Exactly on cue, Declan walked in, deathly pale, hair unbrushed, stubble blacking his jaw, and his jersey inside out.

‘I’m sorry, Tony,’ he said, ‘1 forgot.’

‘We’ve just finished,’ said Tony coolly. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the boat, but that’s nothing unusual.’

‘Where are you going?’ shouted Cameron, as Declan turned towards the exit.

‘Home,’ snapped Declan, ‘I’ve got a lot of lying down to do.’

The next day, 21st March, was the first day of Spring. The Head of News sent a crew off to photograph lambs playing in a field. James wore a new primrose yellow tracksuit to urge viewers to join his new sponsored Slim-for-Spring campaign to raise money for heart research, and Declan came in to interview Guilini. The programme, for once, was being recorded as Guilini was flying to New York for a concert straight afterwards.

The fair Daysee Butler, keen to do her bit for the franchise, accepted an invitation to lunch from someone almost as grand as Guilini. As it was programme day, she only sipped Perrier and ate one course of chefs salad. Her very distinguished companion, however, departed from his usual Perrier and put away a large whisky before lunch, a whole bottle of claret during, and a large brandy afterwards. He hardly touched his monkfish, but was charmed that Daysee should peel his Mediterranean prawns for him as she told him, admittedly rather monotonously, how she got every programme out on time.

On the drive back from the restaurant, which was several miles outside Cotchester, Daysee’s very distinguished companion, mindful that it was the first day of Spring, pulled into a side road to admire some leaping lambs and leapt on poor Daysee. By the time he had torn half the buttons off her yellow angora jersey with the picture of Donald Duck on the front, and grabbed goatily at her thighs, laddering her stockings, Daysee was so frightened she dashed out of the car and, taking off her high heels, ran sobbing across Cotchester water meadows, across the tarmac of the car park and in through the back door of Corinium Television. Here she collided with Tony, who had lunched not wisely but too well. The sight of poor Daysee with her blonde hair awry, her mascara streaked with tears, her stockings muddy and laddered, and her yellow jersey half torn off her beautiful body, melted even Tony’s stony heart.

‘My dear child, what is the matter?’

‘Someone’s just tried to rape me,’ wailed Daysee.

Next minute she was whisked up in the fast lift to Tony’s office and ensconced on the squashy leather sofa, sobbing her heart out while Tony poured her a vast brandy.

‘There, drink this.’

‘I mustn’t,’ sobbed Daysee. ‘I’ll never be able to count Declan’s programme out on time.’

‘Nonsense! One glass of brandy won’t hurt you. Anyway, it’s only some tinpot conductor.’

Getting out his red silk handkerchief smelling of Paco Rabanne, Tony dried Daysee’s eyes. She was really very, very pretty.

‘Now, tell me who it was.’

‘I c-c-can’t.’

‘Come on, you can trust me.’ He sat down on the sofa beside her.

‘It was such a shock,’ whispered Daysee. ‘I thought he was just interested in our programmes. I wanted to help Corinium win the franchise.’

‘I know you did,’ said Tony warmly. ‘That’s what makes it so reprehensible. Just give me his name.’

‘I’d truly rather not.’

‘Someone connected with work?’

Daysee gulped and nodded.

Better and better, thought Tony, mentally rubbing his hands. How wonderful if it were Declan or even James.

‘If we don’t get him for rape, we’ll clobber him for sexual harassment,’ he said, trying not to sound too eager.

Daysee shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I was convinced he was just interested in my mind.’

Noticing the ten inches of thigh and the glorious depth of cleavage revealed by the torn jersey, Tony sidled down the dark-green squashy sofa and said, ‘Of course he was.’

Daysee looked up, her huge eyes spilling over once more with tears. Tony put an arm round her shoulders.

‘Come on, my dear, we can’t allow animals like him to roam at large. He may strike again and succeed next time. Think of your female colleagues. Don’t worry, I’ll see your name’s kept out of the papers. Now tell me who it was.’ Gently he stroked her silky hair.

‘It was the Prebendary,’ murmured Daysee.

‘What!’ exploded Tony.

‘The Reverend Fergus Penney from the IBA,’ whispered Daysee miserably.

Instantly the solicitous smile was wiped off Tony’s face. His arm jumped off her shoulders as though they were red hot.

‘I don’t want to hear any more about this business,’ he said chillingly. ‘If you value your job, don’t blab about it to anyone. And I hope you’ve learnt your lesson, not to wear such short skirts or tight sweaters to the office in future.’ With that he slammed his door in poor Daysee’s face.

Still trying to be a loyal Corinium employee, Daysee tried to keep her trap shut. But Declan, noticing her reddened eyes and lack of bounce during the afternoon and being infinitely more skilled at getting confidences out of people than Tony, soon had the whole story from her with the help of a few whiskys from his office bottle.

‘Lord Baddingham said the Prebendary was so against sex and violence,’ sobbed Daysee.

‘Only on television,’ said Declan grimly. ‘It’s fine in real life.’

As he was intending to take Thursday off to go to the Gold Cup with Rupert, Declan went into the office on Wednesday to wade through a mountain of post. After the row with Maud about the telephone and drink bills which she’d hidden behind the recipe books in the kitchen, Corinium, with all its ructions, seemed the quieter place. The tax man had also called the day before to collect twenty thousand pounds, and, being told Declan was out, said he would call again next day, which was another reason for not hanging around at home. He was beginning to think there was no alternative except to sell Rupert the wood. The only thought that sustained him was that he was due for a two-month break at the end of April, but, as things were going, he’d have to spend the time off doing programmes in America to raise some cash.

He was also aware that his programmes had been very lacklustre recently. The one on Rupert had attracted huge ratings and newspaper coverage, but Declan in retrospect was bitterly ashamed of it, knowing that initially he’d let personal animosity overwhelm his detachment. Since then, the programmes had had the bite of a rubber duck.

God, he was tired. He looked at the mountain of post, a lot of it probably bills. Ursula was still away. He could smell today’s special, boeuf bourguignon, flavoured from a packet no doubt, drifting down from the canteen, as could the contestants of ‘Master Dog’ who were barking hungrily in Studio 2.

He picked up the first memo. ‘The Gay and Lesbian Sub-Committee of the ACTT has been re-named the Sexuality Sub-Committee.’

On cue, Charles Fairburn drifted in, having just collected his expenses.

‘Come and have a drink at the Bar Sinister.’

Declan shook his head. ‘Got to deal with all this.’

‘Never grumble about fan mail,’ chided Charles. ‘Think of poor me going off to Southampton first thing tomorrow to supervise Holy Communion for the Deaf. Have you been asked to Tony’s bash for Badminton? He’s put the little red ram logo on the corner of all the invites so he can offload the whole thing on expenses.’

‘He won’t ask me,’ said Declan grimly.

‘No, you are a bit out of favour, poor dear,’ said Charles sympathetically, ‘and you work harder than any of us. I’m expecting to get the Old Queen’s Award for Lack of Industry any minute. That’s better; at least you’re smiling. And I’ll tell you something else to cheer you up even more. In Studio 2 you’ll find a lot of lovable mongrels rummaging for choc drops which have all melted under the lights, on caring James’s pastel sofa. James is going to be livid when he gets back from another three-hour lunch with Mrs Stratton.’

The telephone rang. ‘Corinium Waifs and Strays,’ said Charles, picking it up. ‘Oh, hi, Madden dear. All right, I’ll send him along. Tony’s leaving for London in twenty minutes, thank God,’ he told Declan, ‘but he wants a word with you first. I’d take the slow lift. He’s in a vile mood.’

Tony, in fact, seemed in an excellent mood, purring away like a great cat about to enjoy an extended game of mouse-taunting.

‘Ah, Declan. Shut the door behind you and sit down.’

As usual the central heating was turned up so high Declan felt he was having a hot flush.

‘I wonder if you’d explain this.’

Tony threw Declan a picture postcard of a huge crocodile with gaping jaws. On the other side was scrawled in huge black writing: ‘Here’s a picture of your boss. Bloody hot here. If I don’t talk to you before, I’ll pick you up at The Priory at eleven o’clock. Rupert.’

There was no address or stamp.

‘Who the fock opened this?’ asked Declan.

‘We open all mail during franchise year,’ said Tony smoothly. ‘Just to check whether any of our staff are being propositioned by other franchise contenders.’

‘This place gets more like the KGB every minute.’ Declan made no attempt to hide his rage.

‘I also see you’ve taken up elitist sports,’ went on Tony, happily handing Declan the Daily Express, which was folded back at a picture of Rupert and Declan out hunting.

‘Burying the hatchet after their recent encounter on “Declan”,’ read the caption.

Tony shook his head. ‘You’re not keeping very good company, Declan.’

‘Then why has Rupert been asked to judge Miss Corinium tomorrow?’