‘Why are they calling you?’ says Jess, annoyed. Even on the cusp of the twenty-first century, political journalism is still a boys’ game.

I answer. ‘Gil Peck.’

‘Glad I caught you,’ says a familiar and unexpected voice. ‘What’s this I hear about a pensions story you’ve got hold of?’

I cover the microphone with my hand. ‘It’s Kendall,’ I mouth.

Jess acts out a silent theatrical scream. Why on earth has the Chancellor rung me rather than instructing a flunky to do so?

‘The story will be in tomorrow’s papers,’ I say matter-of-factly. ‘Would you like to give me some background?’

I’m expecting the usual flim-flam, another variant on the ‘we don’t comment on speculation’ line. But instead he says, ‘What is the point of a story about something that’s not happening?’ Even on the tinny phone line, I can hear the frustration in his voice.

I am unsure how to respond. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This policy you’ve been asking questions about – it’s not going to happen. Something that didn’t happen isn’t news. So why would you write about it?’

‘Because it was going to happen and it is a sensible reform, but you backed off. Care to tell me why?’

My attitude only seems to infuriate him. ‘How did you find out about it? Did Clare leave confidential papers at home? If you are using them, that would be a breach of the Official Secrets Act.’

This raising of the stakes knocks me back.

‘I – I have no idea what you are talking about,’ I stutter.

‘There were documents missing from her desk. If you’ve got hold of something you shouldn’t –’

‘What are you suggesting?’ I ask, forcefully now. I am annoyed.

‘Think of your sister’s reputation. Why would you want her dragged into this?’

He really ought to know – every politician ought to know – that if you want to kill a story, never intimidate the journalist. Nothing gets my back up more than being told what to do.

‘I’m going to run this story,’ I say firmly, my jaw tightening as I struggle to keep my composure. ‘It’ll be on the front page of the FC in the morning. And if you try to pin this in any way on Clare, or imply she did anything inappropriate . . .’ A significant pause. ‘Well, maybe there are some things she did tell me that I would write about.’

That last line is an entirely empty threat. I’ve only said it to warn him off. But it lands harder than I expected. Kendall goes silent. I hear a thud in the background, the sound of a desk or a filing cabinet taking a kicking.

‘Now,’ I say, a model professional again, ‘do you want to give me a quote?’

Silence. Then, with a terse ‘No comment’, he hangs up.

I press the red button. Only then do I realise I’m shaking.