“Well, whoever it is, they’ll have to wait. I’m going straight home to bed.”
“It’s a one-time-only offer, Hannah. I think you should take my advice on this one.”
Hannah slowed her march and turned to face Sandy.
“An hour of your time—that’s all I ask. I’ve brought clothes from your place. You can shower at mine if you’re quick. The meeting starts in just under an hour. Trust me, Hannah—it’s the one you’ve been waiting for.”
At Sandy’s house, the water cascaded over Hannah, reviving her instantly. The experience should have been soothing, but Hannah was too wired for that. She was full of questions, but her overriding emotion was one of girlish excitement. She had hit the jackpot. She and Sandy had pulled it off.
On the ride over, he’d outlined the proposition. It was more generous than she could have hoped for. They wanted a lot for it, of course, but she had prepared scrupulously and had all the material she needed. After the newspaper deal, they’d wrap up a publishing deal, which would lead to TV appearances and who knew what else? She would make her name, be rich and then... who knows? Perhaps she’d move to the States. There was enough devious criminality there to keep her busy for a lifetime.
She hadn’t expected it to be a woman. And especially not such a glamorous one. Just prejudice, really—one expected every tabloid hack to be a bloke. Still, she seemed incredibly clued up, impressing Hannah with both her detective work and her barefaced cheek in getting to this point. It was all about getting ahead of the competition. The deal was hammered out quickly and generously and the three of them shook on it there and then. At which point she produced a bottle of champagne she’d brought with her—just in case. Once again Hannah marveled at her front.
Still, it was good stuff. And had an instant effect. Hannah could take her drink, so it must have been the adrenaline rush of success making her feel light-headed. By the look of things, Sandy was feeling the same way too.
69
Helen stood in front of Whittaker’s desk like an errant schoolgirl. She knew why she’d been summoned. He knew she knew. But still he took his time, leafing through page after page of theEvening Newsbefore folding it up and placing it carefully on the table, the front page facing up.
CLUELESS!
The headline screamed out at her. She had read Emilia Garanita’s article first thing this morning and knew immediately that it would cause ripples up and down the chain. It had a few salient details about Amy and Sam, and Ben and Peter, and a couple of sketchy pointers on Martina. But it led on the release of Mickery and the suspension of “a senior officer working on the current investigation.” It looked bad. Helen guessed that Whittaker had already had his ear badly bent by his superiors, such was the look of thunder he’d given her when she entered.
“I’ll call her,” Helen found herself saying. “See if I can get her to call off the dogs.”
“Bit late for that, isn’t it? Besides, there’s no need. I’ve called her myself. She’ll be here in five minutes.”
***
Emilia entered the room looking like the cat that had got the cream. She took her time deciding between tea and coffee, indulging in small talk and so on. She had been summoned, anointed, and she was clearly going to enjoy herself.
“Do you have anything to add, Detective Superintendent? Do you still have faith in Inspector Grace’s leadership of the investigation? Have there been any developments?”
“I’m not here to talk about the case. I’m here to talk about you,” Whittaker fired back brusquely.
“I don’t follow—”
“It’s time you backed off this one. Your interventions are misleading and unhelpful and I want them to stop. No more articles until there is something genuine to report. Get me?”
Helen was amused by the boldness of his approach—no one stood between Whittaker and promotion.
“I do hope you are not trying to dictate to the press—”
“That’s precisely what I’m fucking doing. And if I were you I’d heed what I’m saying to you.”
Emilia was stumped for once, but she rallied quickly.
“With the greatest of respect—”
“What do you know about respect?” Whittaker barked over her. “What respect have you shown the Anderson family during their ordeal? Shouting through their letter box, calling their home night and day, sitting outside their house hour after hour, going through their bins.”
“You’re exaggerating. I have a duty—”
“Am I? I have a log here detailing every time your red Fiat registration number BD50 JKR has parked up outside their house. The log was compiled by Amy’s father and runs to two pages. It places you there at midnight, two a.m., three a.m. It goes on and on and on. It’s harassment. It’s stalking. Need I remind you of the Leveson Inquiry? And the code of conduct that all journalists, whether national or regional”—he said this last word with real disdain—“have agreed to abide by?”
For once Emilia had no comeback. So Whittaker continued:
“I could demand a front-page apology to the family. I could have you fined. Fuck it, I could probably get you sacked if I really wanted to. But I’m a kind man, so I’m going to be merciful. But keep your ill-informed opinions to yourself or you’ll find yourself hounded out of local journalism and—hell, there’s no way back from that, is there?”
