The television cuts to scenes from outside Canterbury Crown Court. December 1997. A small figure is hidden under a blanket. Tried as an adult because, according to the judge, the nature of her crime was so serious her right to anonymity should be waived. Cameras flash and strobe. A metal barrier is holding back the press, who collectively strain against it. Shouted questions. Running photographers. A prison van that pulls away. The picture is grainy, before the days of high definition. When I swallow, it feels like something is stuck in my throat.

The news item finishes and my colleagues drift away to get on with the day’s stories.

Lucy Rosewell is writing a feature about children who kill. Their histories are well documented, stitched into the nation’s psyche, but these horrors are too familiar now for me to feel much.

This disconnect concerns me. When it’s your job to write about the brutality of the human race, it’s easy to become numbed to it. That, or exhilarated by the prospect of a ‘good’ story. I can’t decide which is worse.

Colin is walking through the office, so I pick up the phone and pretend I’m talking to someone.

‘Conference?’ Colin’s tone is bullish. This is a worrying sign. He rests his foot on Lawrie’s desk, legs splayed apart, trousers straining against his groin. A display of masculinity and power. In his mind, at least. ‘What have you got for me?’

Morning conference starts at 11.30 a.m. The heads of each department – including news, showbiz, sport and features – outline the day’s best stories to the editor. Ritual humiliation is not uncommon.

Lawrie opens his mouth, but before he has a chance to speak, Colin cuts in. ‘We should be out on this, digging up something decent. Have you got an address for Shannon Carter yet?’

‘That new trainee, Matt, is on the case, but there’s been no sign of her since Saturday,’ says Lawrie. ‘Classic buy-up technique. ITV will have her squirrelled away in a cottage or hotel somewhere.’

Colin nods. ‘Try and track down a mobile number for her. We might be able to get to her that way, catch her unawares.’ He rubs a hand across a couple of days’ worth of stubble. ‘What about the sister?’

Lawrie stares at Colin as if he’s an idiot. He is an idiot.

Colin puffs out his chest. ‘I don’t give a fuck if she’s difficult to find, sunshine. That’s your job.’

I can’t pretend I’m on the telephone for much longer so I place the receiver into the cradle, and try to look busy. It doesn’t work.

‘That goes for you too, Brinley. Give Lawrie a hand. The editor wants to splash on this again tomorrow. And we don’t want our arses kicked by the opposition, do we?’