‘I get this every day from grieving families. People want to believe that death isn’t random. But usually it is, just one of those terrible and shocking things.’ She pauses. In the background I hear the hubbub of a large open-plan office. ‘You know there’s no shame in getting help, speaking to a therapist or someone who understands what you are going through?’

She says she can recommend someone who specialises in grief. I’m non-committal as I say goodbye.

Kim Jansen is right. It was a calamitous accident. My fantasy of homicidal pension fund managers who hide bike helmets was a distraction from my guilt, desperation, sadness. I do need help. I will look for it in a couple of hours in a bottle of flinty white wine.

*

Jess can see I’m fed up. ‘Not the conversation you wanted?’

‘I’ve been an idiot.’

‘You’ve had a tough time.’

‘All that stuff about pensions. Forget I said it.’

‘Right,’ she sighs. ‘Let’s pick it up later. First, you need to set off now if you’re going to make the huddle?’

‘Christ.’ I glance at my watch.

At least once a day, the political editors of the leading newspapers gather in a group to swap information and – more cancerously for the government – to agree a common line on what the story of the day should be. This pack mentality has been a disaster for the Tories, since the consensus for about three years is that the Prime Minister is comically inept, unable to maintain discipline over a chaotic party in the grip of a civil war. Generally, the serious plotting is disguised by very male joshing. I can’t really face it today, but it’s better than being left to my own thoughts.

In the corridor, the Commons postman is weaving from room to room, leaving parcels and letters in each newspaper’s basket. He is coming towards me, which means he has already deposited letters in the Sentinel’s room. Scott is their Whitehall correspondent, not a political editor, but his boss is away so it is possible he’ll be deputising in the Pol Eds’ huddle.

I wander innocently into the Sentinel’s room on the other side of the corridor. The office is empty. And at the top of the wire post tray is a battered A4 manilla envelope that catches my eye. Or rather, it’s not the envelope, but the handwriting. It’s an elegant italic script, written in fountain pen, learned by a scrupulous seven-year-old who was always impatient to grow up. Even though I haven’t seen it in years, I recognise it instantly. Every ascender in black Quink ink is perfectly vertical, every loop geometrically exact.