In the Evil Day

13

…LONDON…

Halligan, the deputy editor, presided over the news conference. Caroline Wishart was nine minutes late, just behind skeletal Alan Sindall, the chief crime reporter.

‘Welcome,’ said Halligan. ‘I’m thinking of making this meeting’s time more flexible. We’ll just run the fucking thing from 2 p.m. to whenever, open-ended, pop in whenever it suits you.’

‘Sorry,’ said Sindall, eyes down.

Caroline said nothing, eyes on the styrofoam cup of coffee she was carrying.

‘Came together did you!’ shrieked Benton, the small, fat deputy news editor, clapping his hands in front of his glasses. ‘Came together!’

‘Shut up, Benton,’ Halligan said, ‘we don’t have to be like our readers. We purvey smut. That does not require that we ourselves be amused by childish double entendres.’

‘Just a joke, Geoff,’ said Benton, eyes down.

‘Pathetic. Since by the grace of something or other the chief criminal reporter and the stand-in to the power of three for the editor of Frisson or Pissoir or whatever it’s called are now here, let’s hear it. About Brechan, Marcia?’

‘Where’s Colley?’ said Marcia Connors, the news editor, a sharp-faced woman in her late thirties. ‘Does he still work here? Does anyone know?’

Colley ran the paper’s Probe team.

‘He’s accounted for his absence,’ said Halligan. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Nothing,’ said Simon Knight, the chief political correspondent, slumped, looking over his glasses, chins rolling into a loosened collar already dirty. ‘Brechan apparently doesn’t have a care in the world.’

‘The question was addressed to me,’ said Marcia.

‘Oh,’ said Knight. ‘Well, go for it, old dear.’

Marcia eyed him briefly, touched a canine with a short-nailed fingertip. ‘Brechan gave us the slip last night.’

‘And the catamite?’ Halligan was looking at her hopefully.

She shook her head.

‘Can’t find him?’

‘No.’

‘Marcia, someone is going to find out about this and find the prick. We heard it first. You’re saying it’s not going to be us?’

‘We can’t find him.’ She ran a hand over her hacked-short hair. ‘Simple as that. If someone else can, good fucking luck to them. Gary vanished on Tuesday, thereabouts. His ex-boyfriend, this little poof is more vegetable than animal, into very serious substance abuse, he thinks Gary rang at some time around Tuesday to say he was going into a private clinic somewhere. He thinks. And he’s never heard of Brechan.’

‘Somewhere?’ said Halligan.

‘Somewhere. We’ve tried, believe me, we’ve tried. Could be in fucking Montevideo.’

‘Have you tried Montevideo?’ said Simon Knight.

Marcia didn’t look at him. ‘Oh fuck off, you fat ponce,’ she said.

Halligan waved his hands placatingly, swivelled his chair to face the window. ‘How did we come to stuff this thing up so comprehensively? Handed to us on a plate.’

‘Don’t know about handed anything,’ said Marcia. ‘It was only a tip-off.’

‘Perhaps it is a pack of lies,’ Simon Knight said. ‘The man’s got more enemies than Thatcher at her peak. And he’s only the Defence Minister in waiting.’

Halligan came back to face the room, deep lines across his forehead. ‘Bugger it,’ he said. ‘I told the boss we’d get the story. He was beside himself with joy. His favourite position.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, what is there for the front then?’

‘Public schoolboys selling drugs,’ said Marcia.

‘That’s news?’ said Merton, the industrial affairs editor. ‘What about pubs selling beer?’

‘And fuck you too,’ said Marcia.

Caroline put up a hand.

‘Yes?’ said Halligan.

‘I’ve got pictures,’ she said.

Silence in the room.

‘What?’ said Marcia.

‘What?’ said Halligan.

‘Pictures.’

Marcia showed teeth, both top and bottom. ‘I think it’s too early in the day for you, darling. Up all night with the braying coke snorters. Tell us about your shitty little shots when we get to the rubbish end of the paper.’

‘I’ve got pictures of Brechan and Gary,’ Caroline said to Halligan.

A silence lay on the room, a religious silence. Halligan clicked his nails on the table. Nails too long for a man, Caroline thought. Her father would have thought so, anyway.

‘Brechan and Gary?’

‘Yes. And Gary’s story.’

Marcia leant towards her. ‘What kind of pictures? Doing what exactly?’

Caroline looked pointedly at the woman’s bleached moustache, savoured the moment. She’d heard that Marcia had once had an affair with Halligan. ‘I’m talking to Geoff,’ she said. ‘When I want to talk to you, I’ll give you a sign. I’ll indicate.’

‘Doing what?’ said Halligan.

Caroline took the lid off her coffee cup, had a tentative sip. ‘Christ, the coffee’s terrible around here,’ she said. She wanted to make them wait. Since her first day on a free suburban rag in sodden Birmingham, all her life really, she had wanted a moment like this.

‘Well?’ said Halligan. His mouth was open and, with his pendulous jowls, he looked like a dog about to drool. ‘Well? Doing what?’

Caroline had another sip of coffee. ‘We should probably talk in private,’ she said. ‘Meeting adjourned for ten minutes,’ Halligan said. ‘Don’t stray too far.’

Everyone got up and filed out except Marcia, who was lighting a cigarette.

Caroline waited until the door closed behind the last person before she looked at Marcia. ‘You too,’ she said. ‘Out.’

Marcia was about to draw on the cigarette. She took her hand away, her mouth frozen and fish-like. ‘Who the fuck do you…’ Halligan raised both hands to her, palms outward. ‘This won’t take a moment, dear…’ ‘Don’t you fucking call me dear you spineless shit.’ She got up. At the door, she said, ‘This is going to be a defining moment in both your lives. I’ll make fucking sure of that.’

She slammed the door.

Halligan pulled at his nose with thumb and forefinger. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘The pictures.’

‘Gary and Brechan fucking.’

‘Fucking,’ he said. ‘Each other? Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Taken by?’

‘I don’t know. It could be a remote thing.’

‘You’ve got the pictures in your hands?’

‘Yes. And Gary’s story on tape. The full story. I’ve promised him thirty thousand pounds.’

Halligan looked at the table, tapped his pink forehead with his knuckles. ‘Chickenfeed,’ he said. Wait till the boss hears. Unbelievable. This is terrific. Terrific. You are terrific.’

Caroline took the folded sheet of paper out of her inside pocket, gave it to him.

He read it, looked up at her. ‘Yes, you can leave the Frisson section immediately. Yes, you can be off-diary. Yes, you can have an office. But as for the rest of this, Caroline, it’s ridiculous…’ She stood up and started for the door. ‘Read the story in The Sun.’

‘Caroline my dear, sit down, let’s talk,’ he said.