“Taxi!” I shouted, out of breath with nerves. “Taxi!”
“There’s a rank over there,” a woman said, pointing towards the street corner.
I thanked her and ran for a cab.
“Newton Bardon, please,” I asked through the cab window. “How long do you think it will take to get there?”
The taxi driver, a distinguished-looking Sikh gentleman with a magnificent beard, carefully consider his calculations.
“Please, I’m in a terrible hurry.”
“About twenty to twenty-five minutes.”
Buggery bollocks. I was going to miss the press conference. I had read through the questions Sunny had emailed me while I was on the train, and they were explosive. I was going to miss Sunny giving the performance of his lifetime. I was going to miss the downfall of Jemima Carstairs. I was going to miss curtain-up on a thrilling journalistic spectacular. I jumped in the cab.
“If you can get there in fifteen, I’ll triple the fare.”
“Right you are, sir.”
I felt like we needed some chase music. The gentle traditional Hindi music coming from the stereo was completely incongruous. Still, you work with what you’ve got. I reached across and cranked up the volume as my driver ran an amber-but-tinged-red light.
Chapter71
Sunny
The press conference had already started when the Prius screamed to a halt by a gate in the cyclone fence ZephEnergies had built around the Newton Bardon site. I could see a scrum of reporters, camera operators, and photographers across the field and made a dash towards them with my notepad and the most important documents held tightly in my hand. Carstairs was wearing a green pantsuit today. I slipped into the back of the press pack and listened to her speak.
“This project will secure the energy future for people right across the Midlands, as we transition to our exciting low-carbon future,” she said. She prattled on for three or four minutes; then the questions started. I edged forward, trying to get close enough to catch her attention. She took a question from Ford Goodall. Good old Ford asked for clarity on when the deal with ZephEnergies had been done, and Carstairs fudged it, just as she had been fudging it since Ludo broke the story—our story—in theSentinel. Crouching, I squeezed in beside Rafiq Farouq, whose eyes bugged wide at seeing me. I put a finger to my lips to stop him saying anything. I winked, because that’s the kind of thing people do at moments like this in movies.
In among all the suits, I suddenly realised I was still wearing the old blue hoodie and sweatpants I’d chucked on after yoga. The fact I wasn’t meant to be here was going to stand out like dog’s bollocks. After a question from the BBC’s Annabelle Statham-Drew, I popped my head up and shouted my first question.
“Minister, as an investor in ZephEnergies, isn’t it a massive conflict of interest for you to be approving this nuclear power plant?”
Flashes went off, and camera shutters whirred. A murmur went through the press pack. There was blood in the water. Carstairs’s left eye twitched, just a little, a nervous tell. But she composed herself quickly.
“I don’t hold any shares in ZephEnergies, and frankly, that’s a libellous accusation.”
The atmosphere had completely changed. The lions were turning on the ringmaster. I stepped forward and held up the documents I’d brought with me.
“Not directly, but you do. Through a series of shell companies, many of which are registered offshore, but youaredefinitely an investor in ZephEnergies. As is your husband, Dirk Windhoek, and the chief whip, Vladimir Popov.”
“Rebecca-Jo,” Carstairs said, summoning an aide, “I don’t believe this man is a serving member of the press. Did you check his press pass?”
Rebecca-Jo shook her head.
“I’m sorry, it’s accredited members of the press only, I’m afraid.” Carstairs flicked her finger towards her government-issue police protection and then towards me. I was being removed. “You’ll have to take your baseless conspiracy theories elsewhere. I’m sure you could start a podcast or something.”
A voice came from somewhere behind me.
“What about me? I’m an accredited member of the press. Can I ask a question?”
I turned to see Ludo, chest heaving, a line of sweat on his brow. Where the hell had he come from? The sun was shining off his glasses, an unkempt curl bobbing in the breeze. He looked beautiful.
“Ludo Boche, theSentinel,” he said, flashing his press pass at Rebecca-Jo, who knew perfectly well who he was. He lifted his notepad to his chest and peered at it.
“Does the prime minister know you and your family stand to personally earn millions of pounds if this project goes ahead?”
More flash photography. A hum from the reporters.
