Darkness Falls (Kate Marshall, #3)(64)

“The E-FIT at the bar portrayed him as an older man, fifties. He could have been doing this for more than five years. There could be more bodies that he’s tucked away and haven’t been found,” said Tristan.

“There’s something Des said about Hayden. He’d been going to the Brewer’s Arms pub for five months, and one of the other lads who drank there was convinced that things were the other way around and that Hayden was planning to slip something into his abductor’s drink and rob him . . .”

“Yes. He said that Hayden’s ‘done this before,’” said Tristan.

“So they could have met before. Hayden had already scoped him out as someone with money who was worth robbing.”

“You think our man isn’t just abducting guys randomly? He’s getting to know them first?”

“And he travels around the West Country. Hayden was abducted in Torquay, David Lamb lived in Exeter, Gabe Kemp lived and worked in a gay pub near Plymouth,” said Kate.

“Shit. He could be using other disguises.”



On the dot of three p.m., which was ten a.m. in Washington, they called Rita Hocking on Skype. Rita looked like a stereotypical journalist. She had long gray hair tied up in a bun with two pencils, heavy makeup and red lipstick on her craggy features, and a pair of bright-red-framed glasses that magnified her brown eyes. Behind her were bookshelves and a slice of an office window. The tip of the Washington Monument’s tall needle appeared above a row of redbrick buildings.

“Hi there,” she said, her British accent only slightly muddied with a transatlantic twang.

When the pleasantries were over, Kate said, “Thank you for talking to us. We appreciate your time.”

“Not a problem,” she said, picking up a huge takeaway iced coffee and sipping through the straw. “So, Joanna Duncan, eh?”

“How long were you colleagues for?” asked Tristan.

“The West Country News was my first gig out of university. I was twenty-five, and it was the year 2000. I stayed there three years until I was twenty-eight . . . Looks like I’ve given away the fact I’m forty,” she said, smiling and taking another big gulp of her drink.

“Well, you look amazing,” said Tristan.

“I wasn’t asking for your comment on how I looked,” she said, her smiling attitude turning on a sixpence. “Why do men think it’s okay to pass comment? How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-five,” said Tristan. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t offend me. I don’t know you,” she said.

“Joanna Duncan must have started at the newspaper a year before you,” said Kate, steering the conversation back.

“Yeah. And she loved hierarchies, Joanna did.”

“How do you mean?”

“She was always at pains to say she was more senior, that she had more experience,” said Rita. “And she hated the fact that I was privately educated, like it mattered . . .” Kate didn’t dare glance over at Tristan. Of course it matters, she thought. Rita went on, “We’d often cover these personal-interest pieces about kids who fell through the cracks. There was one story about kids who lived in a high-rise, and their mothers were all screwing this drug dealer; when he was arrested, six of the women committed suicide, and the kids were packed off to a home. I remember her saying to our editor that she should cover the story because she had more working-class authenticity. She played on people’s emotions. Manipulated them.” She took another sip of the enormous coffee.

“The editor was Ashley Harris?”

“Yeah. He was a good editor. He had her worked out early on.”

“How do you mean?”

“A journalist needs empathy. Not that we use it all the time. It’s not the most empathetic profession. Often, you’re writing a story to expose or unmask a facet of someone’s life, but you need to be able to put yourself in the other person’s shoes. You need empathy, and you need to know when to deploy it in your work. You also need to be one step ahead. Like a chess match. You need to know when to hold back, because someone can become a source and valuable to you more than once. If it’s someone powerful, you might hold back on writing about their infidelity or petty crime because you know you can keep them in the fold and tap them for more juicy leaks and information,” she said.

“And Joanna didn’t do that?” asked Kate.

“The big story was that Noah Huntley took bribes for government contracts whilst he was an MP. It’s a good story. It appealed to a broad range of readers, and it created waves, but when Joanna didn’t get the glory for the story when the national newspapers picked it up, she lost sight of her journalistic instincts. Instead of going out there to find another great story, of which there were many, she chose to grub around in the dirt and go after Noah Huntley and his gay affairs. She was like a dog with a bone, looking up all these young guys who he’d screwed. She wanted one of them to wear a wire! Remember, this was a regional newspaper. Joanna didn’t have the balls to quit and try her luck in London—she just hung around and got bitter and vindictive.”

“Had you ever met Noah Huntley?” asked Kate.

“Yes. I’d spent time with him on the campaign trail for the 2001 general election. He won his seat by a huge majority. Both him and his wife, Helen, were fun to be around. Noah is a bit of a charming fool, but a lovable one. People think she’s this long-suffering doormat, but no one has ever bothered to look beyond her standing next to him in official photos. They met at Cambridge. He’s gay, she’s a lesbian. The deal was that they would marry for security and companionship. He became the more high-profile partner in the couple, so his love of cock, if you excuse my bluntness, was good gossip, but I wouldn’t have spent so much time chasing that story.”