Witch Hunt

Chapter Three




I thought grief would be the worst thing.

Though Mum’s health had been on a steep decline, and I more or less expected it, when death actually came it still shocked me.

During the first few days after she went, there had been pain. Then the sharpness of it eroded, and I was left with this sense of great guilt. Which was worse. Though this guilt was an energiser. It could have made me go round the bend it was so great. But I found a way of handling it – as soon as it came upon me in the mornings, I went into action, hoping that physical exertion might knock regret from its number one spot at the forefront of my mind. It kind of felt that if I didn’t do that, then it would engulf me entirely. Then I could see myself just sitting in the flat, crying and crying on my own. I didn’t want that. Mum wouldn’t have wanted that. So I went with the extreme activity option.

That morning, after I had rinsed as much shame as I could out of my hair, I combed it out in front of the living room mirror. In my twenties I’d earned the nickname ‘Lois Lane’ amongst my friends and peers, partly because I shared a terrier-like commitment to my cub reporter’s role on the local rag. It wasn’t quite the Daily Planet, but I was proud of what I did and used to talk about it non-stop. But there was also a physical resemblance to the actress in the TV series of Superman, Teri Hatcher. We were both dark, had well-defined eyebrows and had short, sassy bobs. I didn’t mind the comparison.

In the mirror today, a pale reflection stared back. I looked worse than I’d expected: my eyes, though grey, had a purple darkness about them – the surrounding skin was dry and blotchy and pink from bouts of unscheduled weeping. My hair, black like Mum’s, was broken up with russet lowlights though there was a good inch of regrowth that needed attention. And I was thinner. Maybe half a stone less than I was two weeks ago. Most people wouldn’t mind that, but it made me look gaunt: although Dad was unusually tall (six foot three), my slight frame had come from the maternal line.

Jeez. In the harsh daylight I looked like I could have been in a car crash. In fact, I thought, as I went into the bedroom and dried myself, that was far too generous. In this light, I could pass for a junkie who had been in a car crash. I made a mental note to buy some decent food, and get a haircut. Then I threw on my ‘uniform’: black jeans, black shirt, suit jacket (to lend it formality) and trainers (comfy).

Once dried and dressed I returned to the living room and got my laptop out. As I powered it up, I could hear scratching above me in the loft. It had been going on for a few days now. I needed to call out pest control; I added it to my list of things to do. It was probably rats but didn’t help at all with my state of mind – it sounded like my conscience itching.

I had enough time to go through some emails before I needed to set out for the offices of Mercurial for an appointment with Maggie.

I padded round my flat, cooking up a strong coffee and installing myself in the living room. Despite its modest dimensions, I did love the place. Tucked under the eaves of a 1970s purpose-built block, I had a smallish bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, and a very spacious living room that doubled as a dining room and study. It was sparsely furnished. I’d not taken much with me when I split up with Christopher, my last long-term boyfriend. Just the high quality stereo, a very comfy leather armchair and this gorgeous antique mirror he bought me from Camden Lock market. I knew the ornate rococo decoration and black stains on the bevelled plate were at odds with the modern minimal interiors he admired, so it was a kind of testament to his initial affection. He made no effort to keep it when we were divvying up our joint goods so I’d kept it in storage until I got this flat, then hung it in pride of place over the mantelpiece, where I gazed at it from my writing desk. This was an old glass dining table, which I had shoved towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that led out onto my balcony.

Our block had a particularly glorious vista – looking over the railway station to the beach, yacht club and tidal plains of the estuary. Chalkwell was a good location. I’d chosen it for its transport links to London. My relocation didn’t happen overnight as I still had a lot of work in London and had to make the trip into town at least two or three times a week. But it was only a forty-five-minute journey from here and I’d always liked the place; mostly populated by elderly couples and families, it felt safe and as a newly single young woman, that was a primary concern. When I first saw the flat, it was the view that got me. Sunny mornings would see the front room filled with the unimpeded honey rays that crept up over Southend’s pier (the longest pleasure pier in the world, don’t you know). And, if you were lucky in the evenings you’d get a front seat view of Mother Nature’s chosen sunset, framed lovingly by the tops of the oaks in the front garden.

That morning’s clouds, however, were wearing the same dark grey shroud they had done since the funeral. It seemed everything had muted itself in respect.

I took a look at the incoming tide and sat down at the desk, ready to click on the internet icon.

The big life stuff, the events that change your life – the births, the deaths, the crises, always start in a small way, I’ve found, with a twinge or a rumble or blip. And that’s more or less how this story began. In a very ordinary, mundane manner.

I ignored the strong pull of my guilt trip and went straight into email. There was a message from one of my local news contacts asking me if I could interview a couple about a fundraising effort. I replied that I could fit it in within the next two days, noted the address and then scrolled down past the offers of Viagra to an email from someone called Felix Knight at Portillion Publishing. The Felix guy was introducing himself ahead of tomorrow’s meeting. My editor Emma, he explained, had been promoted into another division and he had been handed responsibility for my book. He was extremely excited about it, looking forward to meeting me and suggested that, after a formal introduction in the office, we have lunch at a nearby restaurant.

I liked the sound of Felix but, to be frank, I was happy to work with anyone who was happy to work with me. I replied that that would be ‘fantastic’ and I was very much looking forward to meeting him too.

My next email was an old friend expressing condolences. I clicked on the link and went through to Facebook. Then I did the standard reply: ‘Thank you. Yes, it’s been crap, but I’m getting on with life.’ I had to deal with it this way – if I went into detail I was worried that I’d unleash a torrent of real grief that might wash me away. I was about to shut down, when a message box popped up on the screen.

Unusually, it had no name attached. There was still the regular green dot in the top left-hand corner and the other function symbols across the toolbar. But no name. I looked down at the message.

‘Are you there?’ It read.

Of course I bloody am, I thought. But I simply wrote, ‘Yes.’ Then I waited, curious to see who it was.

Nothing happened for a few seconds then the words ‘Where are you?’ appeared.

What did that mean? Most of my Facebook friends knew I had moved out of the Smoke eighteen months ago.

A little irritated by the stupidity of the question, I chucked it back at the unknown messenger. ‘Where are you?’ and sat back to see the response.

There was a bit of a time delay. I glanced at my watch. I couldn’t spend long on this joker as I should be getting my stuff together to leave fairly soon.

Then the words popped up on the screen, ‘I can hear you but I can’t see you.’

Mmm. Weird. I regarded the screen for a moment then retyped: ‘Where are you?’

A breeze outside nudged the oak leaves against the window. They sounded like little metallic fingertips on the panes.

The reply came up: ‘I do not know. Everything is dark here.’

Okay, this was getting creepy. What to do? Coming up with no good reply, I sat still and contemplated the screen.

My correspondent was typing. ‘There is only blackness,’ they wrote.

Then underneath that, ‘I am scared.’

That stopped me.

Was this a joke? An inappropriate friend trying to freak me out? Some random viral marketing ploy? I tried to think of a way to respond without looking stupid if it was a prank. Though, at the back of my mind, I was wondering about what to do if it wasn’t.

‘Who are you?’ I tapped out on the keys and hit enter.

‘I’m sorry,’ they replied.

I stopped and looked at it. Then I swallowed. The words had been on my lips just an hour ago.

Then another line of text: ‘Hush.’

Hush? That was an odd choice of word.

Quickly, more text appeared. ‘He may come back.’

Now cynicism was overruled by a more concerning impulse.

‘Who might?’ I wrote. ‘Who might be coming back?’

The screen was still for a moment, then the words ‘Oh God’ tapped out on the screen.

Without letting my head intervene in my now more emotional response, I wrote ‘Where are you? Are you okay?’ But when I hit enter this time my screen died and turned to black.

I cursed and looked down at the on button. My battery had run out.

I hastily reached for the power cable and plugged it in. The computer took several frustrating seconds to reboot and when I returned to the site there was nothing there. No box. No evidence of our conversation. I scrolled down my list of online friends. There was no one I didn’t recognise.

I could have left it alone, but a part of me felt responsible. After all, this hadn’t been a chat room – it had been a dialogue with one other person. A private communication sent only to me. I was troubled but not yet scared. Just worried that I hadn’t stepped up to my civic duty if indeed, this was a genuine message. Crap. This had to be the last thing I needed right now – more guilt.

I bit my lip then made a decision, pulled out my mobile and dialled the one person who I could possibly pass this on to. I was in no fit state to get involved with anyone else’s business right now.

He answered pretty quickly. ‘Hello, Sadie. How are you feeling?’

So thoughtful, always concerned about others. You could see why he’d entered the police force. He was a nice bloke. And he’d been a good friend. In fact, before I met Christopher, he’d been more than just a friend. I’d met Joe six years ago, whilst covering some high-ranking officer’s retirement. It was lucky I had taken the job. I’d hooked it on impulse as Mum was on a bit of a low and I wanted to spend more time with her. As soon as I met him, there was an instant connection: we ended up drunkenly eating chips on the seafront and watching the moon set over Canvey Island. He had a really lovely smile (those dimples were just gorgeous) and a kooky sense of humour that chimed with mine. One thing had led to another and another. We were both due some time off so I didn’t leave his flat for two days and nights. We followed it up with the usual sort of thing – trips to the cinema, dinner, a fabulous weekend break in the country. It was great. But I knew I had to go back to London, and somehow, despite the fact it wasn’t that far away, I think I had it in my mind that it was only a holiday romance, something casual. Not that we ever discussed it, but he was four years younger than me. It doesn’t seem much now, but at the time I was twenty-seven, and twenty-three seemed way too young to be serious. When he went off to Carlisle for training and Mum felt better I returned to my life in the metropolis. We texted each other a few times, but he backed off completely when I started seeing Christopher. Yet he still had a physical effect on me. I’d bumped into him a couple of times since I’d moved back and could never stop myself stealing furtive glances at his sinewy frame. Even now I had to do my best to sound together and competent, instead of breathy and slightly chaotic.

‘Hi Joe, I’m okay.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘You must have had a bad hangover after the other night.’ I could tell he was smiling as he spoke. Voices sound more distinct when mouths are pulled wide. Then, remembering the specific occasion of my last major bender, he took his voice down a note and hastily added, ‘Understandable of course.’

I took it in my stride. ‘I’m okay, honestly. Thanks for, er, helping out. I’m sorry if I, er, embarrassed you …’ Oh God, there was that image – me catching his lapel, pulling him down, slobbering all over him. I pushed the mortifying grope from my mind and concentrated on the present issue.

Joe was generous. ‘Think nothing of it.’ It was a full stop on the matter.

Gallant too. You absolute gem, I thought.

‘Listen,’ I said, changing the subject super quick. ‘I’ve just had a weird thing happen.’ And I explained about the messaging.

I hadn’t expected him to laugh, but that’s what he did. It left me feeling stupid and gauche.

‘Someone’s having you on, Sadie,’ was his conclusion. ‘You wouldn’t believe the number of calls we get about this sort of stuff. Texts, emails. It’s all part of new generation cyber-crime.’

Now I was cross, bordering on outraged. Not at him. At the unknown idiot who had virtually freaked me. ‘Well, who would do that to me? Especially now. When, you know, I’m a little more fragile than …’

Joe’s voice piped up, the perfect example of good victim support training, ‘Don’t take it personally. You’re probably a random selection. There’s some bored teenager chuckling away in his bedroom right now. In future, don’t respond. If you don’t engage them, they’ll get bored and move on to something else.’

It seemed like sensible advice, so I agreed not to.

‘Is there anything else I can do you for, Ms Asquith?’ Was it me or was there a teensy bit of hope in his voice?

The question was open-ended, leaving it up to me to pick up the ball and run. I told him, ‘Right this minute, no, just the dodgy internet business. But I’ll call you soon. For a drink maybe?’ He said that would be nice and I thanked him for his advice.

‘Glad to be of service to the public, madam.’ He was very jovial. ‘Now take care of yourself and feel free to phone me if this sort of thing happens again.’

I told him I definitely would and hung up, a little thrill rippling through me.

Now I was fifteen minutes behind schedule.

I had stuff to get on with so slammed the laptop shut, got my things together then whizzed out the door.

The gloomy October morning had bled into a gloomy October afternoon. The light breeze had notched up into a strong south-easterly wind and was whipping rubbish into tiny twisters, screeching through the bare branches of the sycamores that bordered the wide Georgian avenues of Southend’s conservation area. Everybody on the street was buttoned up, faces down, slanting diagonally into its oncoming draughts.

The offices of Mercurial, a quarterly arts magazine, were nestled between an ancient accountancy firm and a design agency. I liked working for them. They were cool: as a freelance writer who specialised in Essex affairs, kudos was rather thin on the ground, and the mag’s cachet rubbed off on me.

It was now eighteen months that I’d been living in the borough of Southend. Initially, my move had been born out of an urge to be closer to Mum. Her health was going downhill and although Dan was around, I wanted to be there for her too. Then after I split up with Christopher, London quickly lost some of its shine and I accelerated the relocation.

It had been good for me. Though I kept my hand in with my old bosses in London, I had enjoyed rediscovering my old patch. Southend had grown and changed. Lots of things were going on and Mercurial reflected that. They were good to know – always had an ear to the ground – and I had actually grown very fond of the staff at the office. For a bunch of artistic individuals they were all pretty down to earth.

I’d known Maggie for nigh on twenty-five years, as we’d attended the same high school. Though you’d never believe it to look at her now, she was actually far more rebellious than I in our youth: we shared clothes; a couple of boyfriends and several cigarettes down the bottom of the sports field, promptly losing touch when we left school and went on to different universities. When our paths crossed again, a couple of years ago, she invited me for lunch and we soon ping-ponged into regular friends again.

I think it was on our third or fourth lunch date, as we knocked back a few glasses of plonk, that Maggie suggested I wrote a small piece for her mag. I leapt at the chance and once the shrewd editor – rather than the friend – worked out that I was as good as I said I was, she began feeding me more assignments.

Mags was what my dad would call a good egg: helping

a lot over the past few months and especially kind when Mum died.

She was sucking on the end of a biro, squinting at a document several pages in length, in the small box room she called her office. The sash window was a couple of inches open. Still, the air was thick with the stink of cigarettes and Yves St Laurent’s Paris.

‘You’ll have to get an air freshener. You must be getting through bottles of perfume,’ I said as I sauntered in and threw my satchel on the floor. ‘And it’s against the law now, you know.’

Maggie’s tangle of pillar-box red hair jerked up. She dropped the pen on the mound of paper. ‘Shit, Sadie! Can’t you knock before you come in?’

She looked funny like that – all indignant eyes and open mouth. ‘Everyone else has to go outside for a fag,’ I chastised her half-heartedly.

She shrugged, relaxing now and held her hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’m giving up. Seriously. Did you know it’s bad for you?’

I said I hadn’t heard that.

‘Just got really into this submission,’ she was justifying herself. ‘New writer. Very good. All about the internet: Facebook, Twitter, blah blah, Generation Z’s youthful rebellion.’

I sauntered over to a filing cabinet that stood by the window. It was sprayed gold and decorated in what was probably a radical artwork but to my uninformed eye looked like bog-standard graffiti. It was very Mercurial. The gurgles from the coffee maker on top indicated it was ready to pour.

‘Interesting spin,’ I said and took two mugs from the shelf above. ‘I think I just experienced some of that, myself.’ Maggie didn’t answer so I coughed and nodded at the coffee. ‘I’m presuming this is for me? Mags, would you like one too?’

She grunted an affirmation and grudgingly gathered up the sheaf of paper, stapling the top right-hand corner and dumping it on an in-tray already several centimetres high.

‘Might as well close that window too,’ she shivered and pulled a fluffy purple cardigan tight over her shoulders. ‘I thought it’d be warmer this week.’

I placed the mugs on her desk, and brought the window down with more force than I intended resulting in a loud bang. Maggie tutted. I ignored her. ‘They say it might turn nice for the weekend.’

Maggie cast her eyes through the windowpane at the fluttering leaves of the sycamores. A plastic bag whipped up from the street and caught a branch directly outside. ‘If only the wind would drop.’ She grimaced and came back to me. ‘How are you going?’

I plucked out my standard response. ‘Coping with it,’ I told her.

She accepted that without further comment. ‘Have you been to the house yet?’

She was referring to my mum’s. ‘I thought I’d wait until I saw Dan.’

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s not turned up then?’

I shook my head. I was still livid that he hadn’t been at the funeral. That was another reason why I let off so much steam that night at the club. But beyond the anger there was concern. Or perhaps it was the other way round?

Yesterday I’d nipped into Mum’s hospice to fetch the last of her belongings and had seen one of the day shift nurses, Sally. Her husband, Michael, had once worked at Dan’s school and Mum had known Sally socially prior to her last illness. Not well, but enough to pass the time of day. We had wondered if that might make it awkward but her familiar face reassured Mum. We’d had a chat and she, too, asked about Dan, reminding me that Mum had a key to his flat on her keychain and suggesting that I pop into his place to check it out. We’d phoned endlessly and I’d knocked on his door with no joy, trying to find him before Mum … well, before things came to a head.

‘He’ll need your support more than ever now,’ Sally said. She was a homely woman, with an immense bosom, and an extraordinarily generous nature. I guess you have to be when you’re in that job.

‘I know,’ I had said and promised to go there.

‘And,’ she said. ‘Please do me a favour. I was talking to Doctor Jarvis about Dan going off like this. He said it’d be an idea to check his medication. Can you bring back a bottle, if there’s a spare somewhere, and he’ll have a look? Just to be sure.’

I had told her I would and was planning on swinging by his place after I’d finished up here at Mercurial.

‘Oh dear,’ Maggie was saying though her voice kept steady. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

I could be upfront with Maggie. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going to check his flat later. To be honest I’d rather talk work.’

‘Okay. Well, let me know if you need anything, yeah?’ Maggie straightened herself out and put on her professional head. The set of her jaw was firm and ready for business. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Fire.’

I tasted the coffee and removed my notebook from my bag. ‘You mentioned another Essex Girls’ piece?’

I’d been fascinated with our regional stereotype for a very long time. Firstly because, as a grey-eyed, raven-haired Essex chick, I adored the leggy, booby, blonde ideal. Surrounded by Barbies and Pippas from an early age I’d cottoned onto the fact that this was the generally accepted notion of beauty. I couldn’t believe it when, as I made more excursions beyond the county’s limits, I discovered it was considered vulgar and stupid and a lot lot worse. The realisation left me feeling cheated and rather annoyed.

Later, as I left the borough I’d lived in all my life to venture North for uni, I found that not only being a joke, mentioning my home county often resulted in humiliation and embarrassment. My surname, Asquith, which I thought sounded a little posh, however did little to temper the constant barrage of wisecracks that I faced, as an Essex Girl called Mercedes, and as a consequence I shortened it to Sadie. Most people called me by that name these days, apart from my dad who stubbornly stuck to my full moniker. Anyway, the whole Essex thing was as exasperating as it was formative and as a consequence of this battle I went on into journalism, ‘to get my voice heard without shouting’, as my mum used to put it.

Although I didn’t relate the writing to my county or my gender I kept an edgy, working-class feel to my tirades. Luckily, people liked them and I was able to make a living from my rants.

Returning to my roots, Maggie indulged me and published a series of articles in which I challenged the negative connotations attached to the stereotype of the Essex Girl.

‘Essex isn’t like other counties. Its daughter isn’t like those of Hertfordshire, Herefordshire or Surrey,’ I had written. ‘She isn’t demure, self-effacing or seeking a husband. She’s audacious, loud, drops her vowels and has fun. Like Essex itself, the Girl is unique. It’s about time we showed some filial pride.’

Got a good reception, that one. Circulation went up. Maggie commissioned another one, and another, then another.

In an attempt to trace the etymology of Essex Girl my last feature harked back to the dark days of the witch hunts and examined whether there was a link between Essex’s reputation as ‘Witch County’ and the genesis of Essex Girl. The two areas collided and, after further consideration, I concluded that there was and readers and commentators alike had not stopped filling up the web forum ever since.

Many comments spilt over into other sites, forums, newspapers and magazines. Positive or intensely outraged, Maggie didn’t care how they reacted, just that they did. ‘This is the kind of thing Mercurial needs. It’s getting our name out there into a broader market. We need more, and I’ll up your rate. Just give me something good and meaty,’ she’d said on the phone a couple of weeks back.

So here I was, with something perhaps a little on the sketchy side, but definitely spicy.

Maggie took a tentative swig of her coffee then blew on it. ‘Go on then – spill it. What you got for Mama?’

‘Okay.’ I flicked open my notepad and traced my notes to the relevant entry.

‘I’m delving deeper into the witch hunts. You know this book deal? Well, I’m churning up a lot of good stuff. I think I can funnel some articles over to you.’ I glanced up to catch a reaction. Maggie was nodding, her tongue licking her top lip, so I ploughed on.

‘Why did Essex lose so many women to the witch hunts?’

Maggie snorted. ‘Did we? It’s a long time ago. Some people might say “so what?”’

I leant in to her. ‘Yes, we did. Significantly more. It’s the sheer volume that warrants attention.’

Maggie picked up the biro and took a drag on the end. ‘You didn’t go into that in your last article did you?’

I shook my head. ‘No, it was more about the witches themselves and the qualities they shared with the contemporary Essex Girl …’

Maggie cut in. ‘Yep, yep. They “were poor, dumb and ‘loose’ as in not controlled by, or protected by men”.’ She was quoting my article. I got her point – she knew it back to front. ‘So why exactly did it happen then? To the extent it did here? I assumed that Essex and its inhabitants already had a reputation for being thick, flat and uninteresting?’

I coughed. ‘No, not at all. Up until the witch hunts, Essex was seen as the “English Goshen”.’

‘I last heard that word in Sunday School. Fertile land and Israelites. Now don’t go all religious on me, Sadie. We’re not the Church Times.’

I sighed. I hated having to explain things to her. She had such a high IQ and always made me feel like I was rambling. ‘Goshen also means place of plenty. And that’s a pretty fair description: Essex has an interesting geology. Sits at the southernmost point of the ice sheet that covered the rest of the island. Soil’s full of mineral deposits brought down from up north via the glacier.’

Maggie pulled a face then converted it into a smile. ‘Geology’s a bit of a turn off for our readership …’

I held my hand up. ‘Hang on. Let me get to the point – it was perfect for farming, for cattle, for livestock. It’s surrounded by rivers and the North Sea for fishing. Until the 1600s it was seen as a pretty cool place to be. But after that it changes a bit.’

Maggie’s eyes blinked. ‘Because?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Well, this is where I come in. I think a) because it was quite the revolutionary county in the Civil War. Backed parliament. Wanted reform. Was seen as the “radical” county. And b) because of the extent of the witch hunts.’

‘Which were because?’ She cocked her head to one side and sat back in her chair.

‘Lots of things, I think. One was class aggression – you look at the European witch hunts and they had it in for all different types of people: aristocrats got burnt at the stake and their lands neatly confiscated by the Church. But in the Essex witch hunts the victims are mostly poor. At the same time you’ve got a mini Ice Age, crop failures, Civil War, a general breakdown of law and order. Indictments in Essex were already higher than elsewhere in the country. Then suddenly in 1644 the numbers spike dramatically. It was down to Matthew Hopkins, whose dick must have fallen off or something.’

Maggie raised an eyebrow. ‘Language, darling.’

‘Well, he’s got serious issues with women. Killed more than any of the other Witchfinders put together. Decided to call himself the Witchfinder General and got rid of whole families of,’ I lifted my fingers to draw imaginary quotation marks, ‘“witches” in his brief career from 1644 to 1647. Some sources suggest that he was from Lancashire, others from Essex or Suffolk. That he worked in shipping as a clerk and spent some time in Amsterdam learning his official trade, where he witnessed several witch trials.’

I looked up to catch her expression. ‘And?’ she said, eyebrows furrowed, not giving anything away.

‘So he comes back and starts on Essex Girls in Manningtree. That’s where he was based. There and Mistley. The Thorn Inn is where he had his headquarters.’ I jerked my chair closer to the desk. ‘Killed a good hundred more people than Harold Shipman, who I might add, we can draw comparisons with – he also enjoyed murdering older women living on their own. But, like I said, it’s thought that Hopkins killed more. Possibly making him the number one serial killer of all time. Conservative estimates look to about 350-odd victims. And,’ I drew breath for emphasis, ‘he was only twenty-six or twenty-seven when he snuffed it. That was in 1647. In 1692 you get the Salem witch hunts – and guess where they were?’

Maggie drummed her fingers on the desk. ‘I’d put my money on Salem.’

‘Okay. I didn’t phrase that well. What county do you reckon Salem is in?’

‘It’s in Massachusetts, no?’

‘Yes, that’s the state though. Salem is in Essex County.’

‘That, I didn’t know,’ said Maggie thoughtfully. ‘You have my full attention. What are you thinking?’

‘Not sure yet. I have to do some digging. I’ve got a tingling feeling going on. I think I could come up with something strong. Perhaps, and this is just a perhaps at the moment, it could be part of a bigger series – The Essex Girls’ History of the World.’

Maggie’s eyes brightened – pound signs were presumably whizzing through her brain. ‘Now you’re talking. What are you saying – six, twelve articles?’

‘I don’t know yet. Let me see what I can come up with.’

‘I like it. I really like it. Sounds like you’re talking ahead of the next deadline. Can you come up with this in three weeks?’

I’d already thought about that and shook my head. ‘I’ll definitely need longer.’

Her eyes dipped and hardened. ‘You’ve got a current deadline. This is like an ongoing column. Readers will be expecting a piece in the next issue. Be a dear and sort something out for that please.’

I already had something up my sleeve. ‘What about little-known Essex Girls of import … ?’

Maggie picked up my line. ‘That go against the stereotype …’

I gave her a stony stare. ‘All Essex Girls go against the stereotype …’

She ignored my comment. ‘Yes, okay, you can have that. But I don’t want you trotting out the regulars: Helen Mirren; Sally Gunnell … yada yada. There was a piece like that in the Standard just the other week.’

‘I’ve got enough research to concoct a decent article pretty quickly. There’s Anne Knight who campaigned against slavery and for women’s suffrage …’

Maggie sniffed. ‘Not too political though please, Sadie. We need an arts or culture steer.’

‘Come on – she’s a notable woman. A lesser-known

notable …’

‘Oh dear. I’m going off the idea. Who else have you got?’

‘Okay,’ I said, reaching mentally for someone a little more exciting. ‘Maggie Smith?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Oh and also Mary Boleyn – the “other Boleyn Girl”. You could run a nice pic of Scarlett beside it.’

‘Was Mary from Essex?’

‘Lived in Rochford for about ten years.’

‘Born here?’

‘Not exactly …’

‘She’ll do. Stick in a couple more like that and think pictures.’

She wrote something down in the book on her desk. ‘Good, good,’ she said to herself and bit the end of her pen with gusto.

‘Then I can go into Hopkins?’

‘Darling,’ she said, replacing the pen and fixing me with one of her scary smiles. ‘After that you can do whatever you like – as long as you hit your deadline and make it contentious. We need debate. Especially on the website. The bigger the better.’

‘Great. Thank you.’ I said it in earnest. ‘I’m going to get something good out of it – got an instinct with this, believe me.’

Now she leant forwards. ‘Very topical Essex is right now.’

‘That, I know, dear Yoda.’

She grinned. ‘Do you think you could explore your contacts and get some coverage in the nationals? If you come up with anything biggish?’

‘I can’t promise anything but it’s always a possibility. I’m pretty sure there’s an angle I could work out that could pull in the wider population. Hopkins has more than a regional fascination.’

Maggie’s eyes were fixed on my face. ‘Excellent. I want more than an “And Finally” on Look East. God knows we need to boost circulation.’ She leant forwards and picked up her mug.

I mirrored her. The coffee was hot and delicious so I gulped it greedily, feeling the heat in my throat, then processing her last comment, I said, ‘I thought you were doing great.’

Maggie sighed. ‘We are, in terms of readership and profile. Best it’s ever been. But our landlord’s putting the rent up; the price of paper is going through the roof right now, and what with the recession or whatever this dire slump we’re passing through is called, a lot of our regular advertisers have had to pull. A fair few have gone bust still owing us. Marketing is always the first thing to go when times are hard.’

I stared up and caught a sagging around her eyes. ‘I had no idea.’

Maggie reached for a fag and projected her chair to the sash window. Lighting it, she pushed the bottom half up and craned her mouth to the opening.

‘Please don’t tell anyone, Sadie. I’m confiding in you as a friend, not an employee. I don’t want it to get out to the others.’ She blew a long sigh of smoke through the gap. ‘We’ll be lucky if we’re still trading this time next year.’

‘Ouch,’ I said.

She faced me. Her regular kittenish expression disappeared. There was more of a hungry alley cat look going on there. ‘Pull this “Essex Girls’ History of the World” article off and I’ll think about upping your rate to something bordering on decent and throw in your expenses.’

I sat back and looked her squarely in the face. ‘That’s a generous offer. Considering …’

‘I said I’d think about it. You know me, always one for a get-out clause.’ She laughed, and the kitten returned. ‘Let’s call it a calculated risk. I have faith in you.’

A strong blast of air came in through the crack, scattering several loose papers across the desk and blowing my notebook shut. I gathered them up, feeling a little less excited than I had been just moments before. ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence. I’m not sure that I deserve it. Not yet.’

‘Don’t be so down on yourself.’ She shot me another look and said more softly, ‘You sure you’re okay?’

It was an invitation to talk. But I didn’t want to open those particular floodgates so I sniffed, swallowed down all self-doubt and wobbliness, and smiled as brightly as I could. ‘Fine. Honest.’

‘Right then,’ her tone changed: she was wrapping up. Our transactions were like that. I’d got used to Maggie’s looping behaviour that swung from utter professionalism to friendly concern then promptly back again. ‘Can’t stay here chatting about books and whatnot. You get going. Crack on with your witches. When do you think you can give me an idea of where you’re going with your leads?’

I told her about two weeks should do it and stood up to go.

‘Great,’ she said as I made for the door. ‘Oh, and Sadie. Call me if you need any help sorting Rosamund’s house.’

I told her she’d be the first on my list and said goodbye.

She was second actually, but I appreciated the gesture.