The Child (Kate Waters #2)(23)

SEVENTEEN


    Kate


WEDNESDAY, MARCH 28, 2012

When she emerged from the ladies’, there was a strange silence in the office. No one was speaking, no one was clattering on a keyboard—not even the online crew—and no one was making eye contact. Kate’s “Morning all” petered out halfway through, the “all” abandoned as she sat down at her desk.

“What’s going on? Has somebody died?” she hissed across at the Crime Man.

He looked up, eyes pouchy and bloodshot.

“Not yet,” he said.

“God, you look awful,” she said. “What were you up to last night?”

“Out with my colleague from defense. He looks worse than me.”

Kate whirled round to look at the defense correspondent—the Major, to his workmates—and laughed at the sight. “Has he been to bed?” she asked the Crime Man.

“Mind your own bloody business, Kate. You haven’t looked at your e-mails, then?”

“No, I was late leaving home. Why?”

“There’s another round of redundos. The bloody bean counters are at it again,” he said. “Costs are being cut. Again. They say we’ve got to lose fifty-two people across the titles—seven from our newsroom.”

“Seven? Christ! That’s half the reporters,” she said, looking round the room, ticking off her colleagues in her head.

“Don’t be stupid. There are at least thirty of us,” he said. She looked blank.

“The online staff, Kate.”

“Oh yes,” she replied. “Well, it won’t be them getting the boot. Bloody hell. Who is going from our lot?”

The Crime Man shook his head. “Two subs, but no one has been invited for the coffee of death from our side yet. We’re all just waiting.”

They both knew he was a prime candidate; Gordon Willis was old, difficult to manage, a Luddite when it came to technology, and, perhaps most important, highly paid. Kate cast about for something positive to say.

“Spoke to Colin Stubbs the other day, sent his best,” she said. The Crime Man nodded, preoccupied.

“Says leaving journalism was the best thing he ever did.”

“Did he? Haven’t seen him in months. Thought his witch of a wife had locked him in a cellar. Look, I’m going to the Yard for the daily briefing. Can’t sit around here, waiting for bad news. Give me a shout if anything happens.”

“Sure,” she said. “You’ll be fine. You’re way too valuable to them.”

He tried to smile. “Thanks, Kate. See you later.”

She watched him shamble out of the door, the collar of his jacket half up, a bed hair rosette on the back of his head, and his notebook poking out of his pocket. He nodded at the news desk as he passed. Terry didn’t nod back. Bad sign, she thought. The pack abandoning its own.

Kate considered her own position. She reckoned she was on the list somewhere—age and size of salary would count against her—but she crossed her fingers that others would volunteer to take the money before they got to her name. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t know what else was out there job-wise, and life without work wasn’t worth thinking about. What would she do all day? Watch telly and do sudoku in those big puzzle books? She’d rather die. She’d rather write celebrity nonsense. What she needed was a big story.

Terry walked over and Kate glanced up.

“All right, Kate?” he asked. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks, Terry. Sweet of you to say. I’m fine. Just got a bit of a domestic going on. My eldest.”

“What’s Jake got up to?” Terry asked. “I’m sick of my kids. All they want is money and lifts to parties.”

“Bit of a wobble at university. It’ll sort itself out,” she said.

? ? ?

The news that the Crime Man was going came at about six thirty. Late enough that he could be ushered out of the building with minimum fuss if things got nasty. He’d been called into the managing editor’s office and, fifteen minutes later, emerged as an ex–Post reporter.

“They’ve given me a shedload of money,” he said to Kate as he started dumping his belongings into a black bin bag. “I’ll be fine. Time for a change. Been here too long.”

They both knew there would be no more jobs. Too old. Too old-school.

“The worst bit is telling her indoors,” he said. “Don’t know whether to phone Maggie or wait until I get home. God knows what she’ll say. But it’s likely to be at full volume.”

“Oh, come on, Maggie’ll understand,” Kate said. Actually, she had no confidence that “The Iron Lady,” as she was known in the office, would be sympathetic—it was a side of her nobody had ever witnessed—but Kate was trying not to dwell on the negatives.

“We’ll see,” he said and shook his head wearily.

“Anyway, where will you have your leaving do? Everyone will want to come and give you a proper Fleet Street send-off,” Kate said, picking up a stray envelope off the floor.

“Yeah. I’ll sort something out. I’d like it at the Cheshire Cheese—it’s where I was taken on my first day as a national newspaper reporter. Back in the Stone Age. We used to go there when the presses started up. Whole building used to vibrate. And the noise . . .” His voice had begun to stick and he shut up, pretending to check his drawers.