had sat at his desk or lain in bed composing various impassioned speeches about why Millennium had to remain true to its vision: there is rioting in the suburbs; an openly racist party si

astic triumphs in which what he said was so relevant and compelling that all of the editorial team

and all that. First and foremost the magazine had to pay its way. Then they could go about changing the world. He began to wonder whether he could rustle up a

to tell the truth, was rubbish. But just occasionally an amazing story would emerge. A run-of-the-mill insurance matter or a trivial report of a missing person could be concealing something crucial. You

. It was a classic problem; he of all people knew that. After a few decades in the profession most things feel pretty familiar, and even if something looks like a good story

denly fall into place. But he failed to come up with anything more constructive than the thought that he ought to spend more time lying around like this, reading good books. When

ide

living-room sofa with his cappuc

t – as if he had suddenly decided to pull himself together and do something – and p

strict seemed to have been drained of all colour. Not even one tiny bright autumn leaf flew through the air. With his head bent forward and his arms cro

e magazine on the fourth floor, just above the offices of Greenpe

were three people from Serner, two consultants and Levin, Levin who had dressed down for the occasion. H

ke, how’

tell that it was taken as a declaration of war and he nodded stiffly, walked on in and sat d