Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something that’s been nagging at me, and you just loosened it from the crevices of my mind when you mentioned Anne.’

  She waited, refusing to move.

  ‘I’ll tell you in the taxi.’

  ‘Tell me now, Jack,’ she insisted.

  He sighed. ‘The original crimes. The victims all went to trial. Where were those original sins committed?’

  9

  Lauren Starling stared at the computer screen and the new masthead for My Day.

  ‘What do you think?’

  She let go of her sneer and turned to see the newly appointed features editor staring over her shoulder. Rowena had only worked with the magazine for just over a week and had transferred from the parent company, removed to the shitty rag of a magazine to inject fresh life into something Lauren felt should be allowed to die.

  ‘It’s okay, I suppose,’ she replied with care.

  ‘It works.’

  Lauren shrugged, not wishing to wholly compromise her honesty. ‘Hot pink is so . . . er . . .’

  Rowena didn’t wait for her to finish. ‘Doesn’t matter what we think. That colour screams. And while you, dear Lauren – how old are you? Thirty-two? – prefer to move around in perfect monochrome, women of the demographic we’re after wear purple, pink, cyan blue, mauve and the like. They notice this colour in supermarkets, in stationers, in newsagents. The danger is thinking we work for Vogue or Time, or Condé Nast.’

  ‘I wish!’ Lauren grinned, all too aware that her presentation screamed fashion magazine, not gutter press, as Rowena perched herself on the edge of her desk to look at her face to face. ‘I’m thirty-three.’

  ‘You should be working for Vogue. You don’t look like you fit here.’ Lauren knew her superior wasn’t being mean; the truth was obvious. ‘I know you were employed by London Talking, which has serious cred. Whatever are you doing here?’ Lauren sighed and Rowena gently touched her arm. ‘No, really. I want to learn about the whole team here. So why do we have you, the square peg . . . I mean, I suspect we’re lucky to have you – you’re a seriously good writer, but why, Lauren? You dress like you wouldn’t be caught dead in Primark.’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I needed the work, and quickly,’ she admitted. She didn’t want to explain about the failed engagement, the promise of a fabulous new life in New York, the bastard she’d fallen for and sold up for . . . and lent all her savings to. ‘I sold my flat, took a working holiday to the US, did some travelling . . .’ That was a lie, unless a trip to Washington DC and a weekend in Florida was ‘travelling’. ‘I thought I’d be gone a lot longer but it didn’t work out and when I came back, I had rent to pay in a hurry and no job lined up.’ She dredged up a smile to help the comment sound sardonic, despite the reality that its anxiety woke her up in the early hours most mornings. ‘I took the first opportunity offered.’

  ‘Here, though? The people who read our rag shop in Asda for the most part, not the M&S Foodhall.’

  ‘It’s just a way back in,’ she explained. ‘Suits me for now, truly.’ This was no lie. It wasn’t where she wanted to be, but it was still a magazine with pages to fill and deadlines to meet.

  ‘All right, Lauren. I doubt I’m hearing the full story, but I accept it’s not my business. What is my business is getting revenue into this magazine.’

  Lauren looked back at her with a gaze that said you’re joking, right?

  ‘I know, I know,’ Rowena continued, palms up in defence. ‘In these digital times the days of print are numbered. However, forecasts suggest that really high-quality magazines will survive, while the myriad glossies in the middle range will most likely disappear.’

  ‘And ours?’

  Rowena shook her head with surprise. ‘Ours? That’s the curiosity. It’s the ordinary cheap reads with crosswords, recipes, agony pages, misery stories, celebrity rubbish and sensationalist crap with a royal beat-up every few weeks that will keep ticking on through the revolution.’

  Lauren sighed audibly.

  ‘So it’s the latest Brad and Ange fight, how to lose five kilos in five days, and the newest trends in wedding cakes and plastic surgery, that sort of thing, that will keep selling our pointless magazine to thousands of women who don’t seem to mind being told what to think, how to live and so on.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  Lauren pushed back on her chair so the castors rolled her away and she was no longer looking up the editor’s nostrils. ‘Why can’t we lift our game?’

  Rowena stared back at her, bemused. ‘Why would we?’

  ‘To broaden our reach?’

  Rowena laughed. ‘You’re not dumb, Lauren, so don’t act it. The success of My Day is that we know exactly who our demographic is and we don’t try to elevate it or widen it, or—’

  ‘Educate it?’

  Rowena wasn’t expecting that. She blinked at Lauren, taking her measure. ‘You want to educate our readership, who are looking for escape, titillation and distraction from their really very ordinary lives?’

  ‘I can’t see any harm at all in tackling either some issues or some news more regularly. It’s all about how we do it . . . keep it appealing and they’ll still devour it.’

  ‘Issues? Like mental health?’

  ‘Why not? Why can’t we do a feature on anorexia or anxiety? If we write it in a way that isn’t overly depressing, or too academic, perhaps we can get a conversation going.’

  ‘You think they’d want that?’

  ‘Look, I’m not trying to win a Pulitzer here, but I think we’re disrespecting our audience. They’re not dumb, though I accept they’re not academic either. They’re everyday women, not in careers, but working hard, running homes and families, making ends meet. I get that. Their lives are a very long way from mine, even, and a world away from glamorous. Most of them are living tougher lives, but they still have interests, dreams, hopes for their children. Their ordinary, salt-of-the-earth lifestyles don’t mean they’re disengaged from the news, for instance.’

  ‘Lauren, we come out once a fortnight. We can’t do news.’

  ‘But we can do interesting news features, surely? We can take a subject and still keep that titillation and escapist approach you want.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  Lauren looked to the ceiling, desperately searching her mind for something to win her editor’s attention. ‘How about Britain, ten years on from Diana’s death? How has her impact affected attitudes to motherhood, fashion, feminism, et cetera? We package it in the way our readers like, but we tackle interesting angles that actually deliver something.’

  Rowena cocked her head to one side as she considered this. ‘Give me one that isn’t about the royals but is titillating.’

  ‘Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll send you a proposal.’

  ‘Make it half an hour – I have a call to make. My office, with your idea. Bring us a coffee each, and not instant.’ She dipped into her trouser pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note. ‘My buy.’

  Lauren took the cash and found herself smiling inwardly. ‘How do you take it?’

  ‘White, no sugar. I have sweeteners in my bag.’

  Seated in a hot-pink bucket chair and wondering if it was from this piece of furniture that Rowena drew her inspiration, Lauren pitched. ‘Have you heard about Rupert Brownlow?’ she began.

  Rowena frowned. ‘Should I have?’

  Lauren lifted an eyebrow that suggested perhaps she should, but it didn’t matter, she’d enlighten her anyway. ‘Went joyriding in his father’s four-wheel drive and killed—’

  ‘Oh yeah, yeah, I remember . . . horrific! Whole families killed. Right . . . and?’

  ‘And he got a pathetic sentence that created massive controversy a few years ago.’

  Rowena didn’t look impressed. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Daddy’s rich, can afford the top barrister in the land to argue anxiet
y, rehabilitation, youth – all the usual stuff – and take the focus off the fact that eighteen-year-old Rupert, angry from being dumped by his girlfriend, recklessly killed four adults, four children, two family dogs and ruined countless lives. To make it all even more heinous, the prison system has seen fit to release Brownlow early to get on with his indulged, wealthy lifestyle.’

  ‘And you want to do a story about what? Lenient sentences?’ Now Rowena sounded bored.

  Lauren piled the energy into her tone and sat forward. She needed to get this over the line. ‘In part, yes. But there’s more . . . and this is where the titillation comes in.’

  ‘Surprise me, Lauren, because the earth hasn’t moved for me yet.’

  ‘Rupert Brownlow was murdered last week after his release.’

  Rowena had the grace to look surprised. ‘All right . . . where’s this going?’

  ‘This isn’t gangland, Rowena. He was an uppity, pathetically immature sixth-former with no connections to the world of crime. He committed one, did insufficient time and then out of nowhere he’s murdered horribly . . . dragged behind a vehicle on a rope around his neck.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  Lauren nodded. ‘Titillating, isn’t it? It gets better. I have a friend in the police force and, when I mentioned this idea for a story, she told me of a case along similar lines. A man beat his wife to death, was jailed for it with a relatively lenient sentence, got out and apparently was murdered with boiling water tipped over his head repeatedly. It remains a cold case. Most of his face had melted.’

  Her editor gave a look of horror. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Gruesome, titillating, fascinating . . . and there’s a story there, I can smell it.’

  ‘What’s the story?’

  Lauren shrugged and finally took a sip her coffee through the plastic spout. ‘Er . . . criminals get their just deserts. Or how about, “Do you feel sorry for these crims?” We could engage with domestic violence victims, or ask how people feel about rich people moving through a different justice system. That sort of thing. If we can get chatter going, I’m betting we can bump sales; then we could argue we’re tackling issues and not just the sewer end of publishing.’

  Rowena sighed. ‘The sewer end, as you call it, makes money, Lauren. Nothing dirty about our graphs around the big table, but I like the idea of delving where we haven’t, so long as features stay fully in touch with the readership. I’m not interested in anything that makes any of our audience skip the pages.’

  ‘Death, and particularly grisly murder, sells just as well as sex, Rowena.’

  ‘Okay, I’m intrigued. This friend of yours in the police, are you close?’

  ‘We used to share a flat,’ Lauren replied, dodging the truth.

  ‘What else does she know?’

  ‘Rupert Brownlow was killed recently, but the other case is older.’

  ‘Well, the police must be looking into these murders.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Maybe the angle is along the lines of, do we want our tax to be spent looking into the deaths of criminals when . . . oh, I don’t know, find some angle . . . hospitals, creches, education, something that matters to our readers, needs more funding. But keep it upbeat, keep it relevant. Find a rapist who’s been killed and then ask that question: do we care? Find more recent cases so we jog their memory of them.’

  ‘So I can work on this?’

  ‘Let’s see what you can do and if you come up with something special – I’ll need photos and people to quote. If you can do that, I’ll give you a double-page spread and a front-cover teaser.’

  ‘I want my own column and a proper byline with photo.’

  Rowena chuckled. ‘Of course you do. Impress me and we’ll talk about a regular column and your new status.’

  Lauren felt herself ignite with a thrill she hadn’t felt since Dan had asked her to marry him. She hadn’t been expecting his proposal as they’d only been dating for a couple of months. He was a catch to be going out with, let alone to wear his ring – all her friends had envied her. He’d said the ring was his mother’s – something to propose to her with – but he’d wanted her to pick out an engagement ring she would want to wear for the rest of her life. ‘We’ll choose it at Tiffany’s in New York,’ he’d promised.

  The closest she’d got to Tiffany’s was lurking on the opposite side of the road to Fifth Avenue and 57th Street, wondering whether they would let her pawn his mother’s ring. As it turned out, visiting a seedy pawnshop on the Upper West Side confirmed that the family solitaire was in fact a worthless cubic zirconia. She’d had to ask her sister for the cost of the airfare back to Britain. He’d used all of her savings to start up yet another of his new ventures, which, she only discovered upon arriving stateside, followed a string of failures. The present innovation was to set up a podcast platform, but Apple was leagues ahead of Dan and her money drained away like rain into the New York sewers. The few friends remaining felt sympathy and perhaps relief that ‘Dan the Bastard’ hadn’t turned his attentions on them, because they’d have fallen for him just as she had. Dan was a con and Lauren hoped one day he’d get what he was due.

  ‘Sound okay?’ Rowena prompted.

  She flicked the memory of Dan away. ‘Yes, of course. I was not expecting you to react like this. That’s terrific, thank you.’

  ‘Good. Don’t take your eye off the other stuff; we still need your top ten cheap versions of impossibly expensive handbags for next issue, and that feature on which dog breeds make the best companions for single women.’

  Lauren nodded. ‘On it.’

  ‘Keep me updated. How long, do you reckon?’

  ‘Well, it needs proper investigation. At least a month.’

  ‘Maybe an early summer feature, then?’

  ‘Thanks, Rowena . . . and for the coffee.’

  ‘Are you losing your marbles?’ her flatmate from a previous life hissed.

  Lauren imagined poor Ange cupping her mobile phone so no one else could hear her, although she suspected she was outside, shivering as she smoked. ‘You owe me.’

  ‘How much longer are you going to leverage that?’

  ‘This is the last time, I promise. Listen . . . at Scotland Yard—’

  ‘I’m just admin! I should never have mentioned that cold case. It broke all the rules but I thought I was talking to a reliable mate,’ her friend growled.

  Lauren pushed through the guilt. ‘Admin doesn’t mean you’re not privy to information. You access stuff that others don’t. I just want to know if there’s an operation underway or being assemb—’

  ‘I can’t! How many different ways can I say this?’

  ‘Ange, this is my chance.’ Lauren waited, taking the silence to be encouraging. ‘Please. I’ll never lean on you again.’ She held her breath for a heartbeat. ‘Meet me for a drink. My treat,’ she urged. ‘A couple of questions, that’s all.’

  ‘You get two questions, Lauren. And I’m warning you, I won’t tell you anything about any operation underway within the Met.’

  ‘I’ll text you where. Tonight, all right? Six . . . a quickie.’

  Lauren heard the line go dead. She felt nausea erupt that she was burning a friendship, although she had to admit it had been foundering since she’d learned about her former flatmate’s betrayal.

  Later, at a wine bar, she waved to Angela, who seemed agitated. ‘I’m sorry, Ange.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ her companion said, sitting down in the seat opposite. ‘I know you’re starting again, Lor, but taking advantage of your mates is about as low as it gets.’

  ‘Are we still mates?’ Lauren tried with hope in her tone.

  ‘Not once I leave here.’

  ‘That’s tough,’ Lauren said, having anticipated this outcome but hating it anyway and despising how far the repercussions of Dan stretched. His actions were forcing her hand on something she didn’t think she was capable of. She poured her companion a drink from the bottle of wine she had si
tting between them. ‘It’s a nice chardonnay.’

  Angela took the glass and at least clinked cheers with Lauren’s. ‘Here’s to goodbye, Lor.’

  She swallowed. ‘Do you have to be so nasty?’

  ‘I do actually, because I made a mistake, you know that. Just like you did.’

  ‘Ange, I didn’t sleep with my sister’s fiancé, like you. My mistake was simply making a bad choice for one, but he wasn’t attached. The only person I hurt is me.’

  ‘It was a long time ago after a drunken night out and I’m not going to feel guilty any more. She’s my sister, yes—’

  ‘And my close friend,’ Lauren pressed, reminded of the awkward and heart-wrenching position Ange had put her in when she’d found her flatmate curled up with Michael after his stag night.

  ‘I don’t think for a minute that you would tell Lucy but if you choose to, fuck you!’ Angela had nearly finished her glass and was reaching to top it up. Until this evening, Lauren had never uttered anything about Ange and Michael’s treachery. It was only Ange’s guilt that led her to believe Lauren would be two-faced, but right now Lauren needed what Ange knew and if that meant letting her believe her secret was under threat, then so be it.

  ‘We’ll never speak of this again,’ Lauren promised.

  Ange shrugged as if she couldn’t care any less than she did right now. ‘You’ve got two questions, and hurry, because I’m walking after this glass.’

  Lauren took a breath. ‘Over the last few months I’ve been looking back at old cases . . . all of them murders – anyway, you know this from previous conversations. But with today’s news I now have four, and I think I need one more juicy murder. That’s enough to build a story from.’

  Her friend nodded unhappily. ‘There is a cold case from 2001. A district nurse who helped people on their way; she argued compassion, but the jury saw it differently – as a murderess who enjoyed selecting her victims and playing executioner under the guise of empathy. Her name was Annie Wilcox. Second question?’

  ‘I don’t really have one . . . I figured how you answered the first would give me my second.’