The car door up the lane has opened, and I spot a journalist from the Daily Mail. It’s not the same guy who was in Kent, but I’ve seen him on jobs before. He joins us on the pavement.

‘Did she say anything?’ He’s got a sandwich in his hand, mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth, and anxiety pulses from him, like he’s missed something vital.

Lawrie gives a defeated shake of his head. He’s swearing because our photographer isn’t here yet, and he wasn’t quick enough with his mobile phone camera.

The Daily Mail journalist swears too. ‘I’ve only just got back here myself. She must have gone out while I was getting something to eat.’

‘Got anything decent yet?’ says Lawrie. ‘You don’t have to tell us what it is, but can you let me know if we should be worried so I can tell the news desk, at least.’

‘Fuck all,’ says the Daily Mail reporter. ‘We’ve been here since yesterday, but we only confirmed the name and address a couple of hours ago. I knocked once, but there was no reply. I was planning to wait a bit longer, let them get nice and comfortable, defences down, and then, bam.’

‘Well, if you’re here and we’re here, it won’t be long before the others start showing up,’ says Lawrie. ‘Why don’t we do it now? Get it in the bag.’

The Daily Mail reporter takes another bite of his sandwich. ‘Or should we leave it? Try again in the morning. We don’t want her calling the police, banging on about harassment. If she didn’t say anything just now, she’s hardly going to invite us in for a cup of tea and spill her guts. We want to keep her on side.’

They’re arguing amongst themselves, back and forth. They don’t ask me what I think, but if they did, I would say that news travels too quickly these days. That nothing stays secret and the old rules of reporting no longer exist. That while we were travelling in the car this afternoon, there would have been other leaks and whispers, half-truths and speculation, blown across the internet like spores in the wind.

Yes, the public has been transfixed by Shannon Carter’s testimony, but its appetite for scandal is never satiated and there’s a rising hunger, a demand, to hear from her sister. That Heathcote’s unguarded remarks have fuelled the fire of the news agenda, which blazes unchecked across our newspapers, televisions, radios and social media channels. Consume it before it consumes us.

Smartphones have made journalists of everyone. And voyeurs, too. Posting footage of burning buildings and terrorist atrocities and the dying bleeding out on the pavement. Instant gratification. Desensitization. A sense of righteousness. Of outrage. An unquenchable thirst for more, more, more.