As soon as he sees me, he juts his jaw forward. ‘Erm, rumour has it you had a decent story spiked last week,’ he says, as I squeeze into the chair next to him.

‘It happens.’

‘Something to do with pension tax credits?’

I’m not surprised it’s out. Someone in the Treasury press office has been gossiping. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I say, trying to ignore his accusatory stare. ‘Kendall was working up a policy to snatch five billion pounds of tax credits bunged at pension funds. But he dropped it.’

‘Yes. I was aware.’ Scott is being eaten up by the disappearance of the package he expected from Clare. I can’t reassure him.

‘So we’ve been working along similar lines,’ I say, as if this is a revelation. ‘Do you think we should ask a question about it this morning?’

Under that ragged haircut, his pale skin has flushed red. He’s not sure if I am playing him.

‘Erm . . . Why?’

‘Labour need to raise money somehow to pay for their campaign promises. They’ve ruled out raising income tax. The pensions wheeze would be perfect for them.’

Scott looks down at the doodles he’s been making on his notepad. The idea of collaborating with me goes against his instincts.

‘Look, we might neither of us get a question,’ I say. ‘But if one of us does, let’s ask about the tax credit. Unless you’ve got a better line you want to put to them.’

He fidgets as though uncomfortable. He knows I am being rational. ‘Fine.’

It’s almost 9 a.m. A hush descends on the room as Todd and his de facto number two, the Shadow Chancellor, Neville Tudor, walk out of the wings and take their places behind the desk on the podium. The photographers surge to the front like hounds, all pushing as close as possible to get the best shot. The room is filled with shutter clicks, the whirring of automatic wind-on, and flashes. It’s a feeding frenzy. Labour apparatchiks are forming a thin and fragile line of defence. One of the photographers – Joe Davidson, a crop-headed bulldog of a man known as ‘the Bruiser’ – won’t be stopped from getting the money shot and elbows through.

‘Just look at Todd,’ I whisper to Scott. On stage, the Shadow Chancellor is scowling, but Todd is beaming in the strobes of the flash guns like an actor on the Oscars red carpet. ‘He loves this.’

And then there’s a crash. In the melee, one of the aides has knocked a camera lens. Obscenities are traded, and two officials haul the Bruiser towards the exit. He’s jostling and threatening to file charges. This is not the slick start Johnny Todd expected and wanted.

But he turns even this to advantage. ‘Wait!’ Todd signals. ‘Of course Joe can have his shot. Don’t you know how important he is?’

‘What a fucking operator,’ I whisper to Scott.