by Holly Watt
‘Honestly.’ Casey started to laugh.
‘So the footballer looks a bit baffled, and then carries on as before.’
‘Grim.’ Casey grimaced, scrubbing at her face.
‘You probably don’t want to spend days and days with him.’
‘No. Could Hippy help us out?’
Rhys Hipkiss had been their opposite number on the Sunday Enquiry until quite recently. He had left the paper, abruptly, a few months ago. The Enquiry was one of the racier tabloids, skating raucously over legal niceties. Hipkiss also specialised in kiss-and-tell girls. A world where I’ll go to the Enquiry unless you give me a hundred grand would land you in jail. But They’re offering me a hundred grand. I don’t want to take it, but . . . was quite different.
That careful ellipsis would land the cheque. But the tabloids would be there, manoeuvring, all along. You’ll get all the deals, we’ll make you a star . . . ‘Hippy? Didn’t you hear about what he got up to?’ Miranda started to laugh. ‘He got axed over Amners. You must have been away.’
‘What happened?’
Amners, a big accountancy firm, had collapsed in chaos a few months earlier, amidst tears and recriminations.
‘Rhys decided,’ Miranda went on, ‘that it was a good idea to hack the chief executive’s phone.’
‘Who still does that?’ Casey rolled her eyes.
‘And he got such good stuff out of the voicemails that he decided to change the chief executive’s password so that the Banner couldn’t listen in too.’
‘I despair,’ said Casey drily, ‘of our profession.’
‘Anyway, the Banner had clearly been doing the same thing,’ said Miranda.
The battles between the Banner and the Enquiry were notorious. They scheduled their Christmas party on the same evening every year, just so their subs could track each other down for a punch-up later on.
‘Oh dear,’ said Casey.
‘When the Banner found they’d been locked out of the voicemail, they trotted off to the Amner chief exec, asking him about dirty tricks. As you’d expect, he had had it up to his eyeballs with the lot of them. Nevertheless, he let the Banner chief reporter leave a long, complicated message on his phone about some crazy insider-trading scheme going on at Amners. Naturally, Hippy listened to the whole thing, and then splashed the Enquiry on it.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Casey grinned. ‘What’s happened to Hippy now?’
‘The Enquiry’s fired him,’ Miranda sighed. ‘They had to, really, for appearances’ sake. They gave the Amners chief exec such a vast sum that it covered the pay-out he wasn’t getting from Amners after they’d gone bust. He was quite pleased, in the end, and didn’t bother with the police. Amners was going down in flames anyway, so he was past caring. I’m sure the Enquiry will take Hippy back by the end of the year. He’s off sailing round the Med in the meantime. Sounded quite chirpy when I last heard from him.’
‘How,’ Casey asked, ‘did the Enquiry know it was the Banner’s chief reporter who left the message?’
‘Oh …’ Miranda waved a hand airily. ‘They dropped enough hints. The Enquiry’s news editor is swearing vengeance in this life or the next. To be honest, Hippy thinks that’s why they’ll need to bring him back in the end. To do over the Banner once and for all.’
‘Fine.’ Casey crossed a name off her list. ‘Not Hippy.’
‘So.’ Miranda sobered up. ‘Who?
‘It’s going to have to be Ed.’
28
The room went black. For a second, there was complete silence, hundreds of people holding their breath.
Then a laser stabbed the darkness, twisting and dancing. Another sparked, and another, building up into an explosion of light, carving out a wilderness of brilliance in the dark. One more split-second of total darkness, and then all the lights dazzled at once, the music erupted, and models prowled out from the four corners of the huge room.
‘I need to get into the Mercutio show.’ Casey had sidled up to Cressida the day before.
‘Getting extra tickets for that is always a nightmare.’
‘It’s important.’
‘You always say that.’
Casey hovered until Cressida got irritated. It was London fashion week, one of the fashion editor’s busiest times of the year. While Casey had been in DC, Cressida had been in the flurry of New York. Next week the circus would roll on to Milan, then Paris, in a swirl of glitter and champagne, Cressida and her team alongside.
‘Please, Cressida.’
‘Sod off.’ A long pause while Cressida tapped at her keyboard and ignored Casey. Then, quietly, ‘Is it to do with . . .?’
‘Yes.’
Cressida glowered.
‘You’re not having my ticket. You’ll never get past the door. Everyone knows who I am.’ A hint of complacency in Cressida’s voice as she glanced round. ‘You can take Tosca’s ticket’ – a squawk from a pretty blonde sitting nearby – ‘but you are not to get caught, and you are not to embarrass my team, do you hear me, Cassandra Benedict?’
‘Yes,’ Casey had grinned.
‘And Tosca will style you first,’ Cressida said firmly. ‘You’re not bloody turning up dressed like that if you’re going from the Post.’
As the music pounded, Casey gazed around the room. From Tosca’s seat, several rows back from the catwalk, Casey could see everything: the photographers crouching at the end of the stage, the PRs rushing around nervously, the emaciated models. The photographs from this show would be far more glamorous than any reality.
Mercutio’s creative director was nowhere to be seen. He would be backstage, giving a final check to every girl before they strutted out on the stage. Across the room, Casey could see Cressida, sat primly in the front row, between the editor of Vogue and a blogger whose followers ran into the millions.
There he was: just a few seats down from Cressida. Declan Bentley. Laughing broadly for the cameras, flanked by one of the most famous supermodels in the world and an Oscar-nominated starlet. The most powerful man in the room, and Casey watched as his hard blue eyes followed the models around the catwalk.
Models weren’t his type, she knew. There were many rumours about Declan Bentley’s tastes, some of them true.
Casey waited impatiently until the show was finished. As soon as the last model disappeared, she hurried down the steps towards Bentley. He was making his way backstage already, the crowd skipping out of his way as he marched along.
Ed saw her too late. She heard his voice – ‘Casey, for God’s sake’ – but she was already holding out her hand to Bentley.
‘Mr Bentley, I’m Casey Benedict.’
It took him less than a second to place her.
‘You wrote that fucking article about fucking Ethiopia.’
‘Yes.’ Mercutio was only one of the brands in Bentley’s international conglomerate. Two years ago, a whistleblower had approached Casey about appalling conditions in one of Bentley’s garment factories in Ethiopia. That factory provided clothes for Bentley’s high street label, Juniper, and Casey had been on the first plane out to Addis Ababa.
‘Didn’t really work out for you that one, did it?’ Bentley smiled nastily. ‘I shut that entire fucking factory down, and now the whole village is out of work.’
Bentley emphasised his Cockney accent as he was speaking. He had lived in Monaco for a decade, but still liked the image of bad boy made good. Today would be one of only ninety carefully allocated days a year he spent in the UK, his private jet flying into the country first thing in the morning and out again last thing at night. When in Britain, he lived in the Savoy: no private home for the taxman to link him to the UK.
‘I know.’
‘So what the fuck do you want? And how the hell did you get in here anyway?’
Out of the corner of her eye, Casey could see Cressida sidling away.
‘I need your help, Mr Bentley.’ For a second, Bentley was almost surprised, his face freezing into a near-laugh. Then he snapped back.
‘Tough. Fuck off.’
‘It’ll screw up Rhapso.’
The rivalry between Juniper and Rhapso was notorious. After a long-running row over trademarks, Rhapso had poached Juniper’s team of senior buyers two years earlier. Two weeks later, Rhapso’s brand director had received an offer he couldn’t refuse. Within days, a series of articles about Bentley’s tax arrangements had appeared, sparking protests outside Juniper’s flagship Oxford Circus branch.
The Ethiopia article was the final straw, with Bentley threatening to personally break the legs of everyone involved, ‘a task I usually fucking outsource, to be honest. But for you, darling, I’ll make an exception.’
Casey had been followed around by private detectives for three months after the Ethiopia article appeared.
‘No fucking way,’ said Bentley now. ‘Now fuck off.’
‘Fine.’ Casey stretched, arms over her head. ‘I’ll be off to Vietnam then, if I’ve got time on my hands. I hear it’s delightful at this time of year.’
Juniper’s operations had been shunted across to Vietnam shortly after the Ethiopian factory closed down. Chasing the cheap needle, they called it. Factories across the world bidding against each other to offer the lowest rates.
Bentley hesitated, and Casey raised an eyebrow, making it almost a joke. Bentley gestured, ordering his team of people to back off. They fell away at once.
‘What’s your plan for Rhapso?’ he spoke quietly.
‘It’s complicated,’ said Casey, ‘but I’ve got a tip about one of their factories in Bangladesh, and I want to check it out.’
‘What do you need from me?’
Casey’s eyes met Ed’s over Bentley’s shoulder. He narrowed his eyes at her.
‘He’s probably not mentioned it, but I’ve worked with Ed Fitzgerald on a story before. And I need his help on this.’
‘Ed?’ Bentley’s face opened into a laugh. ‘Fuck’s sake. He’s kept that very quiet.’
He gestured Ed over. Very unwillingly, Ed came across. Behind him, the Oscar-nominated actress and the supermodel were hugging ostentatiously for the cameras.
‘I understand that you’ve been working with Miss Benedict.’ Bentley raised an eyebrow.
‘A long time ago,’ Ed protested. ‘Just after I left the Marines.’
‘You dark fucking horse.’ There was affection in Bentley’s words.
‘I should have told you.’
‘Damn right.’ But Bentley was laughing. He turned back to Casey. ‘What have you got on those twats at Rhapso?’
‘That’s confidential.’ Casey met his eye.
‘Who was the fucking source for the Ethiopia story?’
The silence stretched out in the air-kissing chaos of the room.
‘Ed?’ Bentley turned to him.
‘I don’t know.’
Bentley’s personal assistant was trying to get his attention, waving two phones. Bentley looked around, remembering the crowds, the actress, the supermodel.
Bentley laughed. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Give them a few shitty days. Ed, you’re off to Bangladesh. See you back in Fontvieille.’
And he was gone, in a tidal wave of PAs and PRs, and Ed looked at Casey. ‘You’re shameless,’ he said.
29
That night Casey lay in the dark of her new flat in London. Lost in the wilds of the Sahara, the sun burning down like a curse. Out where the desert shimmered, as if none of it were real. But it was, it was, it was.
She had pleaded with Ed to go out there with her and to pretend. To find the men who killed refugees, just to find out how it felt.
He had kissed her, out there, but it was just a part in a play. An actor saying his lines.
You can’t be a spectator, he had pleaded, the night before. That child is out there right now, with a whole life ahead.
But she had forced him, out along the path, up into the hills. Because without proof, there was nothing. Or there was no story, anyway, almost the same thing.
She had turned to him, in that beautiful room, in that magical palace lost out in the sands.
I am going, Ed. Even if I have to go up there on my own.
Knowing he would never let her go alone.
And so he had walked beside her, step by step, and watched, eyes blank, as the tiny figure crumpled.
You got her. Clean kill.
The trader’s arms raised in triumph.
Casey had stepped across to Ed, hugged him close. And he had gazed at her, lost, as if he had never really known her at all.
They had had to run across the desert, hunted, like rabbits. The rifle shots, one after the next, closer and closer. Ed had been hit, blood spattering, the car crashing down the bluff.
The nightmares followed them home, of course. Just a few paces behind, like old acquaintances. There, in the corner of the eye. Slinking closer as the nights drew in.
Her new nightmares, and the old. Back again, worse than before. Fragments of glass slicing up through the dreams.
I did this to you.
30
Miranda was tense the next morning. ‘Have you heard from Ed? Maybe we should try Calvin. He’s a professional, at least . . .’
Casey’s telephone jingled. She read the message and was on her feet.
‘I’ll be back in a bit.’
‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes.’
Meet me at the top of the hill. She read it again and again.
The London sky was grey as she climbed Primrose Hill. A seagull shrieked overhead, twisting higher and higher into the sky.
He was waiting in a cold swirl of wind.
‘Hello.’ Casey sat down on a park bench, rubbed smooth, and covered in years of graffiti. Liv loves Charlie.
Ed stayed on his feet. A jogger panted up the hill. Teenagers – smoking with a careful precision – ambled past. Casey waited.
‘I come up here when I’m not sure what to do,’ he said.
‘It is beautiful,’ she agreed. She shivered, and pulled her jacket closer around her.
‘Do you want mine?’
‘I’m fine.’
Two middle-aged tourists stopped, asking for directions. Ed pointed, explained, smiling easily, No, it’s no trouble.
Casey waited.
‘I’m not coming because of that business with Declan yesterday,’ he said at last.
‘OK.’ Casey felt the gloom settle around her. Checkmate.
A fat spaniel waddled past. A father, impatient, scooped up his toddler son and marched down the hill, ignoring the bawls. It had rained recently, black puddles sprinkling the maze of paths.
‘You talked about turning a blind eye,’ said Ed.
‘What?’ Casey’s memory blurred. ‘When?’
‘Down on Southbank. You said that I’d regret turning a blind eye to those girls.’
‘Oh,’ Casey remembered. ‘I’m sorry about that. I know you . . .’
‘I can’t stop thinking . . .’ He paused. ‘I’ve never told anyone . . . We never spoke about . . .’
‘Spoke about what?’
‘Afghanistan,’ Ed said. ‘My unit was out there with the ANA,’ he went on. ‘The Afghan army.’
‘Yes.’ She kept her voice even.
‘We were sent out to a small base, not far from Bastion. Just a dot on the map.’
Casey waited.
‘And then we were stuck there for weeks on end.’
Casey remembered those bases, out in the wilderness. The Chinooks screaming in low, ducking and diving, racing scared of the missiles. She remembered the patchwork of canals, the scrappy little villages, the fluttering pink of the poppies. The smiles from the locals that weren’t smiles at all. And the patrols through the fields, against every instinct, when the danger is so real that it must be ignored.
‘We were training the Afghan soldiers out on that base,’ he said. ‘We were working with them. Alongside them.’
‘Yes.’
‘We needed their help. We couldn’t do it alone.
There were too many Taliban. Too many enemies.’
‘I know.’
‘We had to get the Afghan security forces trained up, so that we could leave. That bloody country . . . But we needed to leave a decent force behind.’
‘I remember.’
‘So we were working with the Afghans, day after day. Teaching them what they had to know. And giving them guns, of course.’
Casey remembered the monotony on those bases: the endless rules, the hours on stag, the crunch of the boots on the gravel. She remembered the men waiting for orders. And the boredom, and the high bombproof walls, as the world got smaller and smaller.
When the only interesting thing is: you might die today.
‘We were miles from everything,’ said Ed. ‘It felt like we were completely alone. Just us, forgotten. The Afghans were fed up too. They’d had enough.’
For a second, oddly, Casey remembered the latrines where everything was bagged and incinerated, as if they were never really there at all. The smell, swallowing you whole.
‘Some of the Afghans, at night . . .’
London grumbled around them. A siren, sharp, wailed along the edge of the park. Ed watched the blue lights skitter along, safe and threatening all at once.
Ed cleared his throat, spoke quickly. ‘Some nights, the Afghans would go to one of the villages nearby. They would go there . . . and snatch one of the little boys . . . They would grab one, and . . .’ He forced himself to carry on. ‘At night, we could hear the little boys screaming, out in the darkness.’
Casey sat in silence, watching the lights flicker over the city.
‘They raped them. The boys . . .’
‘Oh, Ed.’
‘Don’t.’
‘What did you . . .’
‘We didn’t do anything. We just listened. One night, we had a bonfire going all jolly. Some of my men were singing, and when they stopped . . . When they stopped, we could hear this little boy crying out beyond the circle of light.’
