by Phil Walden
The first buildings had been completed about the time he had decided to become a journalist. The idealistic vision of a new booming business sector at the heart of a rejuvenated East End seemed to be at one with the dreamy teenager, with an ambition to write and a fervent desire to change minds. He had eschewed the distraction of a university education, anxious to learn his trade and make an impression. His passion, hard work and bravery had ensured a rapid rise through provincial publications to the national dailies. At twenty six he was part of a top investigation squad at The Globe. Two years later he was in charge of it. The hot money was on him making editor by the age of thirty. That had not happened.
Newspapers fought each other for daily tales of scandal, betrayal and greed. The investigations into the wrongdoings and corruption so often at the heart of powerful institutions increasingly had less appeal. The process simply took too long. He found himself pushed into the realm of the trivial, the relentless pursuer of those blessed with fleeting celebrity, built up only to be knocked down, used, abused and forgotten. He sank ever lower, seduced by the praise, the backslapping and the host of awards, coveted by rival publications and lauded by his numerous friends. Where were they in his hour of need? Most had disappeared in a flash as the Bailey Scandal hit and his name became poison to anyone with ambition or the need to survive.
However, there was one friend, one he thought he could count on. Yes, he would have to cross Old Father Thames. True, he would need to enter the tall imposing building housing The Globe, something he’d vowed never to do again. But Ed Donnelly would help. Start was sure of it.
*
Donnelly had been nervous ever since Deacon’s call. Revealing details of Coburn’s covert absences was one thing but agreeing to meet with Joe Start was something else. Even after all this time, the man was persona non grata at The Globe, with Coburn demanding to be specifically alerted if he ever tried to cross the threshold again. He had tried to persuade Deacon to set up a meeting away from the offices but without success. The information Start required, he was told, was likely to be in the building and Donnelly could only be made aware in person of the exact nature of his request.
Despite his reservations, it would be good to see his old friend. The two had joined the paper together. Donnelly had watched Start’s irrepressible rise with admiration and no little envy. He had been shocked by his fall, and latterly, when elevated to the post of permanent night editor, fought a sense of guilt linked to the fact that his own career had benefitted from the vacuum created by his colleague’s sudden dismissal.
The receptionist on night duty was relatively new and had no idea of the identity of the scruffily dressed man in front of her. The call upstairs confirmed that he was expected. She began to offer directions but was cut short by Start’s departure. He knew the way. The walk across the foyer, the clunk of the shutting elevator doors and the subsequent rapid rise all brought back mixed memories. This was both the scene of his greatest triumphs and his ultimate defeat. He felt sick to the pit of his stomach as the lift spat him out on the tenth floor.
Donnelly was there to greet him. “Good to see you, Joe.”
The tone of those words betrayed sadness but also regret, regret at not taking action, at choosing to be silent when there was something which could have been said, something which could have been done.
“Good to see you too, Ed. You’re looking great.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Must be all that country air.”
“You know you’re taking a big risk.”
“I banked on Coburn not being here.”
“You’re right. He’s not. But his eyes and ears are everywhere. Come on. Follow me.”
Donnelly ushered his friend down a long corridor to a section of the building where the offices were temporarily out of use, pending redecoration. They fell into a deserted office and dropped onto two chairs either side of a large desk. Donnelly rifled through the bottom drawer and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of malt whisky.
“I assumed Talisker was still your tipple.” He poured two full measures and prodded one of the glasses in Start’s direction. “I’m taking a risk too, you know.”
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”
He went on to outline the full story, from Angel’s apparent reawakening, the markings on the glass, the as yet unresolved mystery of her disappearance, the visit to the school, up to the possible but still tenuous link with Tom Catchpole.
Donnelly’s eyes lit up at the mention of the name which was the talk at every supper table amongst the chattering classes. “You know he’s been seen with Trisha?”
“I’d heard,” Start replied. And if, to Donnelly, Angel’s story had at first seemed a fairly parochial tale, fit only for a regional news item, it now became topical, national and very, very interesting.
Start saw the gleam in the eyes. “Take that look off your face. You can’t use any of this. Not yet.”
In truth Donnelly’s reaction was more complicated than the lure of a big story. Since the assignment he’d organised in Scotland and the identification of Coburn at the secret location, he had heard nothing more from Jack Deacon until the recent phone call to inquire after Coburn’s movements and to alert him to Start’s imminent arrival. Despite his old editor’s assurances and repeated insistence that he say nothing to Start, he had half expected, half hoped and half dreaded the request to be in some way linked to his fearsome boss, the concierge and the mysterious gathering at the Norfolk lodge. More importantly his perceived excitement lay in the sure knowledge that where Catchpole was concerned, he could indeed assist.
“I did a profile on him a couple of years ago, all about his life and achievements in the States. When he came back, I dug it out, planning to do a follow up.” Donnelly leapt from his chair. “Wait here, will you?” He shot out of the room.
Start rose. He moved to the full glass window. He drew in the aroma of the peat laden whisky, sipping at it and looking out along the curves of the river below. He could just make out the lights of Big Ben and St. Stephen’s Chapel behind it. The politicians were probably still in session or more likely filling the heavily subsidised restaurants and bars of their Gothic bubble. How futile! The arguments that mattered, the decisions that counted, the real power in this country all resided at this end of the city, in this very building and the ones which thrust ever upwards around it.
He laughed. If only Olivia were here. He would have spouted forth to be met with that contemptuous roll of the eyes which said I’ve heard it all before. She would have seen a very different picture and posed the question: what would I give to work here? He would have replied: start with your soul. They’d have argued before falling into the silence which all too often stood as testament to the gaping hole in their relative experience and understanding of the world. How could she be so naïve? He wasn’t that much older than her, twelve or thirteen years at most, but he often felt a whole generation apart. For the life of him he couldn’t think why, but he had to admit in a funny sort of way that he missed her. She was so different to the small town mentality of many of the people he worked with at The Eastern Mail. They were insular, distant, distrusting in their attitude towards him. To be fair that suited him just fine but it also irritated him because he knew that it was borne out of jealousy and a barely concealed delight at this so called big shot’s fall from grace. She never once betrayed those sentiments. Sure she was feisty and combative but not because of his lost fame, or for what he had done, or what he had once been. Her anger, he realised, stemmed from the fact that he was no longer that person.
Donnelly burst through the door, carrying a box file.
“Sorry. Took some time but I found it.” He pulled a collection of papers from the file and spread them out on the desk. “He went to the States around twenty years ago.”
Start sank back into his chair and began to flick through the information in front of him. “Any particular reason?”<
br />
“Claims to have had an epiphany.”
“In what way?”
Donnelly sat on the edge of the desk. “He decided to dedicate his life to saving the planet. At the time UCLA was the place to be. He graduated, took a research fellowship and went on to make his name as a top advisor in the Californian State government. Make no bones about it. Catchpole became a skilled political operator. He helped push through radical environmental change in the teeth of fierce Federal resistance.”
“And got a taste for politics.”
“It’s why he’s back.”
“Find any skeletons?” Start asked.
“Not over the pond. There’s no doubt he made plenty of enemies. He became loathed for his dogged determination and single minded ruthlessness.”
“But he got things done.”
“Absolutely. His energy conservation plans helped keep the lights on and hauled the state back from the financial brink but were massively unpopular with big business. The Republicans made him Public Enemy Number One and went after him big time but even they couldn’t make anything stick. He ended up being feted at the White House and became something of a darling amongst progressive thinking Democrats.”
“What about over here? Unearth anything?”
“Hardly likely. He left when he was eighteen.”
“Straight from school?”
Donnelly nodded but then leapt to his feet. “That reminds me. Something did seem strange.” He reached over and grabbed the file back. He shuffled through it before removing two sheets. He tossed the first page over to Start. “There’s this. It may be nothing. Look. I made a note at the time. He seems to have left in a hurry. Yet he gained outstanding A Level grades and was all set for Oxford.”
“Working class boy made good.”
“Exactly.” Donnelly held out the second sheet. “This was in the local rag, a picture of him celebrating with his headmaster.”
Start took it from him. “Faversham. All looks very cosy.”
“So how come one week later he’s flying off to California?” Donnelly asked. “It doesn’t make sense.” His mobile began to ring. He glanced to see the identity of the caller. “Sorry. I need to take this.”
An urgent voice barked into his ear: “Where the hell are you, Ed? We need the front page back. There’s been another leak!”
Chapter Fourteen
It should have been business as usual for Lucy Hass and other party workers as they arrived at their headquarters that morning. It was true that the workload for the week had risen in light of the information needing to be dispatched to MPs ahead of the forthcoming 1900 Committee meeting. Yet there would still have been time to glance across at the widescreen television, with its constant stream of news and opinion, watching in case a story broke which might have implications for the party and necessitate an immediate action or reply. But no one could have foreseen the breaking news which had kept them glued to the screen, shocked and inactive, for the last hour. The implications of what they had heard began to sink in as, on screen, Trisha Hunt ended her early bulletin:
And our main story this morning. In the week of the crucial meeting of the 1900 Committee and the expected and much anticipated challenge to the leadership of James Devaney, there is intense pressure upon one of the leading candidates to resign. Shadow Home Secretary and prominent pro life supporter Caroline Bruce has so far made no comment after newspaper claims she underwent an abortion twenty years ago. More on that story after the break.
Silence was instantly replaced by impassioned and urgent conversation, questioning the validity of the story, guessing its possible source and assessing the likely impact on any leadership contest and the party as a whole. The frantic chatter instantly ceased as the large oak door flew open and a grim faced Caroline Bruce stormed past them. The heads of the startled aides swivelled round and followed her progress as she marched towards the office of their leader.
James Devaney stood at his office window, looking out on the headlong rush of traffic, hooting, accelerating and braking as it endured the morning rush hour below. Two magpies picked at the road kill of the night, nimbly skipping away on the approach of any oncoming car. He marvelled at their anticipation and dexterity. How he could do with the same fleet of foot to dodge the endless stream of bullets aimed at terminating his political life.
Carlton’s phone call had woken him around one o’clock that morning, alerting him to the fact that the Bruce bombshell would be all over that morning’s papers and that they ought to consider a suitable response. He had struggled up and tried to contact Caroline without success. He had gone on to construct the usual stalling diatribe which would give the media something or nothing to chew upon. Yes, he had been made aware of the allegations; no, he did not know if there was any truth in them; no, he had not yet spoken to the Shadow Home Secretary but, of course, he had full confidence in her ability to carry out her duties. He was just pondering whether he should have appeared stronger, offered her unequivocal support and more fulsome praise, when the door burst open.
“Caroline! Thank heavens. Do come in.”
“Spare me the pleasantries.” She brandished that day’s copy of The Globe, the offending headline splashed across its front page. “How could you? After all these years.”
“Please. Come and sit down.” He beckoned her to a chair.
“I’m not staying.”
“This whole business has nothing to do with me. I swear.”
“Who else could it have been?” A tear rolled down her flushed cheek. “Who else knew?” She pulled a letter from her handbag and threw it at his feet.
“My resignation!” she snapped and turned from him.
“Wait! Caroline! Please,” he shouted.
The party workers looked dumbstruck as she rushed past them, without so much as a sideways glance, and paced out of the office. They turned back to stare at Devaney. He felt their shocked and questioning eyes accusing him, searching and probing deep into his soul. He slammed the door shut.
Chapter Fifteen
The breakthrough for Olivia came towards the end of her third week as a cleaner at the college. Her flirting tactics had succeeded in bringing about prolonged exchanges in which she could listen carefully to the voice and begin to probe into the background of each of her suspects. With her wide eyes and soft tones expressing sympathy and empathy for the long hours of work and increasing difficulty of handling ever more rancorous and arrogant children, she gradually manoeuvred the conversation towards the key question to which she needed an answer: “As well as working here, were you once a pupil?” A negative reply led to a swift disengagement and, at least, a shortening of her hit list.
Two of the staff she met and engaged in chit chat revealed that they been students at the school but neither seemed to fit the bill. The Head of Physical Education appeared not to have a care in the world, rejoicing in the fact that he worked in an establishment with such generous facilities compared to equivalent State schools in the area. This was not someone who had an axe to grind or felt that the institution had anything to hide. He gave the air of someone so self-absorbed, he would fail to notice any wrongdoing around him. It was soon evident to Olivia that her attention only strengthened his already outsized ego. In addition, his bronzed face masked growing lines under his eyes, which, with a spreading paunch, not only suggested his best sporting days were behind him but that he might be too old to be the informant. A quick check on the honours board had revealed that in his final year he had been a House Captain, leaving before Angel had even begun her occasional employment at the school.
The other former pupil was a Classics teacher, no doubt driven back to work at his alma mater by the lack of any opportunities elsewhere. Her charms had zero effect upon him. She struggled to get this shy and aloof man to say anything until she expressed her appreciation for the choir she had earlier heard practising in the chapel. Most uncharacteristically, he went off on a rant about how music was his second subject
and how he should be allowed some involvement in running the choir or at least be engaged in some capacity. But no, Faversham kept it all to himself, he raged, even excluding the main music teacher, except for the rare occasions when additional instruments were required at set piece ceremonies. He was obviously no fan of Faversham and perhaps a prime candidate except that the voice was shrill and high pitched with an irritating whine. Such traits, she felt, would be difficult to disguise and were certainly unlike the low, gravelly tone evident on the voice messages the paper had received.
One evening at the end of her shift and after another day of fruitless pursuit she was hurrying towards the main door, anxious to wash off the dust and grime, and bury the experience for the forthcoming weekend. She had toyed with the idea of ringing her editor, confessing to a lack of success and suggesting that they might pursue another tack. Perhaps confront Faversham head on with the allegations of wrongdoing they already knew about, and look for a reaction. She would do it. She didn’t need Joe Start to nursemaid her. Not that he ever had. Anyway, a display of initiative and some independent thought would surely impress Deacon. As quick as the notion came into her head, she had dismissed it. He would want firm evidence before confronting anybody. The parlous state of the Eastern Mail meant he could and would take no chances. He was cautious, far too cautious.
As she dashed along the long corridor towards the main entrance to the building, her train of thought was interrupted by a furious row emanating from the staffroom. The familiar tones of the headmaster, albeit raised to a level of anger and disdain she had not previously encountered, were matched by an equally incensed outburst from a male voice inside. The exact content of their heated debate washed right over her head because of one crucial fact. It was the breakthrough she had sought and almost given up hope of finding. That male voice, so full of emotion and outrage, had a pronounced stutter.
