‘I’m afraid not. I have documented proof. If you doubt me, perhaps you should telephone your colleague Mr Elliott.’

Breitner’s eyes dart to Streatham. I’ve got him.

‘Mr Lorimer would never print it. You’re finished.’

‘Are you threatening me with losing my job?’ I actually laugh out loud. ‘Do you honestly think I care about that? Or that I’ll have any trouble getting it into print?’

Truthfully, I am not convinced any paper would print it. There is a weird and unhealthy understanding among rival newspaper proprietors and editors that they almost never write about each other. But Breitner is less clubbable than most newspaper owners. And as I mentioned to Jess, there’s always Private Eye.

‘Except that you’re in my car,’ Breitner hisses, leaning in slightly. ‘And unless I am mistaken, I don’t see any kind of keyboard in here.’

The Merc has navigated Hyde Park Corner and is gathering pace down Park Lane and towards Knightsbridge. Past Harvey Nichols, and the Versailles of department stores, Harrods, on towards the great Victorian museums.

‘Are you trying to frighten me?’ In my head, I say – three times – you cunt, you cunt, you cunt. It’s fortunate I’m so wound up, otherwise my body might remember to be paralysed by fear.

‘Gil, my friend, you’ve been under intolerable strain,’ says Streatham. ‘You were devastated by the death of your sister, your career has not been going in the direction you wanted, your love life is a mess, you have an unfortunate drug habit. The tragic truth is that if you decided this was the moment to end it all, perhaps with an overdose, everyone – even your nearest and dearest – would understand. Though of course we’d all be terribly sad.’

Streatham is telling me this is my last chance to save myself. Thank God for my hyper-focus.

‘How naïve do you think I am? Do you believe there would be no consequences if I were to disappear? Am I the sort of person who comes into a gang fight with a water pistol?’

This is not going how Breitner expected. His knee has gone into spasm. It looks like a tic, a recognition that he is not in control of events. I am.

‘I have copies of all the relevant files.’ I can’t do anything to put Jess in danger, so I improvise. ‘They are in four separate secure locations. And I have given clear instructions that if I do not make contact for forty-eight hours, those documents are to be released to Private Eye, the BBC, the Sentinel and the Metropolitan Police. Oh, and just in case you don’t know, Kim Jansen at the Met is an old friend. I’ve already provided her with the relevant background.’