‘I’m sure it’s not as big as that,’ said Edward. ‘It’s a very sad motorbike crash where only the rider died. People who live on corners on fast roads are constantly finding someone in a Fiat Panda arriving next to them on the sofa while they’re watching TV. We do that story a lot. In Honiton there’s—’
‘Look, I’m not arguing about this. The key point is that – apart from it being bloody funny – you can go from being the presenter with the tiny cog to a really big-swinging-whatever if you sit on this story and ride it like a fucking racehorse.’
Edward was literally struck dumb. How coarse was this man? If he used any of this language with Melody or any number of the Gen Z crowd, he would be bundled into the elevator with a one-way ticket to the ground floor. But still, the words had the intended effect.
‘I’m on my way in.’
‘I don’t want a Tessa K stealing your lunch and dinner,’ said Aspinall, just to drive it home. Tessa K was on breakfast now, but she had done a long spell sitting in for Edward while he took compassionate leave after Matty’s death. She had been a little too good. He certainly did not want ‘a Tessa K’ moving in on his patch …
Moving in on his story.
Yes, he decided. The Pizza Parlour Crash would be his story.
‘I will ring … the person at the policewho I get along with.’
‘Good man. And come in for a special Saturday edition of your show tonight. Did I mention that?’
‘You—’
‘I’m kidding.’ He laughed cruelly. ‘Come in or be fired.’
On opposite sides of town, Kim and Stevie both saw they had been added to a three-person WhatsApp group called CROSSBOW. The first message came from Edward, who had set himself as admin.
Meet at the back of RTR and I’ll bring you up. We can chat in canteen, need to ask about Wrigley. Can’t leave office at mo. The security guard at rear (Backs) is expecting you. Trevor.
The first to get there was Kim. She waited at the rear door, not wanting to ring the reception bell until Stevie had arrived too.
After ten minutes, wondering if she should just go in on her own, Kim saw a bright red Ford Cortina stop in the road with thick smoke pouring from its exhaust. At first she thought the vehicle had broken down – the model was forty years old, at least, with gleaming chrome wheel hubs – but then the driver got out and she recognized Stevie’s fiancé Roddy.
He did not so much walk as stalk to the nearside of the car. Roddy waved his arms at another driver, as if about to jump on the man’s bonnet and pummel the windscreen. Now he was at the passenger side door of the Cortina, he grabbed the handle and threw it open.
The car was a hundred yards away, but Kim made out Stevie in the passenger seat, the view partly blocked by Roddy’s frame. She could not quite see what was happening, but it looked as if Roddy had grabbed Stevie’s hair and was pulling her out of the car with a handful of it in his hand. Kim said ‘No!’ quietly, almost in a whisper. But then Stevie was out of the car and out of his grip, straightening up, and Kim waved, and Stevie saw her. As she waved back, Roddy turned to her.
Roddy was wearing sunglasses as he had been the first time they met, aviator shades. His tracksuit was blue today and Kim saw him grin in the distance. She thought she must have imagined the moment of violence, but as Stevie walked towards her, Kim allowed a look of concern to pass her face. She mouthed‘Are you okay?’ to her friend, who behaved as if she had not seen or understood.
Then she saw that Roddy was still there, watching like a hawk, and an inner voice told Kim not to show any sign of concern. So, as Stevie reached her, she smiled.
‘Nice to see Roddy. He’s looking out for you.’
Stevie turned, smiled and waved.
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’
Roddy shouted something – a word.
‘What was that?’ Kim asked.
‘He shouted “Next Saturday”, our wedding day.’
Stevie was unreadable. There was a chance for Kim to say something as Roddy stomped back to the driver’s side of the badly parked car, but the moment was gone as soon as it arrived.
They went into the radio station and took the lift to the canteen. In the lift Stevie said only three words: ‘Wendy bloody Wrigley.’
The fifth floor of RTR-92 had the best view of the sea. The studios were on the fourth; the fifth had been sublet as shared space with the hotel next door. The hotel called the space their restaurant. The radio staff called it their canteen. Friction was avoided through regular reminders of the restrictions – no staff meetings, don’t use a table to work at for hours, don’t do interviews, don’t bring your own Thermos. Edward had been waiting for Kim and Stevie for nearly an hour.
He still could not believe Stevie had plunged into the burning building. Evidently she was more capable of physical bravery than anyone else, maybe because she had already suffered enough injury for a lifetime. Stevie was special; special to him and to Kim. She had had a tricky upbringing and now, despite each and every disaster, she made her way in the world without complaining. Wrong – she made her way in the world with constant complaint, a beautiful barrage of expletives thrown aheadof her advance, like smoke and shells laid down by troops in World War One.
When he saw Kim and Stevie walking towards him, Kim looked unsettled, trapped in her own thoughts. He waited until she sat down.
