That triggers a smug smile which I try to hide. The story I got out of Tony Cannon – Labour’s commitment not to increase either the basic or top rate of tax – has had a lot of play since it was splashed on the front page of the FC. Every other paper had to follow it up and for a couple of days it dominated the TV and radio news agenda. It is the sort of coup which does not go unbegrudged.

‘I can’t remember where I first read that tale,’ says Wilkinson. ‘Probably in one of the Labour rags’.

‘Ha ha, Trevor,’ I say.

‘I can’t see Ramsey pledging a reduction in taxes,’ says the man from the Telegraph. ‘They’re running a deficit. If they promise to slash a penny or two off the basic rate, Labour will say the Tories can’t make their sums add up.’

‘Well, if they are not going into an election on a promise to cut taxes, that’s a story.’

The scheming intensifies, though I’m only half paying attention. I’m distracted by the thought of what was in the envelope. My distinguished colleagues agree the line: fury with Ramsey from Tory MPs and candidates for his refusal to pledge tax cuts, a fury we’ll cynically foment. Deal done, I rush back to the office.

The rest of my team has drifted in, filling up the space around the central table and depriving Jess and me of privacy. I trust them, but this is not a conversation I can have in front of others. Jess gives me a meaningful look.

‘Shall we go for a coffee?’

*

We are in Strangers cafeteria, on the Thames side of Parliament. It is a relic of the 1950s, with its dark-brown wood tables and strip lighting. Strangers is the only place in Parliament where there is little conspicuous hierarchy: on the other tables are policemen, clerks, cleaners and caterers. Even the odd MP. We grab a table by the window, from where we can see the river and on the other side, fringed by trees, the white cubes of St Thomas’s Hospital. Too raw. I angle my chair so that I don’t have to look at it.

I clasp my hands around my mug of stewed black coffee, taking comfort from the warmth.

‘What have you learned?’

Jess lays out the papers on the table. ‘This is a fascinating document. But there is bad news.’

‘You’d better start with that, then.’

‘I can’t for the life of me see anything that would give any clue to what happened to Clare.’

I am unsurprised. Treasury policy papers aren’t normally a trail to unexplained death.

‘Did you say there was good news?’

‘Well, only to confirm something you know. Your sister was brilliant.’

My pavlovian response is a proud smile. ‘Well?’

Jess settles back in her chair. ‘How much do you know about pensions?’