I look around for witnesses. None. Without pausing, I scoop up the envelope and return to my desk. From the creases in the paper, it looks as though it has been stuck in the system for a while. Parliament’s post room was shut down for a couple of days the previous week, following accusations from a couple of Tory MPs – denied by the posties – of pilfering and petty theft. The postmen walked out in high dudgeon. And this letter has probably been in limbo since then.

Jess sees it, and me.

‘What’s that?’

I check no one is in earshot. ‘It’s something my sister sent to our friend from the Sentinel.’

‘Am I right to assume he doesn’t know you’ve got it?’

‘I think that would be reasonable.’

‘Gil!’

‘Let’s open it, shall we?’

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

JESS SLITS THE ENVELOPE WITH the office scissors and pulls out the papers. On the top sheet, the first words are the ones that are irresistible to us: Highly confidential.

She pulls the lot out. My pulse quickens, the familiar excitement of a scoop in the making. It is the sensation of trowel chinking against treasure in an archaeological dig. This habitual thrill that never wanes is why I am still a journalist, when so many of my contemporaries have quit for the bigger bucks of public relations. I’ll never tire of revealing what a powerful person wants hidden, depriving them of the control over whether they disclose their secrets and their proprietary information. It is how hacks like Jess and me level the playing field between the rulers and the ruled, the bosses and the bossed.

Even by my amoral standards, stealing a letter that was sent to a rival journalist by a whistleblower is – well – unorthodox. Not amoral. Immoral, despite the whistleblower being my dead sister.

Jess reads the full title.

‘Options for Reforming or Abolishing the Dividend Tax Credit.’

I take it out of her hands and flick through it. It’s a forty-odd page photocopied document and, at first glance, the cover does not lie. It seems to be all about tax credits for pension funds. I don’t understand.

‘What the hell is this?’ My blast of excitement has faded. And I’m late for the Political Editors’ chinwag.

‘Leave it with me. I’ll look it over while you’re in the huddle.’

I slip in late to the Globe’s room. A half dozen other editors or their deputies are already there. With Wilkinson are the Mirror, The Times, the Telegraph, the Mail and the Sentinel, represented by Scott. He gives me an embarrassed look, but both of us pretend our contretemps never happened.

‘Glad you could honour us with your presence,’ says Wilkinson.

‘Sorry, Kevin.’

‘Don’t sweat. We’ve just been organising a little sweepstake on when Ramsey will announce the election.’

‘I’ll take Monday,’ I say, too quickly, drawing a quizzical look from Wilkinson.