I work through the night, reading through page after page of files relating to anyone connected with the businesses and people I have highlighted in the case so far, only stopping to make myself a cup of coffee once daylight strains through the blinds.
As I reach my arm into the fridge to pull out the milk, my phone rings. It is an unknown number and I pause for a moment before pressing answer.
‘Isobel Mason?’
The voice at the end of the line doesn’t wait for a response. ‘This is Robert Phelps.’
Of course it is. I have been wondering how long it will be before one of the nationals gets in touch, looking to tap me up for information on the Somers Town stabbings, now that they’ve finally caught wind of what’s going on.
‘Hi,’ I say, stifling a yawn, wondering what pitiful payoff they will be offering this time.
‘I suppose you know why I’m calling,’ Phelps says. I know his byline from occasional comment pieces, but I’d thought he was an editor on the main paper, not a reporter.
‘I can imagine,’ I say, preparing to tell him to stuff his demeaning offer, though I’m so tired I can barely pull together a basic sentence.
He pauses. ‘Oh, really? Well, I suppose it was just a matter of time. My new deputy editor here was in touch with you a while back, when he was with the Guardian. You might remember him. Vihaan Khatri?’
‘Vihaan?’
‘He tells me he offered you a job, but in the end you didn’t take it. Why was that?’
I stumble. What the hell? ‘I …’
‘Don’t answer that, actually,’ Phelps continues. ‘It doesn’t matter. Whatever they were offering, I reckon we can do better.’
‘I’m sorry?’ I say. ‘I don’t understand what you’re—’
‘Don’t be self-effacing. We’re impressed with you, Isobel. Your work at Camden News is … Well, it’s too good for a local rag. I think you should come and join us.’
The alarm on the fridge screams at me to close the door.
‘So, what do you say about coming in for a meeting? Next week suit you?’