“Don’t tell me Frank Jasper sent you.” The beaky policeman gazes at me—Nosey from Beak-on-the-Dial, I might dub him. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Mr Wilde?” I’m anxious to learn what they want, however much my headache tugs my brows together. “Is the conference room free, Shilpa?” “It should be.” “Let me find out,” I say and unlock the newsroom door with my badge, only for Lippy from Labia-upon-the-Puss to follow. “I’ll come along,” he says. “Make sure it’s suitable.” Some of my colleagues seem unsure whether I’m in custody as I lead him across the newsroom. I open the door beside Paula’s and watch him appraise the conference room, where the long table is attended by a dozen straight barely padded chairs, one more of which has been sent to stand in a corner. A sign on each double-glazed window declares they won’t open more than six inches, and could Lippy be ensuring I’ve no way out?
