The Hope and Anchor is surprisingly upmarket these days. Warm sandstone, flickering candles and fresh holly and ivy garlands strung across the fireplace. Lawrie insisted on rooms for us both – and our photographer, Garth – because it’s where the rest of the Fleet Street pack is staying. Alliances are formed, not by pounding pavements and 5 a.m. doorsteps, but over a drink and a war story or two. Between us, we’ve filled every room.

But the luxurious carpets, expensive dinners and super-king-size beds come at a price – the pressure for an exclusive angle is intense.

As I swallow the dregs of my bottle of beer, I spot faces from The Times and the Daily Telegraph. A man from the Daily Express is smoking a cigarette outside.

The Press Association journalist is talking about going clubbing in the next town. She’s young and drunk, and keeps putting her hand on Lawrie’s leg. I want to tell her to fuck off, but she’s oblivious, flicking her long hair over her shoulder and laughing too loudly.

‘Do you want some coke?’ she says.

‘I don’t like fizzy drinks,’ I say, deadpan.

She nudges Lawrie and grins. He doesn’t grin back. ‘Brinley, you’re so sweet,’ she says. Patronizing cow. I despise being called sweet. Not much of a cocaine fan either.

Lawrie’s mobile is ringing. Our eyes meet. ‘Shit,’ he says.

He gets up from the table and huddles in the corner, away from the pack. The conversation is short and to the point. When he comes back, he shows me an image on the screen of his phone.

The reporter from the Sun – I think his name is Russell Parker – leans over my shoulder, admiring his front-page exclusive, a satisfied grin on his face. If I remember correctly, his nickname’s The Undertaker because he always wears black and often shows up at murder scenes.

‘Looks good, doesn’t it?’

‘You kept that to yourself,’ says Lawrie, shoulders squared, clearly annoyed.

Russell punches him lightly on the shoulder. ‘All’s fair in love and newspapers. You know the drill. Anyway, in the interests of transparency, it came from a tip-off to the news desk. I only followed it up.’

Even I can tell he’s lying, not wanting to lose ground with the rest of the press pack, who might decide to cut him loose for failing to give the rest of us a heads-up.

‘Sorry if I’ve landed you in the shit, mate.’ Russell pats Lawrie on the back, conciliatory. ‘Won’t happen again.’

No, it won’t. Because journalists can only get away with stitching up their colleagues once. No one will trust him now.