by Nicci French
Eventually he replied, ‘Go on.’
She told him about Peter investigating the cyclist just before he was killed, that she had found both the bodies, the key rings, and what she suspected about the Twitter address.
Another pause. ‘Who else knows about this?’
‘No one.’ Lucinda was getting into the reassuring journalist role. ‘It’s all strictly off the record.’
That seemed to do the trick.
‘All right,’ Donoghue said. ‘But this goes no further unless I say. There are court orders involved.’
‘OK,’ she agreed, having nothing to lose. ‘So how did you know about Beck attacking the fan?’
‘I was there, covering the event for the Star. I saw it happen, even though Beck’s denied it ever since. The victim was only a kid, fifteen or so. He waited by Beck’s car after the event for an autograph, but Beck punched him in the face and drove off. I didn’t think he should get away with it, so I wrote the story.’
‘So if you witnessed it, how did he get off?’
‘It was all hushed up by his lawyers. They knew he was about to hit the big time, so they threw the book at us.’
‘And you let it go?’
‘I tried to follow up on it,’ Donoghue said, ‘but Beck’s promoters couldn’t afford blemishes on his record. Their lawyers turned up at the paper within hours; came down on the editor like an anvil, tying him up in so many legal knots that we couldn’t afford to print further allegations. They even made him print a retraction. And I got released from my contract.’
‘Could it have been an isolated incident, Beck just having a bad day?’
‘I wondered that, so I did some digging afterwards. The rumour among Beck’s peers was that he couldn’t stand his fans, especially the really keen ones. He used to joke about having them taken out.’
Lucinda couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You have to go to the police,’ she told him. ‘They need to know about this.’
Donoghue’s tone hardened. ‘I told you, this goes no further.’
‘People are dying.’
‘It doesn’t make sense anyway. Why would Beck risk it? He might not like his fans, but he’d have to be insane to start murdering them.’
‘Maybe,’ she countered, ‘but there’s plenty of evidence worth exploring. And what if someone else dies tonight? If you don’t want to tell the police, I can do it. I’ll just say I found the article and they’ll investigate.’
There was a moment’s silence before Donoghue let out a long sigh. ‘OK, maybe you’re right. I’ll call them straight after. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if all legal hell breaks loose.’
Lucinda thanked him, said he was doing the right thing and rang off. She emailed a copy of the article to herself, gathered her belongings and switched off the lights, feeling like she’d done her civic duty.
It was only on her way down the stairs that she realized Donoghue could have been lying.
What if he’d only said he’d ring the police to get rid of her?
Deciding it was best to make sure, Lucinda pulled out her phone and scrolled to the inquiry hotline number she’d copied off the television earlier on. She’d call on her way home. Even if Donoghue denied having the conversation with her, she still had the article.
Lucinda reached the bottom of the steps, unlocked the main door and stepped onto the pavement. According to her phone it was already half past nine, and the streets at the quiet end of town were dark and deserted. She was about to turn back to lock the door when she saw the silhouette.
Someone was standing in the shadows at the end of the path.
‘Hello?’ Lucinda said.
For a second the silhouette didn’t respond, but then it moved, leaving the shadows and coming towards her. She squinted through the darkness, startled when she recognized her mystery visitor.
Tim Donoghue.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, startled by how much older the presenter looked in person. It had been just minutes since they’d finished talking on the phone.
‘Not outside,’ Donoghue grabbed her by the arm and manoeuvred her back into the building, closing the door behind them. ‘Lock it,’ he ordered.
‘Why?’ Lucinda demanded. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Look, there’s more to this whole thing than you’ve realized.’ Donoghue took the keys off her and locked the door. ‘I guessed you’d be here, so I came straight over. We need to talk. Please?’
‘All right.’ She led him up to the office and turned. ‘You need to tell me what this is—’
Light flashed across Lucinda’s vision as the fist crashed into her jaw. She sprawled into the nearest desk, looking up to see Donoghue advancing.
He grabbed her by the neck and dragged her across to a chair, dumping her in it. ‘That’s what you get for sticking your mindless nose in other people’s business.’
Lucinda’s jaw was singing, but she managed to talk. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Donoghue laughed. ‘You really aren’t very bright, are you?’ He dug a hand inside his jacket, and Lucinda noticed for the first time that he was wearing gloves.
He produced a knife, ‘I’m doing this because I can’t have you digging up the past before I’m ready.’
Lucinda’s blood ran cold as she stared at the blade. ‘Did you …’
‘Kill Jo and your friend, Pete? Actually I did.’ He cocked his head. ‘Oops, that was careless. Now I have to murder you, too.’
‘But …’ Lucinda blinked hard, trying to clear her head. She had to keep him talking. ‘Why?’
‘Well, where to start?’ Donoghue pulled up a second chair and sat in front of her, holding the knife between them, apparently happy to talk. ‘OK, how about this. Here’s Tim Donoghue, forty years old next Tuesday, working at some crummy local TV station, when a few years ago I was being tipped for national television. But why, when I used to be the biggest star ever to come out of this fetid little town? Everything was going well for me: guest of honour here, opening day care centres there, the lot. Then along comes this idiot, born and bred in Saverton, and he starts winning international cycling events. Well, everybody just loves that, don’t they? All of a sudden it’s: Tim who? I tried to take him down a peg or two with the story about him attacking a fan, but his swanky lawyers managed to kill that and ruin me in the process. So I end up playing to the blue-rinse brigade on boondocks TV, while he’s just passed a million followers on Twitter. He owes me, big time.’
‘So if Beck’s the problem,’ she said, realizing he was keen to tell his story, ‘why murder Jo and Pete?
Donoghue frowned, as if the answer was obvious. ‘Because they followed @iloveIanBeck, of course.’
He reached into his pocket, producing one of the bicycle-chain key rings, ‘I set up the Twitter address and had these made for tomorrow’s fair, and I’m going to kill anyone stupid enough to follow it. But it seems Jo didn’t deliver them to the fair’s organizers like I’d asked. Don’t worry, though, I’ve ordered some more.’
The ringing in Lucinda’s ears had eased a little, and she scanned the desk for anything she could use to defend herself.
Donoghue followed her eyes. ‘Don’t,’ he warned. ‘I’m bigger and stronger than you are.’
‘So you kill a few of his supporters.’ Lucinda looked back at him. ‘What then?’
‘Then we’ll find out what Mr Wonderful’s fans are really worth to him.’ Donoghue waved the knife at her. ‘Plus I get some long overdue exposure by being front man on all the national news reports. I have to admit, though, I never thought of framing him for killing them himself. That’s genius. How did you come up with it?’
She ignored his question. ‘Why wait all these years?’
‘Because he had to be here, in town. If this happened when he was on the other side of the planet, how would I know he’d see? I had to wait for the right time.’
But as he finished his sentence, the distraction Lucinda had been stalling for
arrived.
Donoghue’s phone rang.
He glanced down, just for a second, but it was enough.
Lucinda’s hand shot out; grabbing the scissors she had seen in the pen pot on the desk, and rammed them, point down, into Donoghue’s right foot.
He screamed and dropping to a crouch, pulling the implement free.
In those few seconds Lucinda shot off her chair, picked up the large fire extinguisher from beside the desk, and brought it down as hard as she could on the top of Donoghue’s head. There was a dull metallic thunk, and the reporter slumped sideways, a bloodstain growing steadily on his tan leather shoe.
Lucinda discarded the extinguisher, breathing hard, noting the head-shaped dent in its tough metal casing. Donoghue looked like he was out cold, but it was best to be sure. She ran to her desk and found the bungee cords she used to stabilize her tripods on windy days, and bound his hands and feet.
She finished and stood, ready to call the police, but another noise interrupted her. Donoghue’s phone was ringing again. She searched his pockets and pulled it free.
The number was withheld. It occurred to her that he might have had an accomplice. The call could be from anyone, anywhere, but perhaps she could fool them for long enough to at least find out who they were. She pressed the button to answer the call, careful as she brought the phone to her ear not to make any noises that would inform the other person they were speaking to a woman.
‘It’s me,’ the caller said after a moment.
Lucinda slowly sank onto her office chair, shocked. This voice was familiar, too. It sounded like Ian Beck.
There was a pause. She breathed louder, hoping he could hear.
‘You win,’ Beck said at last. ‘I didn’t believe you’d go through with it at first, but now I do.’
Lucinda’s brain raced to catch up with what was happening. Could he really be talking about the murders?
She tuned back in as he continued: ‘You can have your half million; I’ll transfer it to your account tomorrow. But then this thing’s done, OK? Just don’t kill anyone else.’
Lucinda ended the call and lowered the phone, as the truth became clear in her mind. Donoghue had been blackmailing Beck, obviously having threatened the cyclist’s fans. It looked like Beck had called his bluff, but the reporter had actually been prepared to kill. Which meant Beck had known about the murders, if not before Jo’s, then definitely before Peter’s. And for whatever reason – probably because he hadn’t wanted the negative publicity – he’d done nothing about it until two people were dead. She stood for a few seconds, thinking.
And then she called the police.
Saturday afternoon was like summer.
The county fair was a big success, Saverton Common practically overflowed with visitors from all over the south-west of England. The brightly coloured stands and packed fairground rides bathed in the unusually warm autumn weather. And everyone seemed just a bit friendlier than normal.
Or perhaps it was simply collective relief.
Obviously the only subject of conversation was minor local celebrity and TV news reporter Tim Donoghue, who had been arrested the previous night for the murders of Pete Marshall and Jo Kinnock.
There was tangible disappointment when it was an-nounced that, due to unforeseen personal circumstances, Ian Beck was unable to attend, but his eight-year-old niece accepted the achievement award on his behalf. Poor kid.
Lucinda watched the presentation with sympathy, aware that, for now, she was the only person at the fair who knew almost the full story. There was no point spoiling anyone else’s afternoon, though; they’d find out soon enough.
Her three best friends were due to arrive home from Corfu that afternoon, but Lucinda fully expected to be explaining her own story long before she got to see any of their holiday snaps.
After listening to Beck’s enlightening call to Tim Donoghue, Lucinda had rung the police. They’d arrived at the Star offices within moments, before the murderous television presenter had even stirred. Apparently she’d done no permanent damage, although Lucinda still couldn’t decide whether she considered that a good thing or not.
Once she’d explained her evening to Inspector Pike, Ian Beck had been arrested on charges of perverting the course of justice. When questioned, he’d admitted that Donoghue had threatened to start killing his fans if he didn’t transfer half a million pounds directly to his blackmailer’s account. He’d called the reporter’s bluff, but realized the strategy had backfired when he saw Jo Kinnock had been killed. At that point he knew coming clean would have implicated him, so he’d just buried his head, hoping that Donoghue would chicken out and disappear.
Obviously that hadn’t been the case. The irony was that by trying to protect his reputation rather than the lives of his supporters, by knowing about the murders in advance and doing nothing to stop them, Beck had practically guaranteed his career was over.
Donoghue was still refusing to admit killing the two victims, but the police said that with Lucinda’s testimony, and forensics working hard on the two previous scenes, they’d soon have all the evidence necessary to put him away for a very long time.
The conclusion that Lucinda reached, as she wandered across to join her colleagues from the paper, was that fame could be a dangerous pursuit.
Blindly followed by some.
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ISBN: 978-1-405-91653-0
