‘Eh, yeuk. Where do you get such language from?’ April responded.
‘Don’t you get sick of the old sex pest?’ Connor asked.
‘What, Luigi? He’s harmless. You should have seen the Navy. They’d grab you everywhere. All ranks. All time of day. Pulling your skirt down and all the rest. You had to literally beat them off. Newspapers used to be even worse. There was a guy on the picture desk nicknamed Radio Luxembourg, because on nights out he’d turn women’s nipples like tuning a radio. I was constantly called “that daft lassie” or “Barbie doll”.’
‘Better than “dumpy wee woman”,’ Connor smiled.
‘That came later. I’ve heard it all. So please spare me all the sexism stuff. Girls today need to toughen up. A swift kick in the balls usually sorted it out. Now they call the police.’
‘People have been banged up for less than your old perv Luigi,’ Connor remarked.
‘Look, at my age it’s nice to still be an object of someone’s desire. However ugly he is.’
‘You know, I could do a book on you: Diary of a Menopausal Woman,’ Connor teased.
‘Oh, I’m way past that.’
‘I’ll make it a prequel, then,’ he retorted. ‘Come on, better get moving. We’ve got another digital presentation this morning.’
April shuddered at the thought.
4 #ThisIsNotAHoax
Bryce Horrigan @BryceTripleB
R.I.P. @BryceTripleB
The police tape had only just gone up over the hotel suite’s door when Bryce Horrigan’s death made headlines around the world after it was tweeted from his own Twitter account, along with the photo of the crime scene. Within an hour, the television presenter’s name began trending. Not for the first time. Before his untimely death, Bryce had trended twenty-one times.
‘That’s more than any other television personality on the planet,’ he would tell anyone who would listen.
Once, even a hoax death tweet had seen him trend. He had loved responding with his usual bullishness: Sorry to disappoint, but rumours of my demise are greatly exaggerated. My haters will have to get the corks back in those champagne bottles. His response got more retweets than the US president’s re-election post.
Cautious after that false alarm, most of the reputable media websites resisted posting the crime scene picture at first. But when calls to Horrigan’s agent and his private mobile went unanswered, they had no choice but to run with it for fear of being left behind by the social media sites. For in the world of Internet journalism, speed is everything.
At first, many of the headlines were non-committal: TV star Bryce Horrigan at centre of death riddle. But when Bryce’s employers at ABT News released a short statement saying that they were concerned over the whereabouts of their star host, it was open season.
Baltimore Police didn’t know what had hit them. The communications division was more used to handling daily calls from the local newspapers, like the Baltimore Sun, Times and Examiner. In the past, there had also been national and international press enquiries on the back of the popular television series The Wire. Hopeful journalists wanted to accompany police units working the city’s housing projects. Or they’d ask whether the show’s detective Jimmy McNulty, played by Dominic West, was based on a real cop and, if so, could they interview him?
But the communications division had never experienced a volume of calls and emails like this. When Horrigan’s employers confirmed the presenter had gone missing in Baltimore, the police received over 800 requests for comments from media outlets around the world. Amongst them were frantic calls from Horrigan’s television executives, along with various members of the presenter’s family, all desperate to speak to someone. As the switchboard struggled to cope, they were either put through to voicemail or received a busy tone.
Captain Sorrell had just left the crime scene for the hotel lobby when he was met by a throng of cameras. He muttered, ‘What the f…’ before quickly censoring himself.
‘Captain, over here for CNN – can you confirm you are investigating Bryce Horrigan’s homicide?’
Another reporter, brandishing a microphone, shouted, ‘Is it true he’s been shot?’
‘Have you any leads yet on the Twitter Killer?’
Sorrell issued a gruff ‘No comment’ before getting into the passenger seat of the sedan. He’d barely closed the door when Haye hit the gas.
‘The Twitter Killer?’ For the second time that morning the captain swore. ‘This is gonna be one big shit storm, Haye.’
Sorrell had been inside the hotel for a little over two hours before stepping outside into the chaos. He needed to get back to HQ for time to think.
5 #BraveNewWorld
Like most newspapers in the English-speaking world, the Daily Chronicle’s circulation had gone into terminal freefall. Scotland had once enjoyed a thriving print media business with more than a million people a day buying a newspaper in a country with just five million inhabitants. And not just one newspaper. It wasn’t unheard of for the working man to buy two papers on the morning commute and an evening paper on the way home again.
But the working day had changed. When traditional tea breaks were phased out of many industries, including the shipyards, circulation began to slip in the mid-1990s. Then came the Internet age and the new media phenomenon, which the old media, printed on dead trees, had struggled to understand, never mind adapt to. At first, the race was on for readers, so they gave away all their content for free online, despite it costing millions of pounds to produce. Even April thought it had been commercial suicide to allow people using the Internet in the comfort of their own homes to read the exact same stories as the loyal customers who walked through rain or shine to buy an old-fashioned newspaper.
‘And they wonder why circulation has plummeted,’ April would remark.
When the proprietors gingerly thought of asking the online community for a contribution for reading all of their expensive content, the Internet readers disappeared in their droves rather than type in their credit card details. That’s because there was always plenty of newsgathering sites still prepared to give it away for nothing. And even the major sites with over ten million hits a day were losing money hand over fist.
Now management were convinced the ‘multi-platform’ revolution would save their eternal decline, with journalists producing fast, accurate content several times a day to be consumed on customers’ smartphones, tablets, laptops, Kindles and any other device that appeared on the market.
April turned her customary whiter shade of pale at the start of the latest digital presentation when the speaker explained how they would need to become ‘platform agnostic’ – a phrase she was convinced had been invented just to deliberately bamboozle her.
There was talk of writers taking photos and videos on smartphones to upload them directly onto the website. This, the speaker predicted, would eventually generate enough online advertising to allow the business to stand on its own two feet before the time came when rolling out trucks full of paper was no longer a viable option.
April sat in each of these company meetings with a fixed grin, fastidiously taking notes, desperately trying to appear like she knew what was going on. In truth, these presentations gave April a blinding headache.
Afterwards Connor muttered angrily, ‘Management are trying to reinvent the wheel. You don’t get firm directions now – you get feelings. It’s all a wish list. “If we get enough readers…” “If we get enough advertising…” “Imagine how you could change your working day…” I like my tech, but this is all whimsical bullshit.
‘And another thing, the people put in charge of “future proofing” the company are all broken arrows – useless and can’t be fired. That guy giving the talk today felt up his secretary at the Christmas party. She complained. But he was too expensive to give the bump, so he’s put in charge of digital operations instead
. The whole digital department is full of people who have been shunted sideways. Then they just repeat parrot fashion what they’ve heard at other training sessions. There’re certainly no Mark Zuckerbergs at the Daily Chronicle.’
By April’s expression, Connor knew she didn’t have a clue who the Facebook founder was.
‘They don’t even use good old-fashioned newspaper jargon any more,’ Connor said, continuing his moan. ‘It’s “narrative” and “line manager”. What was wrong with “copy” and “desk head”? They’re so obsessed with the future they’re forgetting what we do best. Produce stories. Get splashes. No matter what the platform is, good words and pictures will never go out of fashion.’
Conversations about the future actually made April feel physically sick. She desperately tried to end the conversation as she needed to get some ‘fresh air’ – code for a cigarette – but she knew there was no stopping her younger colleague when he was in full flow.
‘Remember all the chat about podcasts a while back?’ Connor recalled. ‘How we’d be giving running commentaries from our desks, with millions of listeners hanging on to our every word? What a load of bollocks that turned out to be.’
April did actually remember podcasts. ‘Why would anyone want to listen to my ramblings? I confuse myself at times.’
She tried to change the subject. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I was driving the chairman of my local newspaper group around Glasgow? He was an Englishman so I took it upon myself to give him a guided tour. We’re driving past Ibrox Stadium when he asked me if that was where Rangers played. I said, “Oh yes. That’s called Ibrox. But it’s also known as Hampden Park. That’s where Scotland play, too.” He was very quiet in the car after that. It’s incredible the crap I come up with.’
Her diversionary tactic didn’t work. Connor ploughed on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Vidcasts were next. If anything, they were even worse, with dodgy sound and shaky camera work. We’re not trained broadcasters. We’re journalists.’
‘When I sit down with my G&T to watch something, it certainly wouldn’t be some journalist at work,’ April admitted.
‘Exactly. But we’re told we have to raise our profiles. The number of Twitter followers you have is the modern day equivalent of “how big is your cock?”’
‘I remember seeing a big one once,’ April announced in her usual random fashion. ‘It was my nineteenth birthday. I’d been to a Navy dance and went back to this guy’s place and he got it out. I couldn’t believe my eyes.’
‘Sweet memories?’ Connor smiled.
‘Hardly. I said to him, “You can piss off with that thing, pal,” put my knickers back on and left.’
‘Another snapshot of your life that was neither asked for nor wanted,’ Connor retorted. But at least April’s teenage encounter finally concluded Connor’s rant. ‘I think I should rename you Edward Scissorhands,’ he mused. ‘As you have an uncanny knack of cutting any thread.’
Connor checked his Twitter feed on his BlackBerry on their way back to their broom cupboard office, and whistled softly. ‘I take it all back. Twitter has just got us a splash.’
6 #HeHadItComing
Bryce Horrigan @BryceTripleB
This is what happens to baby killers.
Connor had received his Twitter alert announcing the death of Bryce Horrigan at the exact same time as the murdered presenter’s millions of followers. With the American east coast five hours behind the UK, it had just gone 1pm when he returned from digital training with April and opened the tweet. He would have been dismissive of it as he’d read news of Horrigan’s demise before, but it was quickly followed by another tweet from Horrigan declaring, This is what happens to baby killers.
This time the attached photo link got his full attention.
There was something so eerily sinister about a crime scene photograph. It had been poorly lit by the camera phone’s flash, but you could still make out a figure lying face down. The back of its head was a misshapen mass of dark sticky blood and brain matter disgorged from what was clearly a deep, cavernous hole. It looked too authentic to be just a screen grab from a TV show or film. There was also something about the angle the picture had been taken, triumphantly towering over the victim. Whoever took the snap had probably pulled the trigger too.
Connor decided the quickest way to determine the tweet’s authenticity would be simply to call Bryce directly. The pair had worked together for three years at Scotland’s biggest selling newspaper, the Daily Chronicle.
Bryce Horrigan was the product of a private school education at Fettes College, nicknamed the ‘Eton of the north’. His life was one of privilege and he was imbued with the born-to-rule demeanour that is ingrained in the elite classes. But instead of following family tradition and becoming a solicitor, Bryce almost had himself disinherited when he opted for a career in newspapers.
He had started at the Daily Chronicle in the same week as Connor, whose route into the national title couldn’t have been any more different. Connor had been raised by his single mum and had struggled his way through school before turning up at his local newspaper, asking for a job. His timing couldn’t have been better as desktop publishing was sweeping through the antiquated industry – the paper’s straight-talking editor told him, ‘If you can use a computer you’re in.’ But Connor soon discovered he had that unique journalistic skill that simply can’t be taught in a classroom – an eye for a story. Within a year he was working at his first national newspaper. By the age of twenty he was taken on as staff at the Daily Chronicle, at exactly the same time as Bryce, the blue-eyed boy, arrived on the scene.
Despite their many differences the pair instantly hit it off. But Bryce, six years Connor’s senior, was clearly earmarked for greater things. Within months Bryce had been promoted to deputy features editor. But like anyone on the make, he needed allies and Connor became one of Bryce’s closest confidants. While Connor would quietly and doggedly go about his work, Bryce was the showman, a braggart, who liked the sound of his own voice, earning him the nickname of Triple B – Bryce Big Balls. He liked the moniker so much it would form part of his Twitter handle in years to come. But being loud and opinionated with an unflinching confidence in his own abilities, it was little wonder Bryce had his detractors.
However, nothing could derail Horrigan from his career path, and less than a year after starting at the Daily Chronicle he bagged another executive post, with the title of features editor at the age of twenty-seven. Five years later, Horrigan achieved what seemed impossible when he made editor of the Sunday Courier in London, part of the Daily Chronicle’s stable of newspapers.
He took Connor with him to the Big Smoke, but while Bryce embraced London life, Connor struggled to adapt. It was too much of a rat race. Even an early morning run in the park was a crowded affair.
Then there were the drugs. It seemed almost every journalist did cocaine back then. It was a culture shock to Connor, who thought all that had been a thing of the past with the yuppies in the Eighties. Connor was as sociable as the next man, but the more his colleagues kept disappearing to the toilet, the more he felt like an outsider. Like Connor, Bryce was staunchly against drug use… at first, before he too was soon seduced.
Then there were the women. Bryce Horrigan was tall and slim, but not a good-looking man. However, power is said to be the greatest aphrodisiac and being a Fleet Street editor meant he had his pick of the single – and, often, the married – female reporters and attractive PRs. That’s when Connor knew they had to go their separate ways. To some, it all seemed like the dream ticket, but to Connor, the world of drugs and women who wouldn’t look at you unless you had a title was all too phoney. By the end of two years he had come to hate London with a passion and had drifted so far from Bryce they barely even spoke. On the day Connor gave into the inevitable and tendered his resignation, Bryce summoned him for a meeting in his office, which overlooked the Th
ames.
It surprised Connor when the editor then offered him a pay rise before asking, ‘Why on earth would you want to go back to Scotland, Elvis?’
It was right there and then that Connor knew their relationship was over. He was homesick and missed being around his own people more than anything, but Bryce clearly no longer even thought of himself as a Scot. His accent had been diluted and he never made any reference to his country of birth, almost exactly like the chameleon Prime Minister, Tony Blair, who was born and educated in Edinburgh, although you’d never know it.
‘Stay in touch,’ Bryce said half-heartedly, knowing they wouldn’t.
Now, Connor picked up his BlackBerry and did something he hadn’t done in over a decade, and called Horrigan’s number. The reporter heard that familiar sound of being connected overseas with the ring tone longer than in the UK. Ten rings later it was answered by a male voice.
7 #AnOrdinaryLife
While Bryce Horrigan burnt the candle at both ends, Geoffrey Schroeder lived a largely uneventful life until a week before his thirtieth birthday. In the months leading up till then, he had been working overtime in a local tyre factory, doing double shifts for time-and-a-half pay, which just about made the money bearable.
When Geoffrey arrived back at his mobile home late on the Thursday before his Big Three-Oh, exhausted after a long day, he wasn’t surprised to find his fiancée, Carol-Ann, not there. She’d said she was spending the weekend with her folks, so he didn’t expect to see her until the following Monday.
Geoffrey and Carol-Ann lived on Bunker Down trailer park, seven miles from the centre of Kansas City in the Midwestern state of Missouri. It was the type of place where dogs roamed wild and the owner had once been cautioned for shooting cats for fun. The couple dreamed of a time when they could move out to a proper home, made of bricks and mortar.
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