When she finally decided the moment was right to approach her husband and editor she found him, as she had expected to, alone in his office, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk. The door was always open. There was no culture for anyone to knock – which didn’t mean that everybody, including her, wasn’t inclined to be cautious about entering. Only the angle-light on Paul’s desk was switched on, its narrow beam palely illuminating just a part of the room. Mozart played softly on his CD player. Paul’s eyes were closed. She knew he wouldn’t be asleep, but he had a knack of relaxing completely for just a few minutes whenever the opportunity arose. It helped him greatly in getting through the extraordinarily long hours Fleet Street editors worked.
‘Hi, Jo,’ he murmured. His eyes were still closed and she had not seen him open them. It didn’t surprise her, though, that he knew she was there. Maybe he’d peeped, or possibly he really did have that sixth sense his staff sometimes attributed to him.
She sat down opposite him, rehearsing her approach in her head, waiting for him to appear ready to talk.
‘What are you doing here tonight anyway?’ he asked eventually. It wasn’t one of her days in, after all.
‘I’ve got this extraordinary story,’ she began. And she told him all of it.
Paul listened very carefully. He had always been a good listener. By the time Joanna had finished speaking he was almost as excited as she was.
Paul Potter was a newspaperman, through and through. His reaction to news was involuntary, instinctive and overwhelming, just like his wife’s. When something big and special broke he experienced the same burst of adrenalin rushing through his system as she did. As did all the best ones. But he didn’t show it, of course, it wasn’t his style. And in any case it was his job to think the thing through, to be clear on the legal aspects and to work out how to make the most of what they had.
‘Just e-mail a killer.’ It was wonderful. ‘[email protected].’ – magic. Pure magic. And so was the idea of a hit man being paid through a Swiss bank account. But the source was a convicted murderer and Joanna had agreed to pay him for the story, albeit indirectly. Jo had jumped the gun and had, of course, had absolutely no authority to pledge the Comet for that sort of money. But this time Paul didn’t blame her. He would have done the same himself. Make the promises. Get the story. Sort the rest out later.
It was a dangerous game, paying money to villains. He had done it before, of course, and so had most editors, even if they wouldn’t admit it. He still didn’t like it. Nobody did. But apart from any other considerations there was always the element of if you didn’t do it, somebody else would. And this time it was just such a big story. But they would have to be very, very careful about paying Shifter in some indirect way. Paul didn’t think he could renege on another of Joanna’s deals. Even though she was his wife, he wasn’t really concerned about her reputation and all that old-fashioned stuff about allowing her to maintain the trust of her sources and contacts upon which specialists traditionally had relied. He was both a pragmatist and a realist as far as newspapers were concerned. And frankly, although he liked it no more than the next journalist, he thought those days were gone. But the Comet’s reputation, such as it was, had to be protected. One journalist was neither here nor there. However, if it became widely believed that the Comet would casually break a deal whenever it thought it could get away with it, the paper could be badly damaged.
No, if they went with this one – and they had to, it was too good to miss – then Shifter would have to be paid. The sum of money Joanna had agreed to did not worry Paul. It was cheap, actually, for a story of this calibre. It was all the other factors that had to be so carefully considered.
‘Shifter was right, it is a corker,’ he said eventually. ‘Well done, Jo. We’ll go for it, of course. Two things. Tell nobody else. It’s “need to know” until we print, right? There’s no question of squeezing it in tonight and you were right not to try to do this one long-distance. It’s a major exclusive and I want it to have all the space and projection the Comet can give it. We’ll run the main story as the splash the day after tomorrow, “Murder on the Net, Jimbo killer hired by e-mail”, something like that, and over four and five. Let it run, too, Jo, every word he said. I’d like the spread as well. “Just e-mail a murder – Is this the future?” that kind of thing. Detailed analysis of how it can work, plenty of graphics and a break-out on just how secure Swiss banking is, all that sort of stuff. Big picture of an old-style villain carrying a bag of swag or something and an even bigger one of some sharp-suited bastard hacking into his laptop. Maybe a computer-enhanced job superimposing Shifter Brown’s face … Yeah! Let’s do that …’ Paul was motoring, warming to his theme. He was always at his best in this kind of situation. That’s why he was so successful.
Joanna nodded enthusiastically.
‘So get busy, Jo. You’ve got a lot of writing to do. I don’t want anybody else involved, not until they have to be. I’ll do the layout myself and we won’t get your copy subbed until the last moment. We’ll need to get pix on to it first thing in the morning but they can work blind – which won’t make much difference. Some of the stuff they put up to me I can’t help thinking that’s what they normally do.’ He grinned. ‘OK?’
‘OK, boss,’ said Joanna and she beamed at him.
They had always worked well together. They might have lurking personal problems now, but that was still the case, he thought to himself.
She got up from her chair as if she were about to leave his office. Then she stopped and spoke in a more hesitant voice. ‘And the deal with Shifter?’
‘We’ll honour it, of course,’ he said and he saw the relief wash across her face. ‘But I’ll want Cromer-Wrong involved – we’ve got to make it watertight.’
She nodded and beamed at him again. ‘I’ll make a start, then.’
She was just like him in so many ways. He had seen when she had entered his office that she looked exhausted. But his response and the promise of all that space in the paper had re-energised her. She was buzzing when she left.
As he watched her go his heart ached for her. She had always been the only one for him, right from the start. She was his and he could not bear it when they were not close. He still loved Joanna so much. He did everything he could for her and yet sometimes it seemed that nothing was enough. He thought his feelings were probably stronger than mere love. She possessed him. She always had. And he just wished he could believe that she felt half as strongly about him.
He also wished he could show her how he felt. For more than eighteen years they’d been married, he and Jo, and he still couldn’t do that. Neither could he explain to himself why not.
The Comet ran its splash, four, five and spread on the e-mail killer almost exactly as Paul had so quickly mapped it out in his office. ‘This newspaper has made no payment to Arthur Brown,’ read the disclaimer at the end of the story. There was no mention, of course, of the pledge to set up trust funds for Shifter’s family.
The police response was instant.
On the morning the Comet’s exclusive dropped Detective Superintendent Todd Mallett called first thing and demanded an interview with Paul and Joanna. He was already on his way from Exeter to London, he told the news desk early man, and indeed he arrived at Canary Wharf shortly after morning conference. He came heavy-handed, accompanied by a detective sergeant and two uniformed boys. Todd was angry. He wanted to show muscle. Unlike Mike Fielding, he had no time at all for journalists.
Paul offered at once to share all the information the Comet had concerning Shifter Brown and his e-mail contract. After all, he had nothing to lose, not now that he had published. The Comet’s big exclusive was already in the bag.
Which was exactly the way the detective superintendent saw it. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit late, Mr Potter?’ asked Mallett coldly. ‘You should have informed us as soon as you received the information which led to your story this morning – not after it was printed
. And you damned well know it.’
‘I’m sorry, Detective Superintendent, but I think this newspaper behaved properly throughout. We don’t work for the police, you know. This country still has a free press – just about.’
‘That is one name for it, Mr Potter,’ stormed Mallett. He looked as if he would like to arrest them both. Joanna knew that Mallett had a reputation for being unflappable. But on this occasion he certainly did not look it. She supposed that to see a major development in a case you had more or less failed finally to crack splashed all over the tabloid press when you knew nothing about it was, to say the least, a little annoying.
She also knew that Paul would have expected a strong reaction from the police and would not be fazed by it. Her husband certainly looked cool enough. After all, this was the kind of argument that was perpetual between the law and the Fourth Estate.
The policeman’s biggest concern seemed to be that there were more major disclosures lurking in Joanna’s notebook. In particular, the identity of the mystery e-mailer who had hired Shifter. There weren’t, of course, although she would have loved there to be. And she had no more idea who the e-mailer was than anyone else – and that included Shifter, she was able to inform Superintendent Mallett. Or so the jailed man continued to insist, at any rate.
The big burly policeman seemed to accept that. But you could see he was still only barely containing his fury. ‘There’s something else, Mr Potter, I know damn well you and your newspaper have paid Shifter Brown for this story, and you know that I know. We both also know that breaks every code in the book.’
‘I can assure you no money has been paid to Mr Brown,’ said Potter.
‘I bet you can. Someone close, aye? Someone handling it for Shifter’s family?’
Uncannily accurate, thought Joanna. But Mallett had been around a few years. It was no surprise that he was spot on.
Her husband obviously thought that too and remained as cool as ever. ‘I can also assure you I am well aware of all the codes of practice that apply and that this newspaper always treats them with the utmost respect,’ he said.
‘Spare me,’ muttered Mallett and he led his team away.
‘I told you we had to be careful, Jo,’ said Potter after the policemen had left. But he looked pretty pleased with himself.
*
Over the next couple of days there was pandemonium. All the other papers were fighting to catch up. There were questions asked in the House of Commons concerning regulating the Internet and the usual rumblings about the dogged single-mindedness of the gnomes of Zurich who took no notice of any law except their own.
The Mail got to both the O’Donnells and the Phillipses, but neither family seemed able to add anything to the story. Or if they could they certainly weren’t doing so.
Joanna basked in the glory of her scoop. She was more excited than she’d been in years. And, as her husband had noted, with the excitement of her triumph came a great flood of extra energy.
She really wanted to see Fielding. She felt guilty because working on her big story with Paul had somehow brought her and her husband together in a kind of closeness that had been absent from their relationship for months. But that did not lessen her need for her lover – although it was not until four days after her interview with Shifter, when all the possible follow-ups had also been written, that she eventually called Mike on his mobile.
He sounded distant, quite cool. Almost a bit like Paul when he was displeased about something.
And that sent a shiver down her spine. ‘Anything wrong, Mike?’
‘Nope.’ Just the one word. She suspected that he was miffed with her because she’d obviously been in his territory and not contacted him. He had left a message on her mobile on the day after her trip down to Exeter, but she’d been so preoccupied with her big story that it was not until now that she’d even remembered it. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch before; it was just that everything seemed to happen at once,’ she explained a little lamely.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He still sounded offhand.
She pretended not to notice. Hearing his voice, with an edge to it, heightened her need for him. As usual. She decided to go straight for it. ‘I need to see you,’ she said and she knew she had been unable to keep the desire out of her voice. Hadn’t tried very hard, really.
When he replied, after a short pause, he sounded a little warmer. ‘I can’t get away at the moment, Jo. I’ve swung just about every trip I can to London recently.’
She had been ready for that. ‘That’s OK,’ she told him. ‘Can you steal a couple of hours if I come to Exeter?’
‘You’d come all this way for a couple of hours?’ Now that sounded much more like his normal self.
‘Yep.’
‘I’m flattered. But not Exeter. Look, do you mind cheap and cheerful?’
‘Have we ever had anything else?’
‘Feel free to book the Ritz any time you like.’
She didn’t want to waste time on any more banter. ‘Next time you can get to London,’ she said. ‘Meanwhile I don’t give a damn as long as the place has a bed and a door with a lock on it.’
He laughed.
That was better, she thought.
‘The Lodge at Taunton service station,’ he said. ‘Far enough away from here for me to be reasonably safe and just a ten-minute cab ride from the station for you.’
‘T’riffic,’ she said, striving to maintain the lightness. She hated it when he was off with her. ‘The cabby’ll love it. What on earth could a woman on her own be doing getting dropped off at a service station motel, I wonder?’
‘Get him to drop you in the car park, you silly bitch. That should confuse him. Anyway, what does it matter? I know you’re wildly famous, but not down here, you’re not.’
‘Not as a journalist, I’m damn sure of that. I fear I’ve still made more of a stir through my personal involvement in the Beast of Dartmoor saga than by anything I’ve actually written about it.’
‘Yesterday’s fish and chips,’ he said.
She wasn’t sure which he was referring to, her journalism or the other stuff. Anyway, she didn’t really care. Suddenly she just so wanted to be with him again. Or, to be more precise, in bed with him again.
They arranged to meet the next day.
He was late. She had travelled all the way from London and he was late.
He didn’t even apologise. Didn’t speak. Just jumped on her.
She didn’t mind it like that sometimes but she was taken by surprise. He was usually a man who enjoyed taking his time, savouring every moment and, by and large, she preferred that. She had got to expect it with him. ‘You were in a hurry,’ she said afterwards.
He lay beside her, panting, his eyes tightly closed. He had been far too quick for her. She needed time these days to reach a climax. Time and much more attention.
‘I needed you,’ he muttered.
‘I still need you,’ she said bluntly.
‘Patience,’ he said.
He recovered surprisingly quickly. And the next time he did all the things that so excited her. She didn’t quite know what it was he did with his tongue that nobody else she had ever slept with had seemed to manage. She just knew it drove her mad, made her desperate to have him inside her and that when she did start to orgasm it was more acute, more extreme, with him than it had ever been with anyone else. Just like always.
When she had finished he held her very close. Her body felt weightless. She was in a state of complete relaxation. It was probably only after really good sex that she ever relaxed like that. She closed her eyes and revelled in the moment. Then she must have fallen asleep because when she opened her eyes again he was no longer lying beside her but standing, still naked, with his back towards her, over by the window. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Uh huh,’ he said, but he didn’t sound very happy.
She propped herself up on one elbow. ‘Are you sure? I thought you were a bit off on
the phone yesterday. Is there something wrong?’
‘You don’t even know what you do sometimes, do you?’ he sounded quite tetchy now.
‘Sorry?’
‘This past year, ever since the O’Donnell thing began I’ve given you everything I’ve got. Story after story. Kept you informed. Thought I owed you that. Then you get the e-mail killer stuff and you didn’t even bother to let me know. I read it in your newspaper like all the other cretins.’
So that was it. She had half suspected as much. ‘It didn’t even occur to me until afterwards …’
He interrupted her. ‘And that, Joanna, is exactly my point.’
‘But Mike, I’m a hack – you’re a policeman. It’s different. I didn’t think you’d even want to know about the case any more. It’s over for you, isn’t it? You’ve told me that enough times.’
He turned abruptly towards her, punching the air with his right arm, fist tightly clenched. Involuntarily she flinched back into the pillows. He looked absolutely furious. ‘For God’s sake, Joanna, it will never be over for me, don’t you understand that? I’m never going to be able to let go. I just can’t.’
The vehemence of his outburst took her by surprise. He shouted the words, his features contorted in anger. But his nakedness gave the scene an edge of the ridiculous. Maybe he thought so too.
He turned away, walked across the room, picked up his underpants and trousers from the floor where he had thrown them in his haste such a short time ago, and quickly pulled them on. ‘I’m supposed to be a tough cop. You don’t let on,’ he told her through clenched teeth. ‘You just get on with the next job. Trouble is, I was first on the scene when Angela Phillips was discovered. Everybody knows that. Nobody, but nobody, knows what it was like. I’ll never forget it. Never. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me. The second-worst thing was knowing I had the bastard who did it and seeing him walk free out of court twice. I thought you understood that. Didn’t you realise how much it took for me to call you up after all that time, ask you to help me? Didn’t you realise how I felt when it all went pear-shaped yet again? O’Donnell didn’t just get away with murder, he wrecked so many lives – including mine as near as damn it. And he’s even fouled up the remains of my career yet again, twenty years on.
A Kind Of Wild Justice Page 29
