by Holly Watt
‘Yes.’
The stage was struck. And Miranda saw it all so clearly. All at once, the bright backdrops of their lives were just paper, tattered, faded and torn. The props – the pretty tiles in a hallway, a sky-blue watering can and those lovely unseen blinds – neatly packed away. And the memories, which had been everything, would be wilfully abandoned. A forgotten memory, a forgotten life.
I tried.
Did you?
‘Tom . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears, a sudden burn in her throat. It seemed impossible that it could all be pulled apart by just a few words.
Anyone would.
Anyone wouldn’t.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know.’
63
When she had finished speaking to Bantham, Casey called Emily.
‘Poppy’s a bit ill, Emily. I want to take her for a quick check-up before I bring her down to you. I’m really sorry about the delay.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with her?’ The terror was electric.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Emily,’ Casey said slowly, separating out each word. ‘I just want to make sure that I am keeping little Poppy Naomi safe. I want to keep her safe.’
‘All right.’ The tension in Emily’s voice dissipated slightly. ‘Please do that. But hurry, Casey. I can’t bear it much longer. Without her . . .’
‘You could come up to London,’ Casey suggested. ‘Meet me at the hospital?’
There was a long pause. ‘No,’ said Emily wistfully. ‘I’ll wait for her here. But see you as soon as possible, Casey. Please. Keep her safe.’
After an awkward goodbye to Emily, Casey sat at her desk long into the night, researching Alicia Dalgleish. Alicia’s face stared back at her, gazing confidently at the camera. Glowing skin, and dark blonde hair immaculately cut into a long, glossy bob with a sharp fringe. The bob was slightly longer at the front than the back, and looked like it was blow-dried everyday. Dark brown eyes glowed with a crisp intelligence. She was beautiful, Casey thought, without being pretty.
Alicia Dalgleish been in Parliament for seven years; one to watch before she was even elected at thirty-two. Two enchanting little girls and a good-looking husband. A doctor: brains and compassion, in a conveniently distinct field.
Two little girls, thought Casey. Two little girls.
She had ricocheted up the ranks in Parliament, making a below-average number of enemies. There were occasional rumours of ruthlessness all the same, but Casey was inclined to ignore those because those claims were made about most successful women. She wondered what the opposition had on Alicia. There was always something.
But she couldn’t be Zeus, Casey thought. No busy MP could travel around the world running this operation.
Just in case, she might ask Archie to ring Alicia first thing tomorrow. The political editor could easily ask the chair of the Foreign Affairs select committee for a chat about Bangladesh without triggering suspicions. And then they could analyse every word of the conversation.
Meanwhile, Casey trawled around Alicia’s known contacts, for anyone who might be the woman Bantham had seen in DC. There were no blonde women in Alicia’s entourage. Her chief of staff was a man, grey-haired, nervous-looking. Her parliamentary secretary was Edith, efficient, with a dyed black crop. None of her known donors or supporters fitted the description.
Frustrated, Casey clawed through company documents for Tartarus, Aceso, Portunus; searching for shareholders. But they were all buried offshore, impermeable layers of paper between Casey and her goal.
She checked her phone.
Ed: Don’t get too tired.
Ross: a long list of tasks.
And Miranda, baldly: Tom’s gone.
Casey read the message again and again. She tapped her phone.
Are you all right?
No. Not yet. A pause. I will be. A long pause. I had to choose.
I’m so sorry.
A cough next to her desk, and Casey glanced up. Cory was standing next to her desk, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘Casey,’ the night editor smiled apologetically. ‘Dash told me to physically throw you out of the building if you hadn’t left by now.’
‘It’s all right.’ Casey stretched to her feet. ‘I’m off, Cory.’
64
Casey was back in the office as dawn was breaking, meandering sleepily between the empty desks, head full.
‘Morning, Casey!’ A bright chirp.
‘Morning, Tillie.’ Casey forced herself to focus, to joke. ‘Anything more from Mrs Warman?’
‘Oh God,’ said Tillie. ‘She rang yesterday morning. “Can I speak to Ross please?” she said, in a tone that made me physically drag Ross across the newsroom. When I got him to the phone, Mrs W had evidently passed the phone to one of their children. Ross was very brisk, “What did Mummy want you to tell me?” Pause. “Come on now, what did Mummy want you to tell me?” Another pause. “Oh, Christ, happy birthday!” Honestly, he is the worst.’
‘Mrs Warman once brought in the kids to say goodnight to Ross,’ said Casey. ‘She lined them up beside the newsdesk. He’s a disgrace.’
‘I heard a rumour,’ Tillie dropped her voice, ‘that when Mrs Warman decided she wanted kids, and Ross was never home, she just drove to the office one day and ordered him down to the car park.’
‘I don’t think that’ – Casey pulled a face – ‘is a rumour.’
They were laughing together as Hessa walked in, the brittle insecurity showing on her face when she saw Casey talking to Tillie.
‘Can you go to the Greystones’ house in north London as soon as someone is in to cover the desk?’ Casey said to Tillie.
‘Of course!’
‘It’s OK, you know,’ said Casey, as she and Hessa walked to the investigations room.
‘What do you mean?’
‘When Miranda arrived at the Post, I thought it might block me from doing investigations,’ said Casey. ‘It didn’t, of course. Just made me better. You and Tillie might be a brilliant team one day.’
Hessa unlocked the room in silence. ‘I suppose so. It’s just . . .’
‘You’ve worked so hard to get here. I know. It’s OK,’ said Casey. ‘We know you’re good.’
‘OK.’ Hessa’s face broke into a smile. ‘I will try.’
‘Good.’ Casey bent her head over her computer, pushed Ed out of her mind. ‘Now get to work.’
Casey went to get more coffees from the machine. She was keeping an eye out for Miranda, and as she came through the entrance, crossed over to see her.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Miranda jerked her chin up, and Casey recognised the gesture. Just let me get on with it.
‘We need to get Zeus’s name out of Alicia Dalgleish,’ Casey was saying as she passed a coffee to Hessa back in their office. ‘It’s the only way.’
‘OK,’ said Miranda. ‘What else would we like to know?’
‘Where Zeus is,’ Hessa reeled off. ‘How they know each other. What Zeus gets out of it. What Alicia gets out of it. Apart from all-expenses trips to DC, of course.’
Miranda sat down at her desk, and Casey saw her breathe in and out, and then focus.
‘Dalgleish may not know,’ Miranda said, ‘the crisis she is walking into. She might just tell us everything to try and get her point of view across.’
‘She’ll know,’ said Casey. ‘She’d have to. It’s just a case of how deep it all goes. If the Tartarus deal is a one-off thing, or if there’s more.’
‘She’s tipped as the next party leader, you know,’ said Miranda. ‘And she’s got a good chance.’
‘Yes. Archie said that one of the big political consultancies was sounding things out for her,’ agreed Casey. ‘And doing some expensive polling.’
‘She’s got a lot to lose,’ Hessa said thoughtfully.
‘How can we do it?’ Miranda was stirring her own coffee.
‘We could email Alicia,�
� suggested Hessa. ‘From an account that looks like a Tartarus account, asking her to come to a meeting this afternoon. And then follow Alicia from the House of Commons, and see where she goes.’
Casey chewed her nails. ‘Not a bad idea,’ she said. ‘Although there are lots of exits from Parliament, so unless we waited in the corridor outside her office, it would be hard to follow her. And she might have something she really can’t miss this afternoon, and just call Tartarus to change the meeting time.’
‘Or,’ Miranda added, ‘if Zeus turns out to be based in the Bahamas, Alicia’s going to be a bit surprised to be called in for a meeting this afternoon.’
Casey stabbed her notepad with her pen.
‘How about the grandees on the board of Tartarus?’ Miranda had read the notes. ‘They might not be being paid enough to go down with the ship.’
‘Lord Cornthwaite has Alzheimer’s,’ said Casey. ‘I tried him this morning, but he doesn’t seem to know anything about Tartarus at all. And as for Lord Matthews . . .’
They all thought about it briefly. The year before, Lord Matthews had been caught out by one of the more ruthless tabloids with an eighteen-year-old dominatrix who certainly wasn’t Lady Matthews. Previously chatty, he had refused to talk to a single journalist ever since.
‘Well,’ said Miranda, ‘the simplest way is usually the best.’
‘I know,’ said Casey. ‘I know. But we’ll only get . . .’
‘Better than nothing.’
Casey pulled her phone towards her. She dialled the number for Alicia Dalgleish’s parliamentary office, and when the secretary answered, Casey spoke in bored, upmarket tones.
‘Ringing from Tartarus Energy. I’ve got a call for Ms Dalgleish. Urgent please.’
She was put through without a murmur.
The telephone purred for a second, and then the line was picked up.
‘Clio.’ It was Alicia Dalgleish’s voice, clipped but friendly. ‘How are you?’
And Casey cut the call.
65
‘Clio Greystone.’ Casey threw the phone back on her desk.
The same blonde hair Casey saw everywhere . . .
I’ve just remembered, I’ve got to run off . . .
‘All along.’ Miranda threw her notepad across the room.
‘Damn it.’ Casey thumped her hands down on the desk. ‘The muse of history. How could we . . .’
Casey had grabbed her phone, was punching in a number. ‘Tillie?’
Tillie interrupted her, voice high with excitement. ‘He’s just been arrested. Taken from the house . . . His lawyer was with him . . . He didn’t say anything. What should I—’
‘Tillie,’ Casey interrupted her. ‘Is there anyone else in the Hampstead house? Where are the wife and children?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tillie sounded deflated. ‘I can ask the guy from the Mirror . . .’
‘OK. Thanks. Talk later.’ Casey put down the phone. ‘Arthur,’ she called across the office.
The crime correspondent bounded over. ‘Yup?’
‘Can you find out whether Greystone’s wife and children are at the Hampstead house? Discreetly? He’s just been arrested.’
‘Can ask.’
‘Very subtly,’ Casey repeated. ‘Make it sound like we just want to buy up the wife’s story, so we’re trying to work out where she is, rather than anything else.’
‘Sure.’ Arthur was reaching for his phone as he turned away. He was a good crime correspondent, and had got drunk with almost every police officer in the country.
‘We have to get to Clio.’ Casey clenched her jaw. ‘Not just to front her up, but to force her to release Emily and Dominic from Tilney Cottage.’
‘We will,’ said Miranda. ‘We’ll find her.’
But Arthur was back in the office in just a few minutes. ‘There’s no one else in the Hampstead house,’ he said, palms lifted. ‘The children are AWOL too. Off the record, the police wouldn’t mind knowing where they all are.’
‘Bugger,’ said Miranda. ‘How the hell are we going to find her?’
66
The day ticked on. Casey was bent over her notes, nose almost touching the paper. Come on . . . Come on . . . She sat bolt upright.
‘I know what we can do.’
She had Hannah on the line within seconds. Hannah was the Post’s south-east Asia correspondent based in Bangkok, young and bright and still unjaded.
‘Hannah,’ she said. ‘Can you write a quick piece about the Bangladeshi garment industry?’
‘Course.’ Hannah was chewing something. Probably dinner, in Thailand. ‘D’you want any top line in particular? There’ll be something to write about. There always is.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Casey. ‘But I need it fast. Can you file it to me when you’re done?’
‘Sure,’ Hannah sounded confused. ‘I usually send stuff through to the Foreign desk though.’
‘I’ve talked to them,’ Casey lied. ‘Just get the copy together, and then email it across.’
‘No problem.’ Hannah was always sunny. ‘It’ll be with you in an hour or so, OK?’
‘Great.’ Casey was already hurrying across to the Sport desk. It was a busy day, and all heads were down.
‘Arne?’ Casey pulled a chair up next to the Head of Sport, its wheels squealing.
‘I am busy now, Casey.’ The tall Norwegian pushed her chair away. ‘Come back tomorrow.’
‘Arne,’ Casey said again. ‘Please.’
‘What is it?’ He glanced up. ‘Is it important?’
‘Very.’
‘All right.’ Arne pushed away a fringe of dirty blond hair impatiently. ‘What? You can have one minute, Casey.’
‘Can I read through your tennis coverage? For tomorrow.’
‘What?’ Arne looked distracted. ‘Why? For God’s sake, Casey . . .’
‘It won’t take a second,’ Casey said soothingly. Arne had occasional temper fits that awed even Ross. ‘I’ll go through the articles right now.’
Arne made a noise close to a growl, and a gesture that might have been consent. He stood up sharply, and disappeared in the direction of the back bench. Casey heard a roar.
‘I’ll send the articles over to you,’ Arne’s deputy said pacifically. ‘There’s only one clay court event going on at the moment and some Davis Cup stuff, so we’re just doing a couple of stories and a nib.’
‘Thanks,’ Casey smiled at the deputy. ‘Won’t be a second.’
She bent her head over the screen, biting her thumbnail.
‘The number three seed couldn’t find any answer to the Argentine’s aces,’ Casey read to herself.
Reaching for the keyboard, she fiddled with the copy for a moment, standing up as Arne reappeared.
‘Casey, we are really tight on time today,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ she stepped away. ‘One more thing. Can you not publish that article until I say so?’
‘What?’ Arne looked up at her. ‘You’re ridiculous, Casey. It’s ready to go now. All the other papers are live on that story.’
‘Give me a few minutes,’ she begged. ‘Please.’
‘I don’t have time for this,’ Arne returned to his screen, and then snarled. ‘Casey, you have put a spelling mistake in my copy!’
‘Only a tiny one,’ she soothed him. ‘And it’s really important, I promise you, Arne. I wouldn’t ask . . .’
Arne growled again. ‘If I get any grief from the bloody Editor, I am telling him you did it.’
‘And I added one tiny sentence.’ Casey fled across the newsroom. ‘Promise me you won’t take it out?’
The head of sport waved his fist at her. But she knew he would leave the copy as she asked.
Finally, Casey washed up next to the Business desk. ‘Nicky?’
The business editor looked up. She was tough, Nicky, and fiercely glamorous. She flaunted her intelligence in the way another woman might twirl a dress. Casey couldn’t imagine her with a chipped nail. Staunc
hly supportive of the women in the office, Nicky had fought several battles for Casey and Miranda in the past, as if loyalty were just another currency, along with the dollar or the yen or the lek.
‘Yup?’ Nicky had one eye on her list. ‘James, I needed that piece on high street voids ten minutes ago.’
‘Are you doing a story about shipping today? It doesn’t have to be a big article. Smaller the better, really.’
‘Shipping?’ Nicky raised an eyebrow at Casey.
‘It’s important,’ said Casey, although Nicky would already know that.
‘Maybe.’ Nicky peered down at her list. ‘Yes, there’s something about insurance in the mix. You know how’ – a brief gleam of teeth – ‘these old monster ships always conveniently limp out to the deepest point in the ocean before sinking like a stone. The insurers are getting a bit fed up.’
‘Great,’ said Casey. ‘Could you insert a random list of shipping companies into that piece somewhere? And include the name Portunus Marine in it? And not publish until I say so?’
‘Portunus Marine?’ Nicky pursed her lips. ‘Never heard of them. Should I have?’
‘No,’ said Casey. ‘They’re a minnow. But I want them in an article today.’
‘You’ll have to explain later.’ Nicky turned away with a smile. ‘And it had better be good. Craig gets very precious when we mess around with his copy.’
‘It might be.’ Casey spun away.
‘What are you doing?’ She almost collided with Dash. She knew he had been watching her patrols around the newsroom.
‘I just need to talk to Toby.’ Casey dodged round him. ‘I’ll explain in a moment.’
Toby was sitting near the data team, tapping at his laptop.
‘Toby?’ He looked up at her, although his eyes didn’t really focus.
‘Casey. Hi. I sent you that list of companies.’
‘Thanks. But I need your help on something else.’
She explained what she needed quickly, Toby’s attention sharpening.
‘How long would it take you to build something like that?’
‘Not long.’ Toby’s fingers were moving rapidly already. He looked up. ‘It’s probably illegal though. Data stuff.’
