As far as the eye can see

by Phil Walden

  “I’m just sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” Faversham said. The cadets’ feet slammed to a halt. More barked instructions flew from the mouth of a boy barely older than the supplicants stretched out in front of him. Rifles pointed upwards. “All the boys learn to shoot you know. Always have.”

  A volley of shots sent crows squawking up into the murky grey sky.

  Chapter Eight

  The last person Start expected or wanted to see as he passed through the school gates and paced towards his parked car, was Olivia. But there she stood, propped against the bonnet, left leg scooped across her right, arms tightly folded around her chest. She was not happy. What had he been doing all this time? Well, she could take an educated guess at that. It would go a long way to explaining why she had heard absolutely nothing from him all week. God, they were supposed to be a team, weren’t they?

  Finally, exasperation and curiosity had driven her to drive out to the houseboat. It was locked up and seemingly empty. There was no one around to ask. The neighbouring vessels rocked with the flow of the river but spilt out nothing and no one. She had squinted through the portholes of his boat, her head shaking in despair at the number of discarded bottles strewn across the floor. Start obviously wasn’t there. She checked at the Boat Inn but no one recalled seeing him. Perhaps he had gone to the school. He might even have solved the riddle already, discovered Angel’s real name and what had happened to her. She decided she couldn’t wait. It was worth a shot. If he was there, so be it. If not, she’d demand to see Faversham herself. That would impress Deacon. And that would make up for a week where she felt she’d fallen short of his expectations.

  Far from the mundane office work she’d expected, it turned out that the editor had a quite different task for her. He called her into his office, sat her down and fired questions at her. How long had she been with the paper? Which assignments did she enjoy most and why? Were there other desks she’d like to spend time on? The inquisition was all very avuncular and professional and no different from her previous work placements. But then something of a surprise: Deacon asked what she thought of Start?

  She instantly felt ill at ease. Giving it both barrels could be seen as disloyal and unethical. Hiding the truth might be interpreted as weak, and cast a shadow over her ability to hack the job. She had shuffled awkwardly in her chair, unsure of what to say. But she found herself not exactly praising or for that matter slaughtering him but instead handpicking the things about him that she genuinely admired. His gut instinct was legendary, and over Angel she had witnessed it first-hand. His admittedly few smatterings of advice on articles she had penned, were invaluable. If she wrote five hundred words, he reduced them to half the amount, his pen slashing across the printout, savaging her carefully executed and, to her, beautifully crafted prose. He would then insist she halved it again. Her work had rapidly become leaner, more crisp and full of punch.

  Equally surprising to her was the tone in which she spoke about him. Despite every instinct in her body and despite all evidence to the contrary, she was growing to like him. It was nothing more than a fondness but increasingly, in an older brother sort of way, she felt she could learn from him and trust in him.

  At that point Deacon had levered himself out of his seat, ambled to the door and quietly closed it. He looked out across the busy newsroom, before it disappeared behind the closing office blinds. Now she did feel uncomfortable. She had experienced a few roués before, men who sought to take advantage of her youth, inexperience and what they perceived as desperation for a job. They had all got short verbal and physical shrift. Surely Deacon was not of that ilk. He looked old enough to be her grandfather. She stiffened, hands gripping the arms of the chair, as he trudged by her and up to a safe mounted in the wall by his desk. His fingers quickly fed in the combination. He swung open the door and rummaged down through the contents, before lifting out a weighty box file which he dropped in front of her.

  “Now Olivia, do I trust you?”

  Visibly relieved, Olivia blabbed, “Yes, of course, with anything!” She blushed at the absurdity of her initial thoughts and now her gushing response. Who did she think she was: his confidante?

  He lifted the lid of the box file. His voice was suddenly commanding and hard. “The contents of this file must never leave this office. You don’t speak about them to anyone but me. Much of what you see, you won’t understand nor do I want you to try. Is that clear?”

  Olivia was at once intrigued and puzzled. “Yes. What is it you want me to do?”

  “I want you to help someone I think we both care about. Someone I should have helped a long time ago. But he mustn’t know. Not until I’m ready to tell him.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Words struggled from her lips. “I don’t see how I can help.”

  “Believe it or not, you’ve already done a great deal. Tomorrow, first thing, I want you holed up in here. I’ll explain exactly what I want you to do then. You’ll need to work early and late.” He glanced in the direction of the newsroom. “Steer clear of prying eyes. Now fuck off and get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

  With that she hurriedly gathered up her things and left, her mind a confusion of excitement and not a little fear.

  Deacon, for his part, had agonised over whether to involve this forceful and talented novice in what was at best combustible and at worst potentially perilous. Her innocence was useful. He needed a young and vibrant mind, a fresh pair of eyes to scrutinise what he had long given up trying to fathom himself. After all, phone hacking was a complex business. He’d only sanctioned it as a little piece of private insurance. Insurance against the whims of a media mogul, who had proved ever willing to throw his minions to the dogs, especially if it saved his own skin. Coburn wanted every chance taken, every rule broken, every convention challenged as long as it got the story. But he wanted none of the blame, none of the accountability to land back on his desk. At all costs he must be heat proof, untouchable, the Teflon proprietor. Well, at that time Deacon did not intend to be the sacrificial lamb. If he was ever to go down, he had every intention of taking Coburn with him.

  The mechanics of the process had proved easy. There were various “enablers” skilled in the process and more than willing to line their pockets with the thousands of pounds on offer from the legion of tabloid papers struggling to retain a readership groomed on ever more salacious gossip and scandal. Everyone did it, everyone knew it. It was just never spoken about. He didn’t like it but felt he had no choice if he was to keep pace, withstand the pressure and deliver what was demanded. Deacon supposed that the important figures and celebrities targeted thought and were assured by their providers that their voicemail was secure. But impregnable it certainly was not. Too many users failed to alter the mobile phone companies’ default PIN making it straightforward to intercept messages. Others, masters of the dark art, would instead contact the relevant call centres, impersonating an account holder and resetting the voicemail pin to the default. Even so-called secure PIN codes were susceptible as users often used combinations of the numbers 1234 and 0, as well as deploying the dates of key family events. This made the task of determining the PIN a relatively straightforward task to anyone with the relevant expertise.

  So for close on two years Deacon had secretly authorised the tapping of Coburn’s voicemail. The results lay in the hefty box file before him, hundreds of hours of tapes, which threw up a combination of the trivial, the mundane, and the utterly baffling. Only the latter could contain anything with which to threaten Coburn but try as hard as he could, he could make no sense of any of it, its impenetrability suggesting that Coburn had something to hide. When the Start scandal broke, he had looked again, convinced that the contents of the box would save them both but without success. He had been desperate to bring Start in on the exercise in the hope that he could shed light on the mystery but, at the same time, the whole practice of hacking had been exposed in a number of high profile cases. The resulting furore had led to a w
idespread and frenzied pursuit of the Press, eagerly orchestrated by a vengeful political class. If found out to be implicated in any way, Deacon knew they could both face jail. He had laid the file to rest, under secure lock and key, and largely forgotten about it. Upon his subsequent dismissal, he had cleared his desk, fully intending to destroy the tapes completely, but something in him, perhaps a still smouldering sense of curiosity, led him to spirit the box away and eventually to bring it north to lie here in a quiet corner of the Fens.

  The conversation with Start on the roof of the Eastern Mail’s office had caused him to reconsider. There were unmistakeable signs that his wayward colleague was recovering. For the sake of his friend, their profession, for its future and the values and standards which should underpin it, Deacon had felt compelled to act not just with the resurrection of the voicemails but also on another crucial matter.

  *

  Ed Donnelly, the assistant editor at The Globe, had been shocked to receive Deacon’s call. He was even more shocked by what he was being asked to do. It had been the best part of a year since Jack’s departure and they hadn’t spoken once. In Donnelly’s early days at The Globe his editor had been a remote figure, largely liked and respected but, as he himself rose to become a features writer, not someone Donnelly felt able to cultivate or befriend. However, in Deacon’s final year at the paper he joined the editorial team and the pair developed a close working relationship. Deacon trusted him, so much so that Donnelly on occasions took control of the night desk, approving the final rushes before they went to print. And it was he who, on that fateful night, had met with a determined Start and approved the publication of the Benjamin Bailey expose. He had wanted to run it by Deacon but Start was having none of it. Any delay would mean it missed the Sunday edition, where it would have the most impact. He let himself be persuaded. He could not have envisaged the fall out. He owed his personal survival to Deacon alone. Aware that Donnelly had three children, a large mortgage and crippling debts, Jack, older and perhaps a little weary, had taken the rap, claiming it was his decision to go to press. Donnelly owed him big time.

  But finding the concierge would not be easy. His former boss gave few details and stressed the need for total confidentiality and so Donnelly initially took on the search himself. He contacted the hotel on the North Norfolk coast, which had been the scene of Start’s sting, claiming to be a solicitor with an unclaimed inheritance for one Martin Mackay. The address given for this fortunate man was that of the hotel. Was it possible to speak with him? The receptionist uttered a few expletives in recognition of his former colleague’s good luck but had no clue as to where Martin had gone. He did confirm the departure was sudden and had been told it was for family reasons. They’d been good mates but there was no discussion, no warning. Martin’s home country, Scotland, came up as the most likely destination. The receptionist’s parting shot made him laugh. “If you find him, let me know as the mean Jock still owes me the best part of a hundred pounds.”

  The search would have to switch north but Donnelly had neither the time nor the knowledge to track down his man. But Donald Hewitt would. The two men went back a long time. They had shared digs when junior hacks at a local rag in West Yorkshire, trying to make their name. Both eventually prospered, Hewitt with his dry, informed and witty coverage of the northern cultural scene, Donnelly with his acute grasp of economics and the rapidly changing industrial climate of the region. But success took them in opposite polar directions, one to Scotland via Liverpool and Newcastle, the other straight to London. But they shared a bond, born of hardship both in their upbringing and their early working lives.

  Hewitt did not disappoint. He phoned back within the week and urged his friend to travel north. What he had discovered had to be shared in person. It was too hot to divulge over the phone and nor did he trust the internet. Here was the same old Donald, ever the conspiracy theorist. He barely believed men had landed on the moon, was convinced aliens had visited the earth and held rigidly to the view that respective State forces had killed President Kennedy and Princess Diana. He worked for the Scotsman but would have slotted in nicely at many a national tabloid.

  Donnelly was largely a prisoner of the computer these days, so some time out of the office was welcome and if it involved a trip out of the capital, even better. He could do with a break and with a bit of creative accounting to disguise his true destination, he would claim it all on expenses.

  The train journey north had been swift and comfortable. The one regret, to the grandson of Irish immigrants who had flown poverty and persecution, was the vision of decline and destruction flashing by the carriage window. The damage was increasingly evident as the train ploughed steadily north, past abandoned mines, ruined factories and through run down towns and cities. Past places, once proud, Donnelly thought, of their status, skills and sense of community, but now fostering a third generation of unemployed and unskilled minimum wage slaves in what was once the hotbed of an industrial revolution that had shaped the modern world. Homes also that readily offered their husbands, brothers and sons in the service of the country in two world wars and suffered appalling losses. Now their children and grandchildren were being sacrificed on the global altar of Mammon. Sure there were signs of improvement. Many of the slagheaps had been landscaped, new businesses and housing created and the infrastructure improved. But these changes were largely cosmetic, funded by European money and did little to alter the perception that Westminster simply did not care. The Scots had long ago got the message. Donnelly was confident that he would live to see the North of England follow the same devolutionary path.

  Hewitt was there to meet him as he disembarked at Edinburgh’s Waverley Station. He had braced himself for the long haul up to Princes Street but was gratified to see that an extended escalator now lifted you to street level. They strolled past the ubiquitous lone piper, skirted the busy traffic negotiating the new tram lines, crossed Princes Gardens and fell into a hostelry by the Old Town.

  Donnelly weaved his way through a mass of office workers enjoying lunch towards the deserted far end of the bar. He slid a tray holding two pints of heavy and a couple of whisky chasers onto the table.

  Hewitt wasted no time. “I’ve found your man Mackay. Having a name and an occupation, it wasn’t too difficult. He works at one of the plush golf resorts on the east coast.”

  “He bought the solicitor ruse? Donnelly asked.

  “Hook, line and sinker,” Hewitt replied. “He was really enthusiastic, didn’t even ask who the benefactor was, just wanted to meet me as soon as possible.”

  “So you travelled up.”

  “Aye. I met him in the lobby of his hotel a couple of days later. When I told him the real reason for my visit, he got a bit uppity and tried to leave. A brown envelope full of cash soon had him squealing.”

  “Go on.”

  Hewitt took a long swig of his beer. Donnelly watched as half the contents of the glass disappeared in one go. He couldn’t keep up. He wouldn’t even try.

  “He admitted to being on duty that night at the hotel in Norfolk. Remembered Start and the two wee women, thought he was their pimp. Anyway he wasn’t one to question especially when a couple of hundred quid was thrust into his grubby hands.”

  “Did he see Bailey?”

  “Only briefly. He came downstairs to complain about the lack of room service. Apparently his lordship merely used the hotel to entertain the women. He’d stayed the previous night in the Lodge, a few hundred yards from the main building, holed up with a group of men.”

  “Any idea who they were?”

  “No. They were heavily guarded by security. The hotel employees were told not to go near. The party had their own caterers. Mackay seemed more concerned at missing out on some weighty tips. He thought it might be one of those weird Freemason gatherings.”

  “Sworn to the usual secrecy on pain of business and social banishment.”

  “I dare say.” Hewitt leant forward, his voice dropping as he loo
ked anxiously around him. “He did glimpse one of them. A man about sixty. Came out to smoke a cigar late one evening. Stood on the beach staring out to sea for several minutes. When he caught sight of the concierge, he quickly retreated into the Lodge, his hand held close to the side of his face.”

  “Obviously didn’t want to be recognised.”

  “Mackay had no idea who he was. Until a few months ago that is. He was on a bus. He saw this photograph. He wouldn’t normally have worried but the paper left on the seat lay open on a page carrying a picture of a beautiful woman. She was leaving an awards ceremony.”

  “And he couldn’t resist copping an eyeful.”

  “He recognised her. It was Trisha Hunt, you know, the newsreader.”

  “So?”

  Hewitt downed the rest of his pint. “He also recognised the short, squat bastard beaming beside her.” He slammed down the glass. “It was the man with the cigar, the man down by the beach.” The tot of whisky disappeared in one gulp. “Ed, that man was Max Coburn!”

  *

  Nothing could have prepared Deacon for the bombshell delivered in a late night phone call from Edinburgh. Donnelly’s shock and surprise crackled down the line. He had absolutely no idea where this might go. He was not even certain it should go anywhere. Deacon, however, knew exactly where it should lead. He thanked his friend, once again reminding him of the need for total discretion, and hung up. His chair swivelled round to face the small, square gun metal door embedded in the back wall of the office. A minute later he was dusting down an old box file, long buried towards the rear of the safe. Half an hour later its contents made no more sense than the last time he attempted to examine them. There was simply too much and he hadn’t possessed then or since the patience or inclination to devote the time necessary to analyse and interpret the information before him. Besides, too much appeared routine, if the leadership and organisation of a huge media empire could ever be called routine. He was familiar with Coburn’s ruthlessness but it was still a revelation to listen in on the curt and brusque decision making and the often cruel reasoning which lay behind it.