‘Those bruises are absolutely horrible.’
‘They wore latex masks,’ he said.
‘You never got a crime number, did you? You didn’t go to the police at all, did you?’
His silence was as good as a yes.
‘Edward. Why not?’
‘I want us to solve it,’ he said. ‘I want you, me and Stevie to work out what the hell happened at the pizza parlour.’
‘Oh my love,’ Kim sighed. ‘It might just be a question we never find the answer to.’
He immediately remembered the giants in his garden:Stop the fucking questions.‘Hey, that note I got. The same wording. “Stop your questions”. The same people?’
‘God, you’re right, it must be,’ said Kim, and her hand trembled as it slipped within his own.
When he got into work, Kim’s concealer covering the marks on his face, he made sure to arrive early so he could watch the press conference and then go straight on air.
Aspinall was surprisingly cordial.
‘You okay? A bug?’
‘I was laid out,’ said Edward, truthfully. ‘But just a one-day thing.’
‘Have you got anything for us from your sources? What are they going to say at this press conference then?’
Edward could have given a long answer to cover his lost phone, something about the difficulty of ringing someone who didn’t want to be rung, the physical impossibility of extracting a reply from a man who was isolating on the top floor of police headquarters, but instead he just said: ‘Nope.’
Aspinall had an unsmoked cigar protruding from the toppocket of his jacket, the brown of the tobacco leaf camouflaged by the material of the jacket, the exact same shade, and he wondered if the cigar was there for a celebration.
Douglas saw him staring and withdrew the cigar. ‘I have my own scoop today, and this is my reward.’
‘Go on.’
‘Prime minister’s coming down. Sometime after the Met do their presser in the church.’
‘Can I interview him?’
‘I have a contact at Number Ten. I’m trying, believe me. The PM hasn’t heard of you, obviously, but we’ve sold it on the basis that it would go live on the entire RTR network, all sixteen stations. Waiting to hear.’ He put the unlit cigar in his mouth, thought better of it, replaced it in his jacket pocket.
‘What do you want from me today?’ asked Edward.
‘Get down to the church for the presser, be in the actual building, okay? We are taking the whole thing live. Afterwards you can give us the post-match.’
‘What, like analysis?’
‘The full Gary Neville. What are we expecting?’
Edward was embarrassed to admit his absolute lack of intel; Jordan Callintree’s private number had been on his missing phone. ‘Worst-case scenario, they say yes, this was a nuclear attack on Sidmouth and they give some sort of read-out. They’ve made a great play of announcing developments.’
Melody came in. ‘Someone is calling you. Stevie Mason? The office phone.’
To Aspinall’s questioning glance, Edward replied: ‘My mobile died.’
The controller said, ‘Melody – can you fix him up with a new one? It’s vital. He needs to keep asking questions. Meantime, give him yours.’
Melody looked like Aspinall had asked her to give him one of her legs or an arm. The ‘ask questions’ exhortation madeEdward shiver, and the sea of bruises across his body lit up in response. Melody put Stevie’s call through to the tiny news booth and Aspinall waited outside to give Edward privacy. Again, Edward pulled the cable from the bottom of the microphone to be sure.
