‘You need to take care,’ I say, as we stand on the corner of Dean Street and Old Compton Street, hoping to spot a black cab. ‘Don’t forget we all work for the same company.’

‘He’s such a fucking liar.’ Jess is trembling with righteous anger. ‘I couldn’t do what he does, for all the money in the world.’

Elliott has an incentive worth billions to lie to us: if the story gets out before Breitner has strong-armed Capital’s board into agreeing the takeover and locking it in, Capital’s share price will skyrocket, other potential bidders may enter the fray and it could get very messy. It could make the purchase prohibitively expensive for Breitner.

‘He’s a snake whose only interest is in protecting his boss’s fortune,’ I say. ‘Have we got enough to write the story?’

‘Of course not. Breitner has definitely been talking to Schon. But I can’t prove it’s for this deal. And Elliott gave me a categorical denial.’

‘He was fibbing. You have him bang to rights. He wouldn’t have been so on edge if not.’

But it doesn’t matter that we know we’re right. My most basic rule is that the deniability of a story is far more important than whether or not it’s actually true. I’ve lost count of the number of amazing stories I’ve never published, even though I knew they were accurate. If there is a risk that the target or subject of a story will deny it, and there is an associated risk that no one else will come forward to prove the denial is a lie, then there is no point in publishing. Goodness only knows how many nefarious activities of the great and the good of this country have been withheld from public view, because the likes of Elliott are prepared to tell egregious untruths.

There are no taxis to be found on Dean Street, so we walk back up towards Oxford Street. Elliott has also left the club and is on the pavement a few yards away, presumably waiting for his driver to bring his car around. He is facing away and can’t see us.

I’m about to steer Jess across the street – she’s capable of continuing the argument if we get too close – when I see Elliott has his Motorola handset pressed to his ear and is talking rapidly and loudly. I put my fingers to my lips and we quietly move closer.

‘Whether or not she actually knows, it’s all round the City.’ Elliott says. ‘The lanky poof simply can’t keep his mouth shut. You’d better instruct him to zip it, or the whole thing will fall apart.’