The Widow(88)

“Let’s not. Let’s give ourselves a lie-in and then meander down. We’ve got all week, Bob,” she said, and laughed at the thought of a whole week to themselves.

They went up to their room late and, from habit, Sparkes clicked on the television to catch the late news while Eileen had a quick shower. The video clip of Jean Taylor sitting in her living room, being interviewed, made his stomach contract into its familiar knot, and he was back in role. “Eileen, love. I’ve got to go back,” he called through to her. “It’s Jean Taylor. She says Glen took Bella.”

Eileen came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, with another pulled around her wet hair in a turban. “What? What did you say?” Then she saw the faces on the television and sank down on the bed. “Christ, Bob. Is there no end to this?”

“No, Eileen. I’m so sorry, but there isn’t until I know what happened to that little girl. Jean knows, and I’ve got to ask her again. Can you be ready to leave in fifteen minutes?”

She nodded, loosening the towel on her head and rubbing her hair dry.

The journey back was quiet. Eileen slept as Sparkes drove on deserted roads, flicking on the radio every hour on the hour to see if there were any updates.

He had to shake his wife awake when they reached home, and they fell into bed with barely a word exchanged.





FIFTY


The Reporter

SUNDAY, JUNE 13, 2010


Here she is, our star reporter!” the editor shouted across the newsroom when Kate walked in the next morning. “Brilliant exclusive, Kate. Well done!” There was a smattering of applause from her colleagues and calls of “Great stuff, Kate.” She felt herself blushing and tried to smile without looking smug.

“Thanks, Simon,” she said when she finally reached her desk and could shrug off her handbag and jacket.

The news editor had already sidled over to bask in any glory being handed out. “What have we got for day two, then, Kate? Another scoop?” the editor bawled, yellow teeth bared in triumph.

Kate knew the editor knew because she had filed it overnight, but Simon Pearson wanted to put on a bit of a show in front of his people. He hadn’t had much of a chance lately—“Bloody boring politics. Where are the exclusives?” was his mantra—and today he was going to make the most of it.

“We’ve got the story of the childless marriage,” Terry said. “Is This What Turned Mr. Normal into a Monster?”

Simon smiled widely. Kate winced. The headline was crass and screamed, turning her probing and sensitive interview into a cinema poster, but she should have been used to it. “Sell the story” was another of the editor’s mantras. He was a man for mantras. Brute force and rote learning was his preferred MO with his executives, none of your pretentious creative thinking and questioning. “Simon Says,” the execs joked.

The editor knew a good headline and believed it was always worth using a good one more than once. Every week, sometimes, when it particularly took his fancy, then promptly discarded when even he realized it was becoming the source of derision in journalist drinking holes. The question in the headline—“Is This the Most Evil Man in Britain?”—was a classic. It hedged bets. Just asking, not saying.

“I’ve got some good quotes from the widow,” Kate said, starting up her computer.

“Killer quotes,” Terry added, upping the ante. “Everyone was scrambling to catch up last night, and we’ve had the magazines and foreign press on already for the pictures. Talk of the street.”

“You’re showing your age, Terry,” Simon said. “There’s no street anymore. Didn’t you know, it’s a global village?”

The news editor grinned at his boss’s rebuke, determined to see it as a bit of banter. Nothing was going to spoil today—he’d brought in the story of the year and was going to go in and get the pay raise he richly deserved and then take his wife—or maybe his mistress—for dinner at the Ritz.

Kate was already looking at her e-mails, leaving the men to their dick swinging.

“What’s she like, Kate? Jean Taylor?”

Kate looked at her editor and saw the genuine curiosity behind the bluster. He had one of the most powerful jobs in the newspaper industry, but what he really wanted was to be a reporter again, elbow deep in the story, asking the questions, standing on a doorstep, and sending his golden words to the desk, not just hearing about it later.

“She’s smarter than she makes out. Puts on the little housewifely act—you know, standing by her man—but there’s all sorts going on in her head. Difficult for her because I think she believed he was innocent at one stage, but something changed. Something changed in their relationship.”

Kate knew she should’ve got more; she should’ve got the whole thing. She blamed Mick for interrupting, but she’d seen the shutters come down in Jean’s eyes. Control of the interview had switched back and forth between the two women, but there was no question who’d been in charge at the end. Kate wasn’t about to admit that to this audience.

The other reporters were listening now, wheeling their chairs back to catch the conversation.

“Did he do it, Kate? And did she know?” the crime man asked. “That’s what everyone wants to know.”

“Yes and yes,” she said. “Question is, when did she know? At the time or later? I think the trouble is that she’s been stuck between what she knows and what she wants to believe.”