The Boat House

EIGHTEEN

Midway through Friday afternoon, the early shift newsreader watched the red transmission light die on her last bulletin of the day and sat back from the microphone with a sigh of relief. That was it until handover on Monday, which she hoped would be enough time to shake off the cold that had been dogging her for the last couple of days.

Her name was Isobel Terry, and she was twenty two years old. She'd been in commercial radio for eleven months following nearly three years on a regional newspaper; she reckoned to stick around this particular station for another two years at the most. After that she reckoned that if she hadn't moved on to somewhere bigger, she'd probably be stuck here forever reading out the latest sheep prices at six o'clock every morning. Isobel was ambitious, and had her sights set on the national news media; unfortunately, so did every other young news hustler in every backwater station in the country, and few of them were having to contend with sinuses that felt as if they'd been stuffed with pillows. God only knew what she sounded like on the air. Inside her cans, she sounded like Elmer Fudd.

"There's someone to see you," the technical operator called through over the talkback system as she pushed her chair back to stand, gathering together her yellow bulletin flimsies with their handwritten amendments. The TO was only about three strides and two sheets of glass away from her, but the talkback gave his voice the quality of a long distance call.

"Who?" she said, and she saw him shrug. Beyond him she could see the afternoon DJ in his studio, a couple more strides and another set of double glazing farther on, hunched over his microphone like a harassed co-pilot.

The TO said, "He talked to you on the phone and you told him to come in. That's what he says. anyway. Amanda put him in the newsroom."

Isobel stepped out into the corridor, quiet except for the ever present low murmur of the station's output as it played over unobtrusive speakers. Dave, the afternoon DJ, was talking over the intro of a record that he was saying had been a big hit in Europe. Dave talked right on and over the start of the lyric, and then made it worse by trying to pretend that his mistake was intentional.

Isobel winced. Here on Sheep-shagger Radio, Dave was about as polished as they got.

She passed the sales office and made the turn toward the newsroom. There was no one in the office, the entire sales team having discovered important appointments that gave them excuses to sneak off home and start the weekend early. There was only one person in the newsroom, and he quickly got to his feet as she entered.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know we already spoke, but what was your name?"

"Please, call me Pavel," he said.

Pavel.

She remembered the call, now; remembered it as soon as she heard his accent. Something about an emergency appeal to a missing person. The fact of it was, Amanda should never have brought him in here at all; she should have kept him in Reception, as per company policy. The man had all the markings of a weirdo. His clothes, dated and drab, appeared to have been slept in. He'd had a bad shave and his hair looked as if it was growing back after having been cut too short. And here were dark rings under his eyes, which burned as if with a fever.

But he'd sounded sincere enough. And he seemed sincere enough now, his piece of paper held ready in his hands, and so with the safety of the newsdesk between them she reached across and took it.

She read it through. She tried not to smile at the wording, and then she handed it back.

"The name's all we'd need," she said. "We can handle the other part ourselves."

"You do this kind of message?"

"Sometimes, when we can fit it in. But we usually work it into the show format somewhere, rather than make it a part of the news. Did you try the BBC? They do emergencies on Radio Four, and it's national."

He nodded. "Nothing came back," he said. "But this is more for young people. I may have more luck."

"If she's in the area," Isobel said.

And Pavel inclined his head, conceding the point.

"So, who is it that's ill? Someone in the family?"

"No. It's her."

Isobel's eyes widened. Her antennae quivered. "Something contagious?"

Pavel smiled, weary but still polite. "No," he said. "This is for her own safety, as much as anything else. But please don't say so on the air."

"Of course," Isobel said, and scribbled a quick memo on the back of some out-of-date wire agency material while the name was still fresh in her mind. A schoolteacher from Eastern Europe, believed to be touring in the area. From what Pavel had said earlier he was working his way around the country, from station to station, leaving exactly the same message at each.

"If anything turns up," she said, "I'll arrange for word to be left on the front desk. That's really all I can do."

"Thank you," he said. "I'll call once every morning."

He probably would, too. He probably had a list of numbers that he called every day, adding to it as he moved around. She wondered if he slept rough, or in his car; he looked as if he might.

At the one way door that led back into the station's tiny foyer and reception area, she stepped aside for him and said, "I hope you find her."

He smiled weakly.

"So do I," he said.

And after he'd gone, and Isobel had returned to the newsroom to file all the dead stories and check the agency printers for the next hour's updates ready to hand over to Jim, the late shift newsreader, it briefly crossed her mind that maybe, just maybe, a rising star of journalism with her eye on the national media might have asked a couple of more searching questions. Might have dug a little for the human interest; might even have probed around to see if there was any backstory worth the follow up.

But the thought didn't stay with her for long.

Instead, she was wondering what kind of remedy Kate Adie used whenever she got a head blocker, and whether she'd ever had to read over livestock prices to what was probably a total early morning audience of three men and a dog.

Their brief talk slipped painlessly from her mind.

While Pavel set out for the next town on his list.