‘I won’t mention that on the air,’ Edward promised. ‘God knows there’s plenty else to say. But what do false plates mean? That he’s trying to avoid getting done on the speed cameras?’
At the other end, the police officer gave no answer.
‘If you need to trace people, we can help with that,’ said Edward a little desperately. ‘We could do an appeal for you. That’s something radio is very good at.’
There was silence at the other end, so long that Edward finally had to break it.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Temmis, I might take you up on that.’
After the throat infection, this was Edward’s first day feeling like himself again. He felt the keenness of youth as he flashed his pass at RTR-92’s security guard, Jojo. The man stood, stiffened his back and saluted, a joke they shared. ‘Hope you’re on the mend,’ said Jojo. Then his face turned serious. ‘That crash today—’
‘I know, right?’ said Edward. ‘And so close to us.’
He took the lift to the fourth floor, where the studios were. Waiting to meet him was his producer, Melody. She was slender and nervous, with Bugs Bunny teeth and uneven shoulders.She wore willowy dresses which channelled Kate Bush on a moor somewhere. Her thick black hair was normally bunched tightly, pulling the skin taut on her cheekbones – he had heard that called the Tiverton Facelift. The only disruption to the sense of a slightly fragile twenty-two-year-old was the small dagger inked at the base of her neck. She had been at Oxford University, and her accent was posh Devon. Edward had unfairly decided a relative had wangled her the job before she had even realized she had an interest in radio.
‘This story …’ she started, wide-eyed.
Melody’s hair was tumbling now, as if the crash at Toppings had shocked it out of bed. He wondered if she had come in especially early herself – saw unusual lipstick and guessed at a date abruptly cut short.
‘Toppings. Incredible.’
Melody said, ‘Before I forget, Mr Aspinall rang.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He’d heard about it, of course, asked if we can “bring the show out of hibernation” and broadcast from the promenade.’
Insulted, Edward was about to say, ‘That’s crazy, the line will just cut out the whole time,’ and then remembered that he was the official NFC: he had to get scoops or he would be out of a job. What if he could make this story his own, make his show appointment-to-listen? He might just recover from the shambles at Harpford Hall.
‘Great idea, Melody, let’s do it!’
‘We can’t get it running till tomorrow; will it still be a story then?’
Edward was tempted to say he didn’t have a show on Saturdays, but he was beginning to feel the heady possibility of professional revival. ‘Could be, or could be the start,’ he said, deciding that the confidence with Jordan Callintree excluded Melody, and he should say no more. He opted to add only: ‘There may be more to it than just a crash.’
She let the comment go, tipping her head left and right as if she had a crick in her neck. ‘It’s only a few hours ago, I guess, so it’s hard to judge.’ Now they were in the production office and he was swishing through pages of local news on his smartphone. ‘Like you, I rushed in,’ he heard her say.
‘Well done you.’ His phrase sounded like an old man’s congratulation. He was not her boss. Still, she glowed when she heard the words. ‘All I see online is a “Miracle Escape for Pizza Families” story,’ he murmured, ‘and he’s being described as “Tragic Toppings Biker” in the headlines. There’s no name.’
She said, ‘Is there a question for the phone-in?’
‘We should just ask, “Were you there?” Find out who saw it. Give the latest. Or’ – he thought of Aspinall’s anger and the way the village hall meeting had revealed how precarious his position was – ‘scoops. We should get scoops.’
‘You want me to go to Taste?’
And there it was.
The complete absence of understanding that what they were doing was journalism, and they were supposed to be discovering things. Taste was the ice-cream shop on Old Fore Street. He wanted to cry. Their jobs might depend on Melody understanding this.
‘I don’t meanscoopsof raspberry ripple. I mean news scoops. Exclusives.’
‘What if there aren’t any?’
‘News,’ he announced gravely, ‘is what someone else wants to hide. All the rest is advertising. I can’t remember who said that.’ He was thinking about Callintree’s call. Had he promised to be silent about Stevie’s presence, or just the false number plate? He decided only the latter. ‘You know, I might have a witness to it.’
‘Really?’ Melody had been looking down at her smartphone. Her finger froze on the screen.
