‘I’ll think about where we place it. But don’t take the files anywhere near the office,’ I say. ‘Just get them home. Photocopy the lot and draft a potential news story and an inside-page explainer.’

‘But we’ve stolen the documents. How can we use them?’

‘There’s a clear public interest defence. And any complaint by Breitner or Media Corp would be confirmation of their authenticity. Breitner is toast.’

For the first time in weeks, I feel less like prey and more like the hunter. Jess wouldn’t mind settling the odd score either.

‘What was it Elliott said to me when I asked him in The Groucho if Breitner was planning a bid for Capital? “Crock of shit”, or something like that? I’d so love to see his face when we run this.’

‘At least now we know why it was so important for him to lie about it.’ There’s so much to talk through. ‘If it’s OK with you, I’ll swing by later and we can take stock.’

She looks bemused. ‘What on earth are you going to do before that?’

‘Wilkinson.’ The files can seriously damage Breitner, perhaps even bring him down, but they don’t prove the link between him and Clare. Outside I can hear the sounds of loud drunk people hailing cabs. The party’s thinning out: if Wilkinson hasn’t left already, he will soon. I have to get back.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Jess offers.

‘He’s less likely to open up in front of witnesses. But there is something you can do for me.’ My mind is racing ahead, formulating wild plans. ‘If you get a call from me in the next couple of hours, don’t speak. Hang up and ring Kevin’s direct line at the Globe. I may need you to distract him.’ I scribble his number on a page of my notebook and hand it to her. ‘As for all this stuff, take the documents with you but leave the bag behind and everything else in it. Well, maybe take the baggie. If you can find a way to hide his holdall before you leave, so much the better.’

I leave her and run back upstairs.

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

THE MOB IN THE LIVERY hall has thinned out. The guests have reconstituted themselves into small intimate groups, like gaggles of geese around an artificial lake. I can’t spot Marilyn and I wonder, with a pang of jealousy, if she’s found someone else to de-stress with. As someone whose formative years were the free-love 1970s, I shouldn’t begrudge Marilyn disappearing to shag someone else. But I do.