4. The reveal – With the whole world watching, she would list the names and dates, pausing dramatically between each one like a television talent show judge choosing their finalists. She wondered whether a drum roll would be going too far.
Andrea hated herself for even considering it. There was a strong possibility that the police had not yet contacted the marked people, who undoubtedly deserved to learn of their impending doom at least a little before the rest of the world. Plus, she would be arrested; although, that had never dissuaded Elijah in the past. Even in his short time at the station, Andrea had watched him ruin lives through conjecture, circulate dubiously obtained details of active investigations and attend court twice for withholding evidence and attempting to bribe a police officer.
Having abandoned sleep, she sat up on the bed, no more rested but resolute on a course of action. She would use the photographs; it would land her in trouble, but the benefits to her career far outweighed the inconvenience. She would keep the list secret. It was the right thing to do. She felt proud of herself for still fighting the growing pressure to become as merciless and destructive as her boss.
She reached the corridor that led to the newsroom. Even at this modest height, Andrea instinctively veered towards the wall, ignoring the view out over the rooftops of Camomile Street. When she entered the office, she was struck, as always, by the relentless commotion that persisted twenty-four hours a day. Elijah revelled in the chaos: people shouting at one another, phones ringing discordantly, numerous plasma screens jutting down from the ceiling, subtitles replacing their muted words. She knew that, within minutes, she would acclimatise to it, and the aggressive atmosphere would become no more than background noise.
The newsroom was located on levels ten and eleven. The dividing floor had been removed to create a commodious double-height space. After years of working at regional stations, Andrea found the set-up excessive and wasteful, almost a parody of a newsroom. All she needed was a desk, a computer and a telephone.
The new editor-in-chief had been poached from a hard-hitting US news programme, which had controversially uncovered the rampant corruption festering within a number of well-known brands and companies. He had brought with him a multitude of the patronising Americanisms, team-building exercises and morale-boosting incentives that are increasingly forced upon the chronically reserved English employees.
Andrea took a seat in her neon-yellow (scientific research has discovered a direct correlation between efficiency and bright colours) ergonomic chair opposite the Ben & Jerry’s machine and immediately checked her post tray for any further messages from the killer. She removed the file from her bag and was just about to climb the stairs to Elijah’s office when people started abandoning their desks to congregate beneath the largest of the television screens.
Andrea noticed that Elijah had also emerged from his office to watch, arms folded, from the balcony. His gaze flickered down to her and then, disinterested, returned to the screen. With no idea what was going on, she got to her feet and stood at the back of the growing crowd.
‘Turn it up!’ someone shouted.
Suddenly New Scotland Yard’s familiar sign appeared and Andrea recognised her cameraman Rory’s trademark soft-focus zoom out to reveal a beautiful blonde reporter wearing an inappropriately low-cut summer dress. There was a wolf whistle from somewhere near the front. Isobel Platt had only been working at the station for four months. At the time of her appointment Andrea had considered it an insult to the profession, giving a mindless, cosmetically enhanced, twenty-year-old a position based on no more than her ability to read out loud; she now felt it a personal attack on her and her career.
Isobel was cheerfully informing them that a police spokesperson would be making a statement ‘im … min … ently’ while her exposed cleavage dominated the screen to the point where Andrea wondered why Rory was bothering to keep her head in frame at all. She felt tears pricking her eyes and could feel Elijah watching her for a reaction. She focused intently on the screen, refusing to turn around or leave the room, denying him that satisfaction.
It had not been the first time that she had underestimated her editor-in-chief’s utter ruthlessness. She understood his reasoning; in the battle of ratings for the biggest story of the year, why not stick a model in front of the camera as a little extra incentive? She would not have been at all surprised had Isobel reappeared topless for her sign-off.
The startling news of Mayor Turnble’s untimely death, while visiting the police HQ for a policies update meeting, barely registered with Andrea as her colleagues gasped and swore accordingly. She was preoccupied with fermenting her self-pity into anger. She would not be quietly dismissed from her own story. She turned away from the screen, not lingering to hear what Isobel’s breasts had made of the shocking press conference, stormed back over to her desk, collected the file and marched up the stairs towards Elijah. Apparently expecting this, he nonchalantly strolled back into his office and left the door ajar.
Elijah had been screaming and swearing for almost five minutes. He was livid that Andrea had sat on such an explosive story for an entire day. He had told her that she was fired seven times, called her the C-word three times, and physically chased his assistant away when she had come to check that everything was all right.
Andrea waited patiently for him to finish. She found his predictable reaction almost as amusing as the way in which his dubious New York accent became laced with a southern drawl the angrier he got. He was a vain man. He visited the gym both on his way in and back from work and always wore shirts a size too small to emphasise the extent of his obsession. Despite being over forty, his hair showed no sign of grey; instead, a flawless coverage of unnaturally golden hair was slicked back tidily across his scalp. Some of the other women in the office found him heartbreakingly attractive, the very definition of an alpha male. Andrea just found him comically repugnant. She had to wait another minute for his display of dominance to subside.
‘These pictures are shitty quality, barely usable,’ he spat, masking his excitement as he spread them over his desk.
‘Yes, they are. These are just for you,’ replied Andrea calmly. ‘I have the high-quality versions saved on an SD card.’
‘Where?’ he asked urgently. When Andrea did not answer, he glanced up at her. ‘Good girl, you’re learning.’
Although offensively patronising, Andrea could not help but take some pride in the grudging compliment. The playing field had just been levelled; they were two sharks circling a piece of meat.
‘The police have the originals?’ he asked.
‘They do.’