Wilkinson takes out the box. ‘I’m not going to give you the full ten grand tonight. Tell your source he can have two grand up front and the rest on delivery.’

I nod. Almost instantaneously there is the faint but unmistakeable sound of a landline ringing. To Wilkinson, it is as distinct as a dog whistle. ‘That’s funny,’ he says. ‘That’s the phone in my office. I’d better take it. Might be the boss.’ He looks rattled. The chain of authority in this place is clear.

He closes the safe door, but doesn’t lock it, and almost jogs the twenty yards to his room. Over his shoulder he shouts, ‘Keep your hands off the money! I know how much is there.’

As soon as he’s looking the other way, I reach across to the box and take out the ledger. It’s thick with entries. What I have in my hands is the Boys’ Book of Bungs. In normal circumstances I would be orgasming at the thought of it, scanning every entry to see who the Globe paid for what story. But I have no time. Goodness alone knows what fiction Jess has concocted to keep Wilkinson on the phone, but at some point he’ll smell a rat and rush back.

The ledger is in my lap and I have my back to Wilkinson’s office so he can’t see what I’m doing. Even so, I have to be quick. Heart in mouth, I go to the last page of entries and skim. There are withdrawals most days, typically for two hundred quid or less. For each entry, there’s a date, an amount, a codeword or number, and then the initials of the employee making the withdrawal. This is double-entry bookkeeping that shows the cost of outing cocaine-snorting soap stars and two-timing celebrities.

There’s no date on the envelope we found in Deyna’s house, but I can guess when the money would have changed hands. Clare’s ‘accident’ was on the third of March: and there, on the very same day, I find what I’m looking for, the only entry for which there’s no description, just a blank space. Five thousand pounds. No code number, but two angular initials scored in blue biro for the authorisation. ‘KW.’

‘Kevin Wilkinson,’ I mutter under my breath.

‘For fuck’s sake, Peck, I told you not to touch anything.’

Wilkinson looms over me. I was too engrossed to hear his return over the hum of air-conditioning. I stand up, refusing to be intimidated.

‘Why did you take out five grand on the third of March?’ I ask. ‘What was it for? Who did you give the money to?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘You’re wrong. That money was for the man who killed my sister. I have every right to know your role in this.’