White Knight/Black Swan

by David Gemmell

  ‘Sure, Mac. I didn’t mean nothin’. Course it’s not true.’ Mac stared stonily at the man, reading his thoughts. Phelps believed it. He believed Frank Reardon messed about with children.

  ‘We’ve got to find out where this came from – before Frank sees one,’ said Mac, wiping the sweat from his fat face. He lit a cigarette and looked once more at the damning words. ‘And I want to know how widespread it is. I want to know exactly how far this has been distributed. Got it?’

  ‘Sure, Mac. Evans got one in South Acton, but Ryan never. He’s over east. As far as I know they done the Lane down to the park and up to the High Street.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ said Mac, sighing. He took a deep breath. ‘It’s like a bloody nightmare. I’ll have to scrape Frank off the ceiling when he sees it.’

  ‘He’ll be able to put it right, won’t he?’ said Phelps. ‘I mean there’s got to be official records and that.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Mac. ‘There won’t be. Because it’s not true. Don’t you see it? Frank can talk till he’s blue in the face. But you can’t produce non-evidence. There never was a court case. He hasn’t got a record for this.’

  ‘What I mean’, argued Phelps, ‘is that he can prove that, can’t he? I mean the Old Bill will have to admit he’s in the clear.’

  Mac nodded, but doubt remained in his eyes. ‘You get off and check out where they’ve come from. Get back to me every hour. I’ll wait for your calls.’

  After Phelps had gone Mac read the offending leaflet once more. The police wouldn’t deny it. At least not immediately. They’d have to check with the central computer. But not everything was stored on computer. There’d be calls to other stations, other areas, delays. And every day Reardon failed to nail the lie, more people would believe it.

  God in Heaven, he thought, I almost believe it, and I know it isn’t true.

  11

  By mid-afternoon one of the reporters at the Herald spotted the leaflet while having a late lunch at the Roadside Cafe. It was lying on the seat next to him. He took it back to the office and passed it to Sue Cater. She took it to Don Bateman.

  His words were hardly encouraging. ‘It’s a lovely story, but we can’t even chase it up.’

  ‘Why? That doesn’t make any sense.’

  Bateman was forty-two years old, and had been a provincial journalist for twenty-five years. Many of the youngsters he had trained had gone on to Fleet Street, or good provincial papers. Sadly, many others had gone to lucrative posts in public relations.

  Bateman was a good journalist, who loved local newspapers and never regretted his commitment to small weeklies. He pushed the layout sheets aside and lit a cigarette. He liked Sue Cater, both for her personality and her talent. Otherwise, with three deadlines looming, he would have sent her off with a flea in her ear.

  ‘It makes sense. Believe me. The story is libellous. If you ask anyone about it you will be repeating the libel and Reardon will be able to sue the paper. You understand that, yeah? Now, what you can do is check whether the police have seen the leaflet, and – if so, and only if so – ask them what they are doing about it.’

  ‘But it’s news, isn’t it?’ she argued. ‘Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be about?’

  ‘It’s what we used to be about. Now we’re about pushing the adverts apart. That’s why there are only half the reporters there used to be and twice the advertising reps. But I don’t want to get on my hobby horse. I know what you think. We haven’t got the balls to publish tough stories. You’re probably right. But we haven’t got the resources either. There’s not a senior reporter on the staff. And I can’t send juniors out getting involved with slime like Frank Reardon.’

  ‘What about the Bimbo angle?’ she persisted.

  ‘What angle? Bimbo himself wouldn’t admit that Reardon had him turned over. There aren’t any angles. Everyone knows Reardon runs a protection racket, and no one wants to talk about it. You get a publican to come forward and name Reardon in a sworn affidavit and we’ll consider it. Get two and we’ll publish. You only have one problem, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That sourpuss Bateman forbids you to go near the story.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop treating me like a child. And I also wish I’d joined a real newspaper,’ she said, turning and stalking from the room.

  ‘It used to be a real newspaper,’ Bateman told the empty office. He gazed down at the layout sheets and the packed advertising on his news pages. Seventy per cent of local newspapers were now in the hands of the salespeople. He wondered how many readers knew just how far the integrity of their newspapers had slumped over the past ten years.

  How many thought the editor still had any control over what used to be his product?

  Why do I take this bullshit? he asked himself.

  He took up his em rule and continued to lay out the pages – weddings, council reports, court cases, news briefs – keeping the layouts tight and modular. When he’d finished he pushed the copy and photographs into a canvas bag and carried it downstairs for the courier.

  ‘He’s late today,’ said Fiona, the part-time receptionist.

  ‘Give me a shout when he gets here. I may be able to squeeze a few more paras in.’

  Returning to his office he picked up the phone and dialled Chief Inspector Frank Beard’s private line. The police chief answered immediately.

  ‘Frank, it’s me, Bateman.’

  ‘What can I do for you, old lad?’

  ‘Frank Reardon.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘There’s a leaflet doing the rounds saying he’s a child molester.’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ admitted Beard. ‘You printing it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very wise. Not a man to get on the wrong side of.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Who knows? Personally I don’t give a shit – but don’t quote me. The man’s a scumbag.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Bateman. ‘But is there a chink in his armour?’

  ‘Isn’t this a bit heavy for your rag?’

  ‘Probably. Tell me anyway.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have the nerve to print it.’

  ‘Too true. Times have changed.’

  ‘Then why go after it?’

  ‘Because I’m a fucking romantic,’ snapped Bateman, ‘who remembers what newspapers used to be like.’

  There was silence for a moment. Then: ‘You’re not a romantic, Bateman, you’re a dinosaur, just like me. Try Jack Shell at the Stag. From what I gather he’s ready to jump. He only needs a push in the right direction. But be careful, Bateman. Reardon’s sliding off his trolley. Going rogue, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  ‘What tip? We never had this conversation.’

  Bateman rang off, then pressed Sue Cater’s extension number. She answered immediately.

  ‘Have you got a night-job tonight?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Now you have. Ring Jack Shell at the Stag and make an appointment for an interview. Don’t tell him what it’s about, but say there’ll be two of us.’

  ‘Coming along to hold my hand?’

  ‘Let me know what time he can see us.’ He cleared the line and rang home. ‘Hi, kid. Sorry, but I’m going to be late. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.’

  It wasn’t often these days that he treated Mary. But tonight was a bonus. She could have an uninterrupted evening of passion with Larry next door. He wondered if Mary knew that he knew. He wondered if she cared.

  He did. But then who cared what a dinosaur felt?

  Bateman grinned as he stepped from his car and saw the hand painted sign in the window of the Stag: ‘BIMBO WELCOME HERE!’ Sue Cater joined him on the pavement.

  ‘I always liked this pub,’ s
he said.

  ‘Your Bimbo’s becoming a legend.’

  ‘Well, that’s pretty typical isn’t it?’ Sue told him. ‘After all, it’s always the men of violence who capture the public’s imagination.’

  ‘So much cynicism in one so young,’ he said, shaking his head.

  The long saloon bar was pretty crowded. Jack Shell and two barmaids were serving customers. Shell was a burly man in his early fifties, with silver hair. The perfect publican, he could smile faster than a politician and remember the first name of any man who had bought a pint of beer in his four years at the Stag. He saw Sue and waved her to the back room and the stairs.

  ‘Go on up,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  The stairs led to a private bar that Shell often rented for receptions or lodge meetings. Tonight it was empty and cold. Sue drew her leather coat more tightly around her.

  ‘It’ll warm up in a minute,’ said Bateman, grinning. ‘You see. And I don’t want you to take part. Just introduce me, sit quietly, and learn something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like how it used to be, when journalists knew their jobs, and how to do them.’

  ‘Thanks very much, O wise and all powerful one.’ He chuckled and loosened his tie. Jack Shell joined them. He apologised for the cold and switched on a wall-mounted gas fire.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, moving behind the U-shaped bar. Don ordered a Scotch, Sue a Bacardi. Shell gave himself a slimline tonic.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, as the journalists settled down on two bar stools, ‘let’s make this brief. You can see I’ve a full house downstairs. What is it you want?’

  ‘This is my boss, Donald Bateman,’ said Sue, dutifully. Shell offered his hand. Bateman shook it.

  ‘Okay, Mr Bateman, I take it this is your show?’

  ‘That’s right. Thanks for seeing us at such short notice. Now – since, as you say, you’re a busy man – I’ll come straight to the point: Frank Reardon.’

  Shell grinned, lifted his tonic and added a double measure of gin. He glanced at Sue who had opened her notebook. ‘You can put that away for a start. What we are going to talk about now is strictly off the record.’

  Bateman masked his annoyance at Sue’s maladroitness. ‘Absolutely, Mr Shell. Now let me be frank. Two publicans have approached us with complaints against Reardon, and they have agreed to sign affidavits claiming Reardon is running a protection racket. Both men mentioned your name as someone who might corroborate their stories.’

  ‘And who are these heroes?’ asked Shell.

  Bateman smiled. ‘I think you’ll understand, Mr Shell, that we cannot name names. Suppose, for example, that these men are wrong and you are not a man to be trusted.’

  ‘You don’t mince words, do you, Bateman?’

  ‘Not often, Mr Shell,’ answered the news editor, holding the man’s gaze. ‘But then we’re not playing pat-a-cake are we? We’re talking about a vicious criminal organisation.’

  ‘I know what we’re talking about,’ snapped Shell. ‘Ever since I came here I’ve been trying to get the other publicans to stand up to that bastard. Twenty years ago l’d have done it by myself. But people get older, don’t they, and their bones get brittle. Still, with luck he’ll get put down for child molesting, the dirty little sod.’

  ‘Then you are not interested in corroborating the story?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Listen, Bateman, I know about men like Reardon; I worked the docks for twenty years. What are you going to achieve with your story? What will Reardon get? A smack on the wrist from some magistrate that’s in his pocket? But the publicans who speak out will get worse than that. They’ll get petrol bombs through their windows.’

  ‘Evil thrives when good men do nothing,’ said Bateman. ‘Reardon’s organisation only works because people are too frightened to band together. But now we’ve got two men willing to speak out. A third would be conclusive.’

  ‘Why not go with the two?’ said Shell. ‘Then we’ll see. If that sticks I might just come in.’

  ‘No. They won’t go all the way without you. You’re the linchpin. Without you there’s no story.’

  ‘It’s Jim Wright at the Railway, isn’t it?’ said Shell. ‘He’s always talking a good fight against Reardon. I don’t know about the other one. McKay?’

  ‘As I said, no names.’

  ‘Yeah. As you said. Why won’t they go without me?’

  ‘They say you’ve got bottle, Jack. Have you?’

  ‘Have you, Bateman? Do journalists risk petrol bombs – against their families?’

  ‘You come with us, and you’ll find I don’t walk away,’ said Bateman, softly.

  ‘I need time to think about it.’

  ‘There’s no time,’ said Bateman. ‘Make a choice, Jack, yes or no.’

  ‘You’re a pushy bastard.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that.’

  ‘Okay, it’s yes. But I want to meet the other two.’

  ‘I’ll arrange it,’ said Bateman. ‘Nice talking to you.’ Bateman shook hands and led the bewildered Sue back to the car.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, as he started the engine and pulled away. ‘We haven’t got anybody else. And Jack will pull out when he knows he’s been shafted.’

  He tapped his nose. ‘Wait and shee shweetheart,’ he told her.

  ‘That’s the worst Bogart I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, it was supposed to be Clark Gable in Teacher’s Pet.’

  ‘Oh. Where to now, Mr Gable?’

  ‘The Railway and Jim Wright.’

  Wright was in his middle thirties, round shouldered with a heavy beer belly. He reluctantly agreed to leave the bar and took them past the kitchen to a small sitting room.

  ‘Make this quick,’ said Wright.

  ‘I’ve been told you’re a man with bottle,’ said Bateman.

  ‘Yeah? So?’

  ‘So we’re going to run a story nailing Frank Reardon. We’ve got two publicans ready to swear he runs a protection racket. We need a third.’

  ‘This is a gag, right?’

  ‘No gag,’ said Bateman. ‘Reardon’s going down. Now our two men are showing a lot of courage, and one of them suggested you might have the nerve to join them.’ Bateman emphasised the word one. Wright bit immediately.

  ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter about the other one,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, you opened this can of worms. What about the other one?’

  ‘He said you … talked a good fight,’ said Bateman, reluctantly. ‘But let’s not get involved in personalities. Reardon’s the main thing.’

  ‘Bleedin’ Shell. I talk a good fight? What’s he been doing for four years? Payin’ on the dot every week. He’s got a bloody nerve. It’s these leaflets isn’t it? Now everybody knows what a sleaze Reardon is. Now Shell wants to make himself a hero. Grand standing bastard.’

  ‘I haven’t said it’s Shell. You’re jumping to conclusions. That could be a mistake.’

  ‘Not likely to be anybody else. Who is the other one?’

  ‘No names, Mr Wright.’

  ‘I want to know who I’m coming in with.’

  ‘You’ll know. I’ll arrange a meeting. All the affidavits will be written first, then we’ll get together and discuss them. Now it’s imperative that you don’t discuss this with anyone else – not even people you think might be the other two. You understand? The slightest leak and you know what you could be facing?’

  ‘l know. Have you spoken to Charlie at The Anvil?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I think he might come in, now he knows there’s three of us.’

  ‘Okay. Could you give him a ring and say we’re on our way round? But don’t tell him what it’s about.
’

  ‘Sure. I’m going to enjoy nailing Frank Reardon.’

  ‘And you will, Mr Wright. Sue will come back tomorrow to arrange the affidavit.’

  Once more in the car, Sue Cater leaned across and planted a kiss on Bateman’s cheek.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Didn’t the girl always kiss Gable in the final reel?’

  ‘This isn’t the final reel, but you’re learning, shweetheart.’

  The evening’s work was an unqualified success. Charlie Harris, Jim Wright and Jack Shell had all agreed to complete and sign sworn affidavits, and the story was well and truly on its way. Bateman sat in his office staring at the blue sky through the grimy window. It had been good to get back ‘on the street’, and his ego had been massaged by the look of admiration in Sue’s eyes.

  His phone rang. He answered it and listened, white faced, as the receptionist poured out a swift explanation. His door opened.

  ‘It’s all right, Debbie,’ he said, replacing the receiver.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, hoping his face was not betraying his panic.

  ‘I want to see the editor,’ said Frank Reardon. ‘Now!’

  ‘He’s away, but I’m his deputy. What can I do for you … Mr … ?’

  ‘Reardon. Frank Reardon. I want to know what you’re going to do about these bloody leaflets. I expect you’ve seen them.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I have.’

  ‘Well this is today’s,’ he said, hurling a crumpled sheet of paper to the desk. Bateman smoothed it out and read the contents. There were six case histories of sex abuse cases against children.

  ‘And it’s all lies,’ said Reardon. ‘That and yesterday’s.’

  ‘Have you been to the police?’

  Reardon pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘I saw Chief Inspector Beard this morning. He said they were looking into it. But I don’t believe it. What are you going to do?’

  ‘l don’t see there is much we can do.’

  ‘I thought you were interested in printing the truth. I’m a local businessman, and I’m being harassed and libelled. There must be a story in that.’