Chapter 41
AT THAT VERY moment, Karen Pope was in the Sun’s newsroom on the eighth floor of a modern office building on Thomas More Square near St Katharine Docks on the Thames’s north bank. She wanted to go home to get some sleep, but could not break away from the coverage of the opening ceremonies.
Up on the screen, Lancer and Dudley ran towards that figure in white standing at the bottom of a steep staircase that led up onto the tower. Seeing the joy on the faces all over the stadium, Pope’s normal cynicism faded and she started to feel weepy.
What an amazing, amazing moment for London, for all of Britain.
Pope looked over at Finch, her editor. The crusty sports veteran’s eyes were glassy with emotion. He glanced at her and said, ‘You know who that is, don’t you? The final torch-bearer?’
‘No idea, boss,’ Pope replied.
‘That’s goddamn—’
‘You Karen Pope?’ a male voice behind her said, cutting Finch off.
Pope turned to see – and smell – a scruffy bicycle messenger who looked at her with a bored expression on her face.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m Pope.’
The messenger held out an envelope with her name on it, spelled out in odd block letters of many different fonts and colours. Pope felt her stomach yawn open like an abysmal pit.