“No way; it’ll never happen,” George-Harrison insisted. “The guy has no credibility. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
I continued searching through the pages, from one controversial story to the next. One article exposed the consequences of welfare benefit cuts, which had a devastating effect on the poorest in the nation, with 30 percent of the population already living below the poverty line. Another reported on the US Air Force’s part in a disastrous accident in which a ballistic missile exploded in its silo and contaminated an entire town. A third covered the arrest of a journalist who had refused to reveal her sources for an article on a controversial parental custody dispute. The last page featured culture highlights. Evita won a Tony for Best Musical. Coppola was presenting a Godard film in New York. Ken Follett had climbed to the top of the bestseller list, and Elizabeth Taylor was finally making her Broadway debut at the age of forty-seven.
I had reached the end of the issue without finding anything that even resembled a masthead. I went back through each slide, inspecting page numbers to ensure none were missing. No luck. No masthead. The writers and editors of the newspaper hadn’t wanted their names published. The byline for each article was a set of initials instead of a full name.
“What’s your last name again?” I asked George-Harrison.
“Collins.”
I scanned the screen and pointed out an article. “See that story? The one about runoff from a factory polluting a river, contaminating the drinking water . . . Are those your mother’s initials?” George-Harrison squinted at the letters MC on-screen and nodded.
“Great,” I sighed. “Except I don’t see one article written by my mum.”
“Are you sure she was involved in the writing? I mean, you don’t have to be a doctor to run a health clinic, right?”
“Right, I suppose,” I replied, lost amid all these riddles. I went back through the issue and took pictures of each page with my phone, hoping to read every last word of the newspaper in the calm of my hotel room. A strange sensation had come over me, as though my mother’s reassuring presence was there, as though she were giving her blessing to keep digging.
“So? What do we do now?” asked George-Harrison.
“I have no idea, not yet. But at least we’ve got proof the Independent was real. We’ll have to roll up our sleeves and do some more digging. We’re on the hunt for any lead, however flimsy, on people who knew them, maybe an employee of the paper, something like that.”
“How can we identify anybody if none of the articles are signed?”
A twisted idea leapt to mind, which happened so often that I didn’t think entertaining one more would do any harm. From even the most cursory reading of the Independent, it was easy to see a clear and consistent editorial line. It was a paper built on investigative journalism.
I called over the assistant—who I noticed had the same pallid complexion as the microfiches and really needed to get more sun, but that was neither here nor there—and requested all issues of the Baltimore Sun from October 12 to 19 of that year.
“What are you up to?” asked George-Harrison.
“Are you familiar with the saying ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’?” I asked.
I knew from personal experience, if you’re writing a feature, you have to get out in the field. So, I put myself in the shoes of the Independent’s staff. Where would they have gone for a scoop on the local bigwigs—politicians, socialites, professors, or any other high-society types? Certainly where those sorts of people were most likely to be found: official ceremonies, high-society gatherings, events like that. I figured the society pages of the Baltimore Sun from that period would be full of articles with photos of such events. With a little luck, maybe I could find the right photo with the right caption, and maybe I could identify attendees who were actually there as reporters. After all, that was exactly what I would have done.
24
MICHEL AND VERA
October 2016, Croydon
Vera opened the fridge door and peered inside. Everything was in its place: vegetables in the drawers, dairy on top, and a thin strip of netting covering the middle shelf. She sighed as she caught sight of her own reflection on the microwave door, and decided to let down her hair and take off her glasses. Stepping into the living room, she found Michel laying a tablecloth, his eyes glued to the TV, avoiding Vera’s.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, but received no response. She came closer, sitting on the armrest of a chair and letting out another sigh. “Michel. Why give just one letter and keep the rest?”
“To do my part. To help, without betraying Mum.”
“Fine. But why now?” she asked. “I know you had something specific in mind. You never leave anything to chance.”