His & Hers(16)

“Can someone else try answering the goddamn phones when they wing? It weally isn’t difficult, and probably won’t cause wepetitive stwain injury as none of you do it vewy often. Yes, who is it?” the Thin Controller snaps in my ear.

Despite the job title and bluster, he is a man who is rarely in control of anything. Including his speech impediment. I have often suspected that the newsroom is allergic to his imagined authority, and the chorus of phones still ringing unanswered in the background reinforces the theory.

“It’s Anna,” I say.

“Anna…?”

I resist the urge to scream; forgetting me is clearly contagious.

“Andrews,” I reply.

“Anna! Apologies, it’s chaos here this morning. How can I help?”

It’s a good question. Yesterday I was presenting the program; now it feels like I’m cold calling to beg to be on it for a minute or two.

“I’m at this murder scene in Blackdown—”

“Is it a murder? Hang on…” His voice changes again, and I realize he is speaking to someone else. “I said no to a pwe-pubescent political weporter I’ve never heard of on the PM stowy—it’s the bloody lead. Well, tell the Westminster editor to pull her head out of Downing Street’s arse for five minutes … I don’t care what they are doing for other outlets, I want a gwown-up correspondent on my bulletin, so get me one. You were saying?”

It takes a moment to realize he is speaking to me again. I’m too busy imagining him in a physical, rather than verbal, fight with the five-foot-two Westminster editor. She would end him.

“The murder you sent me to…” I persevere.

“I just thought you’d wather be there than here, given what happened this morning. I did glance at the wires after the police statement a little while ago. But everything I wead just said it was an unexplained death…”

“That’s all the police are saying at the moment, but I know there’s more to it than that.”

“How do you know?”

It’s a difficult question to answer.

“I just do,” I say, and my reply sounds as weak as I feel.

“Well, call me back when you’ve got something on the wecord, and I’ll see if we can squeeze you in.”

Squeeze me in?

“It’s going to be a big story,” I say, not ready to give up yet. “It would be good to get it on-air before anyone else does.”

“I’m sowy, Anna. Trump’s latest tweet is causing a meltdown, and it’s already a weally busy news day. Sounds to me like this body in the woods might just be a local news stowy, and I don’t have woom. Call if that changes, okay? Got to go.”

“It’s not a—”

I don’t bother to finish my sentence, because he has already hung up. I disappear inside my own darkest thoughts for a while. It’s like Halloween every day in this business—grown adults wearing scary masks, pretending to be something they’re not.

Someone knocks on my window and I jump. I look up, expecting to see Richard standing outside my car, but it’s Jack, and he’s wearing his best disgruntled detective face. He looks just as angry with me as he did the last time we saw each other. I step out to join him, and smile when Jack looks over his shoulder to check if anyone is watching us. He always was a little paranoid. He’s standing so close that I can smell the stale smoke on his breath. I’m surprised because I thought he had given it up.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks.

“My job. It’s nice to see you too.”

“Since when does the BBC send a news anchor to a story like this?”

I regularly tell myself that I don’t care what this man thinks of me, but I still don’t want to tell him that I no longer present the program. I don’t want to tell anyone.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“Things always are with you. What do you know and why did you ask that last question after the press conference?”

“Why didn’t you answer it?”

“Don’t play games with me, Anna. I’m not in the mood.”

“You never were a morning person.”

“I’m serious. Why did you ask that?”

“Is it true then? Was there something inside the victim’s mouth?”

“Tell me what you think you know.”

“You know I can’t do that. I always protect my sources.”

He takes a step closer; a little too close.

“If you do anything to jeopardize this investigation, I will treat you the same way as I would anyone else. This is a murder scene, not Downing Street or some red-carpet film premiere.”

“So, it is murder.”

His cheeks turn a little red when he realizes his own mistake.

“A woman we both know has died, show some respect,” he whispers.

“A woman we both know?”

He stares at me as though he thought maybe I already knew.

“Who?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Who?” I ask again.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to cover this story.”

“Why? You just said it was someone we both knew, so maybe you shouldn’t be investigating it.”