Tory-blue knitted silk tie, and black Gucci slip-ons, polished so bright they reflect the overhead lights. His sharp-edged cheekbones, normally a pallid white, are pinkish, as though he’s recently done vigorous exercise.

And he’s brought company. A little way back – but not too far – stand two sharp-suited minders who, like Streatham, have skinhead haircuts. They are the kind of security guards who’ve recently retired from those parts of the armed forces that specialise in hurting people with close, unarmed combat. I’m trapped.

‘I suppose you rang him while you were in your office,’ I say to Wilkinson. But that can’t be right. There’s no way Streatham could have got here so quickly.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ says Streatham. ‘He rang me as soon as you said you needed ten grand. Do you think Kevin has the authority to hand over that kind of money to any Tom, Dick or flying woofta?’

Wilkinson suddenly looks grey and old. ‘What was all that about you and I being the same kind of trouble-making journalists?’ I say to him. ‘You’re just another company man. You might as well be in PR.’

‘Don’t be an arsehole, Gil,’ says Streatham. The minders move a couple of steps closer. ‘Let’s go somewhere we can have a chat.’

‘Fine,’ I mutter.

We leave Wilkinson standing by the open safe. If there’s honour among thieves like me, he should feel ashamed. But I’m not banking on it. Streatham leads me across the newsroom, with his two minders in lockstep behind. The night editors are nowhere to be seen; I presume they’ve been ordered to make themselves scarce. There are no witnesses.

‘Mr Breitner had high hopes for you, Gilbert,’ says Streatham, calling the elevator. ‘He still does. He thinks you’re a fine journalist, maybe even editor material. But he is worried you are not seeing things properly.’

‘I think I’m seeing things with great clarity.’ I consider telling him how much I know, and the evidence I collected from Elliott’s holdall, but I think better of it. I don’t want to endanger Jess. And, right now, my assumption is that professions of ignorance are more likely to keep me safe.

The elevator doors open. The minders are immediately behind me, leaving me no option but to get in.