The Isle of Dogs was everything Hepton had been expecting. It was, in fact, a building site, a hotchpotch of half-completed monoliths and half-demolished houses. The headquarters of the Herald, however, if not what he had hoped to find (he had fond memories of The Front Page and Citizen Kane) was certainly what he had thought he might find. The metal and glass cube that was home to the newspaper was protected by a high security fence. A barrier lay across the road at the entrance to the site, and two security men watched from their little prefabricated building there, while video cameras scanned the perimeter.

‘Checkpoint Charlie, they call it,’ said Hepton’s taxi driver, accepting the fifteen pounds’ fare and a small tip. ‘Cheers then.’ And with that he wheeled the taxi around and away.

Hepton stared again at the construction before him, trying to find some hint of a soul. There was none. He walked towards the barrier. One of the security guards donned a cap and came to meet him.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘I’m here to see one of the journalists, a Miss Jilly Watson.’

‘Watson, did you say?’ The guard was already turning back towards his office. ‘Follow me, sir. Expecting you, is she?’

‘No, not really. I’m a friend of hers.’

‘I see, sir.’

The other guard lazily watched several screens, each one showing a corner of the compound. There was a mug of dark brown tea in front of him, proclaiming its owner to be the World’s Best Dad. Another bank of screens showed the interior of the large building behind them, where the workers moved like ants. The first guard looked through a sheaf of A4 printed paper on his desk.

‘Watson, J. Extension three-five-five,’ he said to himself. He punched several numbers into his telephone receiver, and, looking up, saw that Hepton was watching the screens. ‘Good, aren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ Hepton responded. It seemed everyone was a spy these days. And everyone had a camera trained on them.

The guard’s call had been connected. ‘Hello, it’s the gate here. Got someone to see Miss Watson.’ He listened to a voice speaking at the other end, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘What’s the name, sir?’

This was the moment Hepton had dreaded. ‘Martin Hepton,’ he said.

‘Martin Hepton,’ the guard repeated into the mouthpiece. There was a pause while he listened again, then he motioned with the telephone towards Hepton. ‘Wants a word, Mr Hepton,’ he said.

Hepton took the receiver cautiously. ‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Martin? Is that you?’ Jilly Watson’s voice sounded vibrant.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘What are you doing here?’ But it wasn’t a sniping question; rather, it was filled with honest and welcome surprise. Hepton lightened: she was pleased that he had come.

‘I wanted to see you,’ he said.