She watched him shamble out of the door, the collar of his jacket half up, a bed hair rosette on the back of his head, and his notebook poking out of his pocket. He nodded at the news desk as he passed. Terry didn’t nod back. Bad sign, she thought. The pack abandoning its own.
Kate considered her own position. She reckoned she was on the list somewhere—age and size of salary would count against her—but she crossed her fingers that others would volunteer to take the money before they got to her name. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t know what else was out there job-wise, and life without work wasn’t worth thinking about. What would she do all day? Watch telly and do sudoku in those big puzzle books? She’d rather die. She’d rather write celebrity nonsense. What she needed was a big story.
Terry walked over and Kate glanced up.
“All right, Kate?” he asked. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks, Terry. Sweet of you to say. I’m fine. Just got a bit of a domestic going on. My eldest.”
“What’s Jake got up to?” Terry asked. “I’m sick of my kids. All they want is money and lifts to parties.”
“Bit of a wobble at university. It’ll sort itself out,” she said.
? ? ?
The news that the Crime Man was going came at about six thirty. Late enough that he could be ushered out of the building with minimum fuss if things got nasty. He’d been called into the managing editor’s office and, fifteen minutes later, emerged as an ex–Post reporter.
“They’ve given me a shedload of money,” he said to Kate as he started dumping his belongings into a black bin bag. “I’ll be fine. Time for a change. Been here too long.”
They both knew there would be no more jobs. Too old. Too old-school.
“The worst bit is telling her indoors,” he said. “Don’t know whether to phone Maggie or wait until I get home. God knows what she’ll say. But it’s likely to be at full volume.”
“Oh, come on, Maggie’ll understand,” Kate said. Actually, she had no confidence that “The Iron Lady,” as she was known in the office, would be sympathetic—it was a side of her nobody had ever witnessed—but Kate was trying not to dwell on the negatives.
“We’ll see,” he said and shook his head wearily.
“Anyway, where will you have your leaving do? Everyone will want to come and give you a proper Fleet Street send-off,” Kate said, picking up a stray envelope off the floor.
“Yeah. I’ll sort something out. I’d like it at the Cheshire Cheese—it’s where I was taken on my first day as a national newspaper reporter. Back in the Stone Age. We used to go there when the presses started up. Whole building used to vibrate. And the noise . . .” His voice had begun to stick and he shut up, pretending to check his drawers.
“I’ll probably do it on Friday,” he said eventually. “Get it over and done with. I’ll let the Major know and he can send an e-mail to everyone.”
He looked round at the office and his shoulders drooped. “Better go then.”
Terry walked over and the other reporters began to stand up.
“Good luck, mate,” the Major called across as the Crime Man picked up the bin bag containing the evidence of his career. Kate picked up her notebook and began banging the desk with it. The other reporters did the same and the subs and back bench joined in the cacophony, thumping the tables with their fists and whatever else came to hand. They banged the Crime Man out as tradition required. It was a roar of emotion in a gray new world and he wept as he left for the last time.
When the door closed behind him and the noise stopped, everyone looked shaken and teary.
“I’m going for a drink,” the Major said. “I need one.”
EIGHTEEN
Kate
FRIDAY, MARCH 30, 2012
The Cheshire Cheese was a labyrinth of wood-paneled hidey-holes and snugs in Fleet Street. It had been the haunt of journalists—the scene of punch-ups, celebrations, and wakes—until the papers scattered to the four corners of the capital in the 1990s. Now, the Cheese sold itself as a colorful relic of those days. The new owners peddled anecdotes of historic scoops and back-slapping camaraderie to the tourists and city workers who had moved in. As if journalism belonged to another age.
But it still smelled the same, Kate thought, as she shook the never-ending rain off her umbrella and threaded her way through the standing drinkers to the private room upstairs. Stale beer and crisp breath.
The noise grew as she climbed the last stairs and burst over her when she walked into the party. The Crime Man was center stage, handing pints over the heads of his former colleagues, red faced, shouting, and sweating already.
She looked round quickly, a reporter’s scan. Who’s here? Who’s interesting? Who do I want to avoid?
Her eyes lit on the coppers in the corners. It was a real gathering of the clans. She could see the Met press office almost in its entirety—even Colin Stubbs on a late pass—and what looked like detectives from every big story the Post had covered.
“Bob,” she shouted above the din, working her way through the crowd. He hadn’t heard her.
Detective Inspector Bob Sparkes was deep in conversation with another officer. She hadn’t seen him since the Bella Elliott case. They’d spoken on the phone a few times but Kate hadn’t been on his patch in Hampshire since.
He suddenly caught sight of her and smiled. Kate felt a bit goose-bumpy. Ridiculous. How old are you? she told herself crossly. She suddenly wasn’t sure how to greet him. Handshake or kiss on the cheek?
DI Sparkes clearly had no such dilemma. The detective stuck out his hand immediately and she shook it warmly.
“Hello, Bob,” she said. “Great to see you.”
“Lovely to see you, too, Kate,” he said, still smiling. “Must be over a year.”
“More like two years,” she corrected him. She hadn’t let go of his hand yet. She gave it a final squeeze.
“This is Kate Waters, the reporter I was telling you about,” DI Sparkes said to a younger colleague. “Kate, this is Detective Sergeant Chris Butler.”
“Oh, I’ve heard all about you,” the young DS said. “The boss is your number one fan.”
Kate and Bob reddened and the DS grinned. Both started to talk at the same time, stumbling over each other’s words and then stopped. It was Bob who steered the conversation into calmer waters.
“What are you up to then, Kate? What have you got your teeth into now?”
She signaled her gratitude with her eyes and plowed on, grabbing at the details of the baby story for cover. She’d actually been working on a story about an MP’s expenses claim for the last couple of days—“An Editor’s Must,” Terry had said—but the baby had popped straight into her head. It seemed to be playing in the back of her mind like an annoying tune. Her earworm.
She started to change the subject to the MP’s sordid claims for “entertaining constituents,” but Bob stopped her, going back to the baby, asking about the progress of the forensics and the history of the area. The young DS began to glaze over and Kate could see he was looking for a getaway. Bob clocked it, too.
“Why don’t you get Kate a drink, Chris? She’s going to die of thirst, standing here with us.”
DS Butler nodded, took her order, and was sucked into the crowd.
They looked at each other. “It’s so noisy, Kate, I can hardly hear you. Old age . . .” Sparkes said. “Chris won’t be back for ages once Gordon gets hold of him. Let’s go downstairs and have a quiet drink.”
She followed him out, noting the gray hairs and growing bald patch on his retreating head. He was still sexy, though.
They sat at a small, sticky table, he with a Diet Coke, she with a warm white wine.
“So, this baby. Do they have any idea who it might be?” he said, immediately picking up the thread of their discussion.
Still not up for small talk, then, she thought, abandoning any idea of a cozy tête-à-tête.