Fallen Angels

by Tara Hyland

  On the Strand, she weaved around a double-decker bus to get onto Aldwych, before slowing as she reached Fleet Street. Luckily, it was early enough so that there was a railing free on which to chain her bike. The Chronicle’s offices were almost as grand as those of the Express, and she always felt a buzz as she pushed through the glass doors, as though she was part of something important. Waving at the night security guard, she crossed the marble entrance lobby to the lift and pressed the button for the sixth floor.

  Upstairs, the newsroom was empty. It was coming up for 8 a.m. and one of the few times in the day that the Chronicle was at peace. The printers had come off their night shift, and the journalists wouldn’t start to trickle into the office until at least nine. Cara hurried to her desk. Pulling out her notebook, she sat hunched over her typewriter, her cold fingers bashing down on the keys as she began to write her article.

  Jake Wiley stood in the kitchen of his Chelsea flat making himself a coffee, his first of the day. He took it black, no milk, no sugar – strong, uncompromising, just like him. His morning routine was simple. From waking to getting out of the house took him no more than ten minutes. Apart from a quick caffeine injection, breakfast could wait – he’d send someone out later. He rarely ate at home, and a quick investigation of the fridge and cupboards would have revealed that there was no food in the place. He had no time for frivolities. He was wholly focused on work.

  Jake had grown up in the respectable spa town of Tunbridge Wells, the only son of the local grammar school’s Headmaster, a strict, dour man who talked in a grave tone about responsibility and duty. Jake’s mother was a housewife, who spent her days flower-arranging at the local church and worrying about what the neighbours thought. It was made clear to Jake from an early age that he was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps; it was equally clear to the young boy that there was no way he was going to end up in the living death that passed for his parents’ life. While his sister, Alice, embraced convention, Jake was a rebel: cutting class to go for a smoke behind the bike sheds; sneaking out to meet his girlfriend, the pretty daughter of one of their neighbours.

  At sixteen, much to his parents’ anguish, Jake left school and found work as a trainee reporter on a local newspaper. He was a natural. There were no lengths he wouldn’t go to in order to get his story. His father had always called him lazy because he hated studying at school, but when it came to working as a journalist, he didn’t care how many hours he put in. He was always first to arrive in the morning, last to leave at night. He got promoted to Senior Reporter within eighteen months, a record.

  It was inevitable that someone as smart and ambitious as him would move on to a national. He was only twenty when he landed a job at the Chronicle. From the first day, he loved it there. Despite his patchy school career, Jake had always had an aptitude for languages. He was fluent in French and Spanish from a summer spent travelling in Europe, so they hired him onto the Foreign Desk. Young and adventurous, he soon found himself out covering the conflict zones. He relished every minute of it. Being a war correspondent was the ultimate freedom. He was first on the scene at the Suez Crisis; he exposed the use of torture on both sides in the Algerian War; he interviewed Che Guevara on the eve of the Cuban Revolution, and Fidel Castro after the Bay of Pigs; and he reported on the Mau Mau’s retaliation against the British in Kenya. He was away for weeks at a time, finding his own stories, making his job whatever he wanted it to be. It was dangerous, but he couldn’t think of anything else he’d rather be doing.

  It was 1965 when Jake’s luck ran out. He was in Vietnam, doing a piece on field hospitals and the medical staff who manned them. He was on his way back to base camp, trekking through the wet jungle heat with a division of the US 53rd Infantry, when they entered a minefield. He caught the back end of the blast, shrapnel to the gut and face: serious but not fatal. His colleague at the BBC wasn’t so lucky.

  It took six months to recover, and even then he was left with a scar across his left cheek, and he still got twinges from where they couldn’t get all the debris out. He wanted to go back out in the field, but the newspaper’s insurance wouldn’t cover it. Instead, Neil Simmons, the Chronicle’s Editor, asked Jake to head up the News Desk.

  Jake hesitated before accepting. It was a plum job, but not where he wanted to be. Frankly, he missed the action. But Jake knew the statistics. War correspondents were adrenaline junkies; they found it notoriously hard to go back to civilian life. Most ended up losing themselves in a bottle. He didn’t want that to happen to him.

  So he took the position as News Editor and threw himself into it. He channelled all his restlessness into running the News Desk. He demanded greatness from everyone he worked with; refused to be scooped by rival papers. His motto was that the Chronicle made the news, didn’t just report it. And he liked his team to be as focused as he was.

  That was why he was pleased he’d hired Cara Healey.

  The turn in his thoughts surprised him. Now, why was he thinking about her? He took another sip of his coffee, mulling it over. He supposed he saw something there, a kindred spirit. A lot of people said they wanted to be journalists, but few had the stamina to make it happen. To an outsider, it might look glamorous, but after six hours of door-stepping a politician for a quote, most people lost their appetite for the job.

  Not Cara. He’d sensed in her interview that she was hungry for the position, and she hadn’t disappointed. The girl had a raw enthusiasm that reminded Jake of himself when he’d first started out. He knew she was eager to get her first byline, and he’d been waiting for her to bring him something great. He was sure she had it in her.

  And maybe there was a little more to his feelings for her than simple admiration. He found her attractive too, he couldn’t deny that. But a workplace romance – it was such a bad idea. He needed to keep his distance, stay professional. He was good at doing that.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Jake demanded angrily an hour later. ‘Lois Lane?’

  Cara had been expecting many reactions from her News Editor, but anger wasn’t one of them. However, as he’d read through her article, she’d seen his eyes darkening and sensed that all wasn’t well.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘That’s not the point.’ Jake sighed. He’d told Cara to get a new angle on the story – not put herself in danger like this. Of all the foolhardy things to do! She’d gone to the club without telling anyone what she was up to. She’d bought LSD, for God’s sake. If she’d got caught, who knows what Toby and his cohorts would have done to her? These were serious people.

  Except part of him couldn’t help admiring her, too. This was just the kind of stunt he’d have pulled. And he also knew that if any of his male reporters had done this, he’d have been delighted with them. Someone like Cara, who had the balls to go out there and get her story, was exactly the kind of person he wanted on his team. His anger was simply because he was allowing his personal feelings to get in the way, and he’d sworn he wouldn’t let that happen.

  ‘It’s a good article,’ he admitted reluctantly.

  Cara’s chin went up. ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  ‘You should have told me what you were up to. You go into a situation like that, you need to let me know where you are, so I can keep tabs on you. That way, if something goes wrong, I can call in the cavalry.’

  Cara nodded along as he spoke, but frankly she was finding it hard to care. He’d said it was a good article. That was surely all that mattered.

  ‘So do you think you’ll run it?’ she asked eagerly.

  Jake nodded down at her article. ‘Have you got any proof that all this went down?’

  ‘There are photos. Grant came with me—’

  ‘Grant knew about this little escapade of yours? And he didn’t do anything to stop it?’ The news editor shook his head in disbelief. ‘Wait ’til I see him—’

  ‘Don’t blame Grant,’ Cara interjected. ‘This was all
my idea. Even if he hadn’t come with me, I’d have still gone ahead and done it.’

  ‘Yeah, that I can believe,’ Jake muttered to himself.

  Cara chose to ignore the barbed comment. ‘Well, will you? Run it, I mean?’

  Jake tried not to smile at her single-mindedness. ‘There’s still some more work to be done. And Legal will need to go over it.’ He was deliberately cautious. ‘But I can’t see any reason it wouldn’t make a great piece.’

  Cara beamed at him. ‘That’s brilliant!’

  He sat back in his chair. ‘So is this what you want to do?’ he asked. ‘Be a journalist?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘And what area do you want to go into?’

  The question stumped Cara. She hadn’t really given it much thought. ‘I’m not sure.’

  It sounded like a lame answer, even to her ears. But Jake just nodded.

  ‘Well, first off, you need to be realistic about what someone like you can do.’

  Cara bristled. ‘Someone like me? What’s that meant to mean?’

  ‘A woman, of course.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Don’t act outraged. It’s a fact of life round here. But if you want to get on, then you have to find a way to use that to your advantage.’

  That got Cara’s attention. ‘How?’

  He nodded at her article. ‘Well, stuff like this, for one. There’re always stories where we need a woman to go undercover. If that’s something which interests you . . .’

  ‘Definitely!’

  ‘Good. Well, I’ll bear that in mind in future, and you should feel free to come to me with any suggestions for stories, too.’

  ‘I will.’ She got the feeling that it was the end of the conversation, and that Jake wanted to get on, so she gathered up her notebook and made to leave.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing,’ Jake said as she was going.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Good job, Healey.’

  The following week, after a couple of rewrites, her article was published. It ran as the lead on page three, the spot reserved for entertaining colour pieces. The headline was simply Drug Lord (Cara’s suggestion), accompanied by a picture of Lord Fairfax dozing on the front bench of the House of Lords, and another of his son handing over drugs to Cara in Middle Earth.

  Jake came over to congratulate her.

  ‘Pleased with how it turned out?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah – just next time I want a picture byline,’ she joked.

  ‘Great.’ He rolled his eyes in mock irritation. ‘One article and she’s already a prima donna.’

  She laughed. It was a natural end to the exchange, but instead of moving off, Jake lingered by her desk.

  ‘Did you want something?’ she asked.

  He hesitated, and then said, ‘Just wondered if you’d heard about tonight?’

  It was the staff Christmas party, and everyone in the office had been making a big deal about it. Cara hadn’t given it much thought until now, and she was surprised to find that Jake was – it seemed too frivolous for him.

  ‘The party? Yes, I had.’

  ‘So . . . are you going?’

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Good. Well, I’ll see you there, then.’

  Cara watched him walk off, wondering what on earth all that was about.

  ‘Nice work, Healey,’ Desmond Haines said, slapping Cara on the back. ‘Can’t believe you caught the old bugger like that.’

  It was later that night, and the Chronicle was in the middle of its Christmas party. Held in the paper’s offices – in case a story broke – it was a fairly rudimentary affair, with finger food and warm white wine, but everyone was in a jovial mood, especially Cara, who was still on a high from having her article published that morning. All day, people had been coming up to congratulate her. It felt good to be part of the team. Almost as good as seeing her name in print was the police press release issued that afternoon, saying they were re-opening the case against Toby Fairfax.

  Belatedly, Cara had worried about her own legal position, as she’d admitted to buying drugs in the article. But Jake had assured her that usually with these sting operations, the Met looked the other way, as long as the Police Commissioner considered what had been done to be in the public interest.

  ‘Glad you liked the piece,’ Cara said, biting into a slice of quiche. Desmond had cornered her by the buffet. Despite having her article published, she still wasn’t officially a journalist, so along with the other secretaries, she’d been in charge of setting up the party. She’d been running around so much today that she hadn’t managed to eat anything since breakfast.

  Desmond helped himself to a handful of sausage rolls, balancing them carefully on his already full plate. ‘Good spread you’ve put on,’ he said.

  ‘What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.’

  Laughing, he moved off. After he’d gone, Barbara, the Editor’s PA, came over to Cara. She was in charge of the party, and didn’t seem to be able to relax.

  ‘We’re running low on wine,’ she said worriedly to Cara. ‘I think there’s more in the fridge. Will you be a dear and go and check for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Grabbing another sausage roll, Cara went through to the tiny kitchen. She was crouched down by the fridge, taking out six more bottles of wine, when someone behind her cleared his throat. She looked up to see Jake standing there.

  ‘Hi.’ She straightened up. ‘What are you doing back here?’

  ‘Looking for you, actually. I have something for you.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What’s that? A bonus, I hope,’ she said cheekily.

  ‘Something much better.’ From behind his back, he produced a present. It was a flat, rectangular shape, wrapped roughly in Christmas paper.

  She took the present, weighing it in her hands, and looked up at him, confused. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Why don’t you open it and find out?’ He leaned against the Formica counter, watching her expectantly.

  She pulled off the wrapping paper and gasped as she saw what he’d done: had a copy of her article blown up and framed.

  ‘It was a tradition on the first paper I worked on,’ Jake explained. ‘Whenever a cub reporter got a first byline, the Editor would have it framed for them.’

  ‘Blimey!’ Cara was touched. Now she realised why he’d been checking if she was going to be there tonight. ‘I wasn’t expecting this. Thank you.’ Without considering whether it was appropriate, she stood on tiptoe to kiss his rough cheek. ‘It’s brilliant of you.’

  Laughing, he hugged her. ‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ he warned. ‘It’s to remind you that all your articles had better be this good.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She drew back a little. ‘Well, that goes without saying.’

  They grinned at each other, and in that moment, something clicked. Cara was suddenly aware of how close Jake was. His hands were resting on the small of her back, her hips meeting his warm thighs. She knew that if she closed her eyes, maybe tipped her head back just a little . . . he would kiss her.

  Jake swallowed.

  ‘Cara,’ he murmured. His hand came up, and she could sense that he was about to brush her hair back from her face. She also knew that if she let him, there would be no going back.

  And right then she suddenly remembered another moment, years before, when another man had looked at her in the exact same way. And see how that had turned out. First her mother had left her, and then her lover. She didn’t want to give someone else the opportunity to hurt her in that way. She wasn’t sure she could survive more heartbreak.

  So as Jake went to stroke her hair, Cara ducked away, stepping back so she was out of his reach.

  ‘I should get this wine to Barbara,’ she said, turning to where the bottles were still sitting on the floor. ‘She’s on the verge of a breakdown out there.’

  Quickly picking up four of the bottles, she hurried from the kitchen before he could say
anything more.

  PART FIVE

  1972

  Happy Endings

  ‘If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.’

  Orson Welles, American actor, director,

  producer and writer, 1915–85

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Stanhope Castle, California, July 1972

  Sitting in the study from which he had once run his empire, his wheelchair pulled up to the large bay window, Maximilian Stanhope looked out across the estate that he loved so much. Years of neglect meant that it had fallen into disrepair. Without a gardener, the manicured lawns had turned brown under the Californian sun, and the flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds. From here, he could see down to the outdoor pool. It hadn’t been filled with water for years now, and the mosaic tiles were cracked and covered in moss.

  Max knew no one understood why, with all his money, he lived in isolation like this. He also knew what people said about him: that he was an eccentric, a hermit, a recluse – even a murderer. But he’d never much cared for others’ opinions, and they seemed even less important than ever now, with his own mortality closing in on him.

  He knew that he didn’t have long to live. The cancer had returned, and this time it had spread from his remaining lung. He was only sixty, but seemed at least fifteen years older. The disease had weakened him to the point where he would be permanently in a wheelchair now. The contraption came with an oxygen tank attached to the right side, which he used at least three or four times a day. At his last appointment, the doctor had given him six months. Most days, Max felt that this was a generous assessment. But whatever the truth, one thing was certain: he had little time left to put things right. What he revealed might cause pain, but he still felt it was the best thing to do.