To the Lions

by Holly Watt

  Casey thought of Josh, Leo, Rory. They would know by now, even if they were still at Euzma. They would know the net was beginning to close.

  They might still get away, she thought, and disappear into the desert like so many had before. They were survivors, those men. No matter what happened, they’d probably seen worse. She had photographed all three of them though, quite carefully and quite ruthlessly, just to make that escape that little bit harder.

  In the conference room the chief reporter was pulling together reaction for a long read-through in the paper. The justice secretary was already appalled, demanding an inquiry. The shadow justice minister was even more appalled. Heathrow had sequestrated the Bombardier.

  On the big television screens, the former defence minister was being pursued down the street. ‘Everything I did in Tripoli for Cormium was carried out in good faith,’ he mumbled. ‘The British government support and encourage UK companies as they invest overseas . . .’

  ‘Wanker,’ Ross summarised, as the politician’s face was lost in a flurry of camera flashes.

  Alphavivo was rumoured to be launching a takeover bid for Cormium.

  A text popped up on Casey’s phone.

  ‘Y’all can come and celebrate at Gigi’s any time – drinks on me.’

  ‘Thanks, Jasper,’ she messaged back. ‘You were the key.’

  There was a loud cheer as a crate of champagne was delivered, with compliments on a cyan-blue card.

  Miranda and Casey found cards in their pigeonholes, Victorian bunches of sweet peas in pink and blue vases.

  ‘On Monday, the answer for three down will be “triumphant”,’ Casey read. ‘Peregrine.’

  ‘Nine across will be “magnificent”,’ smiled Miranda.

  ‘We never do it alone, do we?’ said Casey.

  And she wondered if they would know, out in Salama, in those little tents in the heart of the desert. Would it be better for that mother to know? Or would it be worse to know that her child had died only for some foreigner’s entertainment?

  Worse, probably.

  And then the thud, that would always be.

  You chose this.

  It wasn’t a choice.

  Yes. Yes, it was.

  As the paper went off stone, they put the Milo Newbury story up online.

  Son of the legendary art dealer. Well-known Chelsea figure. Mystery surrounds death.

  Casey stared at the photograph of Milo on the front page. They’d used the picture of him out in the desert. Smiling, in his birthday shirt, the golden sea behind.

  ‘Copyright vests in the photographer,’ Ross recited cheerfully. ‘Good luck coming along with an infringement grumble on that one.’

  Inside the paper, Milo was smooth in a publicity shot for the gallery. In another, he was at the races with Bella, almost losing an eye to an alarming violet fascinator. There was a photograph, too, of the flat in Pimlico, where his mother was happy, once.

  The other journalists were coming over to Casey and Miranda – good job, brilliant work, fucking fantastic – while Casey tried not to think about Lady Newbury. Lady Newbury and her endless grief. And through the congratulations, the thought nagged like a sore tooth.

  It was late on a Friday night, but for once no one had made it as far as the Plumbers.

  Casey and Miranda were calm now. It was often like this, during the biggest stories. The newsroom was powering along, quietly efficient. People knew what to do. A Cormium PR was fighting a rearguard battle with the news desk lawyer, and losing.

  ‘No,’ the lawyer was saying, ‘the Editor is very clear, we’re not taking Cormium out of the headline . . . No, of course it’s relevant.’

  Miranda and Casey were in their office, her bodyguard, Matthew, sitting like a shadow, just a few feet away.

  ‘The eye of the storm,’ said Miranda.

  ‘Best’ – Casey looked at her bruised face thoughtfully – ‘not to mention eyes right now.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Miranda said, then focused. ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘What?’ yawned Casey. She padded round to Miranda’s screen.

  ‘There,’ Miranda pointed.

  ‘Lovely work, though you know I hate to admit it. Great story. Just brilliant. Always better when these things come completely out of the blue too,’ Casey read out loud. ‘At least it stops my news editor bollocking me quite so much. Catch up soon, Jess.’

  News editors will sulk for days over missed scoops and spend hours deconstructing how a story was missed. They analyse possible sources and send shirty emails to their reporters. In turn, journalists will dismiss rivals’ stories: ‘They got a tip, a ring-in. Nothing we can do about that, really . . . Just luck.’

  Like when the Prime Minister forgot his daughter in the pub, and a helpful regular rang up the Sun.

  ‘Nothing we can bloody do about that, Ross,’ the journalists would chorus. ‘Sorry. We can’t have a reporter in every pub.’

  ‘Can’t we?’ Ross had snarled. ‘You all seem to spend enough time in the pub.’

  Now Miranda and Casey read the Argus journalist’s email again.

  ‘Jess Miller is assuming the whole Salama story is based on a tip,’ Miranda interpreted. ‘But we thought that she went out to talk to Adam Jefferson, in Geneva.’

  ‘She might be covering herself?’ Casey suggested. ‘They’d be fucking furious over there if they thought she’d missed it.’

  ‘I don’t think she’d bother telling me that though,’ said Miranda. ‘Where’s the win?’

  Miranda was typing. Thought you were on the case too? One of our sources said they’d spoken to you. Hope all well with you.

  They waited; an email popped in within seconds.

  ‘No sodding chance,’ Miranda read out loud. ‘I’ve been up a tree outside Heathrow, being papped by your useless snapper. Never stopped bloody raining. If I’d had even a sniff of this, I’d have been out of that flaming treehouse like . . .’

  ‘She didn’t know,’ said Casey. ‘So who the hell spoke to Adam?’

  Dash was passing; Miranda beckoned him in.

  ‘We need to start working on the London operation,’ said Casey.

  ‘Jesus, you two,’ said Dash. ‘We’ve got at least another dozen names so far from that list. Let’s get round those first.’

  The reporters had fanned out across the country, to appear like Banquo’s ghost. One chance to get it right.

  ‘Remember to make it seem like you know it’s them,’ the reporters were told. ‘You’re checking a couple of minor details rather than confirming the whole thing.’

  ‘But the London operation is the key to the whole thing,’ said Casey.

  ‘And, more importantly,’ Miranda pointed out, ‘whoever it was put in quite a spirited effort to kill us yesterday, and we’d rather stay alive, all things considered.’

  ‘We can’t keep moving from hotel to hotel,’ said Casey. ‘That prayer room will drive me mad.’

  Dash sat down, rubbed his face with his hands.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What do we know?’

  ‘Almost nothing,’ said Miranda. ‘We know that Josh knew not to talk about the London end of things. He was relatively chatty about other stuff, probably because he felt safe out in Euzma. So by extension I think we can assume that London must have hammered the need for secrecy into him. And they were tough enough for Josh to listen.’

  ‘Josh owned ten shares in Mapledene, the company that owned the Bombardier,’ said Casey. ‘The other ninety were owned by Marakata Green, which could have been Leo and Rory, but probably wasn’t. The three in Euzma seemed to be equals, and Josh did most of the work, trekking backwards and forwards to Djanet. It wouldn’t make sense if the two of them got a bigger split.’

  ‘So it’s reasonable to assume that Marakata Green is the London operation,’ said Dash slowly.

  ‘The Bombardier was on a lease,’ said Hessa, who had slipped into the office, ‘and the lease was nearly up. I think that’s why they weren’t t
oo fussed about abandoning it at Heathrow. The actual owners of the Bombardier are spitting tacks, but they don’t seem to have much on payment details either. Just a bank account somewhere in the BVI.’

  ‘And it was only used occasionally to fly in and out of Djanet,’ said Miranda. ‘It was doing something else the rest of the time.’

  ‘We’ve got a list of everywhere that Bombardier went,’ said Dash. ‘Could we cross-reference that against something? Or can we get the passenger lists from somewhere?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve done something pretty sharp with any passenger lists,’ said Miranda.

  Dash sighed. The day was fading outside and he was getting tired. The sofa in his room had odd angles sticking out of it, it had emerged last night.

  ‘I think we call it for tonight,’ he said. ‘Miranda, go and stay in a hotel, a different one from last night, and we’ll take it from here tomorrow.’

  They wouldn’t sleep, he knew that. But it was worth trying.

  ‘I’ve booked you into a nice hotel,’ Hessa told Miranda.

  Hessa had organised a car to pick Miranda up from the underground car park. Casey walked down to the car park, to stretch her legs. The bodyguard hovered a few paces behind.

  Miranda climbed in, then peered out of the blacked-out windows. ‘Do you think this is what it’s like being a rock star?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ sighed Casey. ‘I feel trapped.’

  ‘Hunted,’ said Miranda. ‘I feel hunted.’

  50

  They published the story about Alexander Kingsley the next morning.

  The Post’s lawyer, Anthony, fought them every step.

  ‘Never publish what you can’t prove, word for bloody word. You know that, Dash.’

  ‘Kingsley knew about Euzma.’

  ‘So what? His lawyers will say that he’s a Libya expert, so of course he’d know the region. Kingsley sits on the parliamentary group for Tunisia, for heaven’s sake. He’s been down there on the taxpayers’ dime. His team will say that he heard a rumour about it, or something. And I can’t see how we would fight that.’

  The lawyer was used to winning fights against journalists, over what gets published. The journalists always want to say more, but they cost too much, the big libel trials. Even with the best arguments and the strongest facts, a jury can still go rogue. No editor ever wants to roll the dice with his newspaper.

  ‘Let Kingsley sue.’ Dash defied the lawyer. ‘We’ll see him in court.’

  ‘You can’t call a wife to give evidence,’ the lawyer said desperately. ‘You can never force Lucinda Kingsley to testify that her husband lied about Morocco.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Dash. ‘We’ll find a way.’

  The lawyer paused, and mopped his face with a handkerchief. He lunched well, the lawyer.

  ‘Where’s Anthony?’ Ross would bellow, often. Only to discover Anthony was in the Ivy, the Ledbury, Le Gavroche and the rest.

  Casey had infuriated Anthony once, by getting the Post slammed with an emergency injunction, with an incensed judge hauled out of bed in the middle of the night.

  ‘I was halfway through the cod at Nobu,’ Anthony had bawled. ‘Do you realise . . .’

  ‘Just shove in a few allegedlies,’ Ross would rage, but Anthony would shake his head.

  Now Anthony tangled his fingers.

  ‘I really must advise . . .’

  ‘It’s my call,’ Dash interrupted. ‘And we’re publishing.’

  A few minutes later, Archie went hard to Kingsley’s director of communications, setting out the case, blow by blow.

  The director of communications listened impassively.

  ‘I see,’ he said, without a flicker. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  They waited on tenterhooks as the clock ticked down to the deadline. It passed, and they published.

  There was no denial from Kingsley, and no impassioned outburst on a doorstep as he reached for the sword of truth.

  An hour later, the Prime Minister gracefully accepted a resignation that had not been tendered.

  And Casey’s flat burned down.

  51

  She was sitting in her office when Dash had to tell her. It was early on Sunday morning, and she had spent another night in the prayer room.

  ‘My flat?’ she said, just once, and then went silent.

  Dash wanted to hug her, but didn’t know how.

  He gestured to Miranda, who descended on Casey.

  ‘Oh God, darling, I am so sorry. I am so very sorry. We’ll get him, I promise. We will hunt him down.’

  But Casey’s head was full of flames, flickering through her rooms.

  A small red toy car. A doll, balding slightly. A music box, with lavender italics.

  Most loved objects, one by one. Memories catching and blazing, and gone. The bookmark, that photograph, just ash amidst ash. Three children laughing, three children burning.

  Goodbye and goodbye and goodbye.

  Casey shook her head, pushing it away.

  ‘They’re getting closer, Miranda. My flat . . .’

  Dash looked at Casey’s slumped shoulders.

  ‘Everything is gone,’ she said. ‘Everything that wasn’t in the house was back in the Hilux. I haven’t got anything left.’

  ‘Stay where I can see you,’ was the best that Dash could manage. ‘I’m sorry, Casey, really I am.’

  He increased the security around her. Miranda’s husband was sent on an all-inclusive holiday to Biarritz, rustled up by the travel editor.

  ‘Biarritz?’ asked Tom. ‘Biarritz? But I can’t . . . I’ve got a job, darling. And we said we’d go away together . . . We never go . . .’

  ‘Please, Tom. Please. Just go.’

  A security team moved into the pretty house in Queen’s Park. Miranda’s cousin, they nodded to the neighbours over the fence. Staying for a few days. Yes, lovely weather.

  The police had interviewed both Casey and Miranda earlier, gently chiding Casey for running from the M4 crash. With the fire, they redoubled their efforts. But the detective constable had pulled a face at Arthur, ‘Honestly, mate, we’ve not got much so far. No one saw a thing in the blocks near Brentford.’

  The other papers had picked up the motorway accident, and the connection to the Post, but for now they were too busy shredding Kingsley. He had fled to the pretty cottage in Wiltshire, with the pink roses around the door. Now the cottage was ringed with reporters.

  Robert and Alice were in the office early on Sunday too. They were turning out piece after piece; Rob updating the online copy with every new revelation.

  ‘Where does the name come from?’ Rob asked Alice, as they wandered back from getting a coffee. ‘The name Salama?’

  Alice thought, frowned.

  ‘I’d guess it would be an anglicised version of an Arabic word,’ she said. ‘The Arabic word for safety.’

  *

  At eleven, Dash called them all into the conference room.

  Casey sat at the back, eyes red, very quiet. Archie looked like he hadn’t slept since Thursday.

  ‘We need to crack this,’ said Dash. ‘We need to get to the bottom of who is coordinating all this. They are ruthless bastards and I am not having them attack my journalists like this.’

  They went backwards and forwards, over the same ground again and again.

  The reporters rang in. Some of the men on the list had buckled under the pressure, confessed in tears. Some had denied it with a rage that might be real. None of the reporters had been able to get a name for the person behind the operation.

  ‘Fuck it,’ Miranda snapped, in the end. ‘They’re not going to get away with this. They can’t.’

  They stared into the silence.

  ‘I could try Kingsley.’ Archie sounded uncertain.

  ‘Kingsley?’ Dash raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You never know,’ said Archie. ‘He’s had forty-eight hours to think about it. I know Alexander. He’ll be starting to calculate by no
w.’

  They all stared at him, unconvinced.

  ‘There’s no way back for him now,’ said Miranda. ‘Surely?’

  ‘The thing is,’ Ross shrugged, ‘that right now no one is going in or out of that cottage. But at some point, eventually, even if it is weeks from now, that pack will be called back. And then, if you’re Kingsley, you’ve got to start worrying about who is going to turn up next. Milo Newbury is dead. Oliver Selby has not been heard from. It’s starting to look a lot like a pattern, and I wouldn’t fancy my chances, if I were Mr Kingsley.’

  ‘Won’t the police come and arrest him?’ asked Miranda.

  Arthur laughed, a harsh sound. ‘There are jurisdictional issues, it turns out,’ he said. ‘Kingsley hasn’t actually, so far as they have worked out, committed a crime in this country.’

  ‘You’re fucking joking?’ Ross was on his feet.

  ‘It’s good for us.’ Dash damped him down. ‘It means that Kingsley’s there, in the cottage. Fuck it, Archie, it’s worth a shot. You know Kingsley, and he’s going to talk to someone, in the end. It might as well be us. And you’ve known him for a long time.’

  ‘It is a long fucking long shot,’ Archie warned.

  ‘It’s all,’ Miranda said, ‘about long shots.’

  Kingsley answered the fifth time Archie rang. The political editor walked out of the conference room, looping the office, rambling in big circles as he spoke. They heard odd words as he passed.

  Your side of the story . . . Whistleblower, really . . . We’ve known each other so long . . . Worried you’re in danger. And your family, of course. Lucinda. The children.

  Archie wore a huge smile as he walked back into the conference room.

  ‘Archie.’ Even Miranda was awed. ‘I don’t know how you managed that.’

  ‘You’re worth every one of those fucking lunches.’ It was as close to a compliment as Ross got.

  ‘We’ve got to drive down to Wiltshire right now,’ said Archie. ‘Miranda, come with me. You know the story, all the details.’

  ‘Casey, you stay here,’ said Dash. ‘I don’t want you leaving this office.’