Exposé

by Paul Ilett

  “It wasn’t the best car journey,” Felicity admitted.

  “Don’t worry. I’m 10 minutes from the train station. Perhaps you might consider a different mode of transport for your journey home?”

  “Hello Val,” Jason said breezily as he unpacked his bags and equipment from the boot of his car. He was wearing jeans that kept slipping down at the back, and an XXXL black t-shirt with a slogan printed on the front in big white letters; “F**k you, F**k Newsnight, F**k the BBC”. Although Valerie didn’t find it amusing, she did admire his gall. “This has got to be a quick job, I’m afraid,” Jason said. “Twigg wants this double-fast, a few shots of you looking brave and thoughtful. Has your place got a balcony?”

  “Yes, it’s that one,” Valerie replied, and pointed to her first floor apartment.

  “Excellent. Well I thought we’d make the most of the miserable weather, so I’ll have you lit at the front. You’ll be in a column of light and we’ll have the dark clouds behind you. Like a storm has come and gone and you’ve survived it. And are all the better for it. I don’t want you looking weak, more reflective and strong.”

  “I have no intention of looking anything other than furious,” Valerie replied. They made their way to her apartment and made the mistake of letting Jason walk up the stairs ahead of them, giving both Valerie and Felicity a disturbingly close view of his builder’s bum.

  “Be brave,” Valerie said, smirking. “At least he’s wearing pants today.”

  As they reached the sitting room, Felicity was surprised to find someone waiting for them. A woman was perched on the couch with a large mug of coffee in her hands. There was something familiar about her, and it took a moment for Felicity to realise what it was. Facially, the woman had the same sharp angles and severe stare as Valerie. Without a doubt it had to be her daughter, Alice. Valerie had written many times about her estrangement from Alice and although she had never specified a single event that had caused their rift, Felicity wondered if the ‘drink-drive’ incident had been the final straw.

  “Are you ready for us, Alice?” Valerie asked, all sweetness and light. “This is Jason and Felicity.”

  Alice barely acknowledged them, and continued sipping her coffee. Although she was the image of Valerie, she had obviously gone to great pains to minimise the resemblance. She had short-cropped, bleached-blonde hair and seemed to make a point of dressing androgynously. She was slightly plump, possibly just to spite her mother, and didn’t wear any make-up. “What do I have to do?” she asked, and Jason quickly started to organise the pair of them.

  “Can we have the two of you leaning over the balcony, but half facing me with a smile on your face?” Jason said. “Maybe an embrace? You know, standing strong together. That sort of thing.”

  Felicity found the next 10 minutes excruciating. The discomfort between Valerie and Alice was obvious to the point that Jason had to physically place their arms around each other and guide the direction of their faces. Felicity watched in wonder as he artfully, masterfully, created images that would tell the story of a loving, close-knit, middle-class family united in the face of adversity. They would convince the Ear’s readers that the exposé had somehow strengthened Valerie’s resolve, and not weakened her in any way. But Felicity could see the truth. This was the story of a selfish, difficult mother and her estranged, complicated daughter. Far from being united in the face of adversity, they were simply putting on a front because it didn’t suit either of them for the public to know the truth about their relationship. And Felicity knew that meant Alice would have to agree to more than just some awkward pictures. She would have to allow her mother to spin a version of events and never say a word to suggest anything different.

  Once the shoot was over, Alice simply collected her things and left. There was no big scene or strained goodbye. She simply said, “Right, I’m off” and went. In fact, she seemed to get some pleasure from suddenly blanking her mother again, and making it clear their estrangement was to continue. And as she disappeared down the stairs there was a moment, just a brief moment, when Felicity was sure she caught a flicker of sorrow on Valerie’s face and she realised that, for all of Valerie’s bravado, she had hoped her daughter was going to stay for more than just the photocall. Jason pulled his laptop out of his satchel and then took himself off to the kitchen to edit the pictures and upload them to the picture desk’s cloud. “Don’t worry, Val, I’ll get rid of your bags,” he laughed as he went. And Felicity thought she and Valerie would have a few moments alone which was perfect, as she desperately wanted to know how Valerie was going to handle her response to Adam Jaymes’ exposé. But then she heard Jason say “hello” in the corridor on his way to the kitchen and, without warning, someone else appeared in the sitting room.

  “How lovely,” Valerie said, and gave her colleague an embrace. “You’re looking much better than the last time I saw you.”

  And there stood Colin Merroney, smartly dressed in a suit and tie with his hair all brushed and his face freshly shaved. “Well, I couldn’t let you have all the attention could I?” he said, wryly.

  “You remember Felicity don’t you?” Valerie enquired, and gestured towards her.

  “I do,” Colin said and smiled at her. “I have a vague memory that I either need to say thank you or sorry. I can’t quite work out which.”

  Felicity was a little startled to see Colin looking so well and so refreshed, especially after the state she’d left him in just a few days earlier. But she remembered her manners and smiled back at him. “No, we’re good,” she said.

  Valerie guided Colin to the couch and sat down with him, stroking his arm reassuringly. They chatted quietly for about 20 minutes, catching up with each other’s stories. Valerie enquired about Fiona. Colin asked for gossip from the office. They exchanged views about who was next on Adam Jaymes’ hit list. Valerie gave her view on how Sam Harvey was doing, and Colin shared a rumour that Gayesh was trying to get the job as Channel 5’s new chief executive. Felicity hovered on the outskirts of the room, not sure where to put herself. She didn’t want to venture into the kitchen where Jason was at the counter managing his laptop, but she was worried that if she went back to the balcony it would look like she was trying to draw attention to herself. And there was something almost hypnotic about watching two old hacks completely lost in conversation with one another. Being journalists, they clearly had much more pleasure in sharing stories than listening. And she could see the joy they took in every little nugget of information they bestowed, every piece of gossip no matter how far-fetched or unlikely.

  And then Colin produced a note pad and pencil from his pocket and a digital recorder. “But we’re not here to talk about me, Valerie. So, shall we get cracking?” And there he was, Colin Merroney, interviewing another reporter. Felicity sat down, and listened as Valerie and Colin worked together to concoct a response to the latest story. “This all happened more than 30 years ago. Ray and I were both young and we rushed into something without really thinking. It was very silly and immature, but that’s as far as it goes. We realised it wasn’t right, for either of us, and very amicably agreed to go our separate ways ... The truth is I was always very fond of Ray. And, indeed, I still am. And I feel entirely responsible for Ray and his lovely partner, Pete, being targeted by Adam Jaymes in this cruel, cruel fashion ... poor Pete has been comfort eating, he’s put on so much weight . . . When Ray and I separated, he still wasn’t openly homosexual. So I had to respect his privacy ... Jeremy’s parents came from very privileged backgrounds. They would never have allowed our marriage if they had known I was already a divorcée by the time I was 20 ... And then it was the 80s and I just didn’t want to get Jeremy and Alice caught up in nasty speculative stories about AIDS ... I had to keep Ray and Pete safe from public attention. They were living a very quiet and private life together, a life that has been destroyed by Adam Jaymes ... Alice asked me to keep this a secret. She thought it was disrespectful to her father’s memory if it came out after he died
... If I’m honest, my first marriage was a good experience for me and I have no regrets ... I grew up with very strong views about family values and, if anything, my first marriage tempered my attitude towards other lifestyles and sexual preferences ... Adam Jaymes has no moral justification for his behaviour. This isn’t public interest; it’s public revenge.”

  Two hours later, Valerie’s rebuttal was laid bare for all to see. The story was on the Ear’s website, with the promise of the interview in full in the printed version the next day. “There, you see? You can explain anything away,” Valerie said, smiling at Felicity, “if you know how.”

  Derek Toulson was supposed to have cancelled all his meetings. He was told to stay in the office and manage the fall-out from the latest exposé. But his borough council appointment was only a short train journey from London, and he simply couldn’t bring himself to postpone. The ‘Pound-for-Pound’ community investment scheme was his baby, his creation, and he simply enjoyed these meetings too much to let anything get in their way. After all these years he was still drawn to local government, the place where he had started and ended his career in politics.

  He had been an elected Tory on a district council in Hertfordshire and eventually served as council Leader, which sent him on a heady power trip for the better part of 10 years. He looked after the top team, of course, whose salaries more than doubled under Toulson. He even let them design their own extremely generous pension schemes. But in return they had to manage an endless stream of staff complaints about Cllr Toulson’s bullying, threats, attempts at coercion and generally inappropriate conduct. For a decade, an endless stream of grievances were brushed under the carpet.

  But one day Derek picked on the wrong man. In the midst of a nasty and hard-fought local election campaign, he sent a threatening email to a young council officer who was frustratingly meticulous when it came to local government legislation. “If you mention purdah to me one more time, I will kill you”, the email stated. It wasn’t even the worst threat Cllr Toulson had made, and he had expected the senior team to quickly resolve the situation. But the officer by-passed the executive team completely and took his complaint direct to the police, and before he knew it Cllr Toulson was back to being simple Mr Toulson again. The Pound-for-Pound scheme had given him a path back into that world, and he knew it was the reason he was treated as something of a star on the local government circuit.

  “Gentlemen,” he said as he entered the meeting chamber where half a dozen heavy, tired, middle-aged men were waiting for him. The officers and councillors sat on opposite sides of the table; the officers were smart and business-like and moneyed, and the councillors were far less polished in their appearance. It was a peculiarity of local government that Derek was well aware of. The cabinet members had the power but the senior staff were paid the six-figure salaries. The resentment from both sides of the table was always palpable.

  He handled the introductions quickly and efficiently, and then set about his presentation. “I’m not doing a PowerPoint,” he said, dismissively. “You know the deal. I have £50,000 to invest in your local community. All you need to do is tell me how you would like to spend it, and then match that offer pound for pound. The Daily Ear gets good PR, and your local community gets a hundred grand of investment. It’s win-win.”

  Over all, the response was positive but one councillor (who Derek had suspected was a bit of a know-it-all the moment he clapped eyes on him) said, “But why would we want to promote your paper here? I don’t understand the point of this meeting. The Daily Ear is dirt. Adam Jaymes is ripping you to pieces. Why should this council be linked to your organisation?”

  Derek could tell the councillor had been itching to speak from the moment he’d entered the room. And he knew the type: opinionated but actually quite dim. Liked the sound of his own voice but hardly ever said anything worthwhile. Has a position of authority and so is rarely told he’s an idiot.

  “Councillor ... ?” he enquired.

  “Oh, I’m Cllr Inkley.”

  Derek smiled. “You’re an idiot,” he said. “I’m so bored of having to deal with wankers like you. You make me sick.”

  There was a brief pause as the officers and members tried to work out what had just happened. Was it a joke? Was it some kind of bizarre sales pitch gone wrong? Cllr Inkley looked around the room for support, but between the smirking officers and his own disapproving cabinet colleagues, he realised he was on his own. “I ... I don’t think that’s acceptable,” he stuttered.

  “Fuck off,” Derek replied. “Seriously. Fuck off out of this meeting.” He pointed to the door and then leaned in across the table to be as close to Cllr Inkley’s red face as he could. “I have fifty grand that I can give to you, or to someone else. I couldn’t give a shit who gets it, as long as my newspaper gets good PR out of it. You don’t think my money is good enough for you? Fine. Go fuck yourself.”

  “Now wait a moment,” the Leader of the council intervened. “No one has said we don’t want this investment.” He turned to Cllr Inkley and glared at him. “No one!” he repeated.

  Derek sat down and looked at his watch. “You have another 15 minutes of my time. I suggest you don’t waste it.” He then turned to the officers. “Gentlemen, perhaps I can have some time alone with your cabinet members to iron out our differences.”

  With the Leader’s acknowledgement, the three officers left the room and closed the door behind them.

  “It’s not that we don’t want the investment,” the Leader said. “But we’re like every other local authority. We’ve already made huge cuts to our budget. We can’t just pull £50,000 out of thin air.”

  Derek offered them a half-smile, and rested his palms on the table. This was the bit he liked best. “Gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Derek Toulson. My heart is cold and black. I am the voice at the back of your head, the nagging voice that reminds you of your true blue roots.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a slip of paper. “My team has already looked into this council’s commitments. Here are the savings I would suggest you make to match my £50,000.” He placed the sheet of paper on the table, face down, and then pushed it towards the three councillors. “It’s that simple,” he said.

  CHAPTER 11

  Chris Lackie had taught himself never to hurry. No matter how urgent the request appeared to be, he would always walk slowly and methodically. He felt it gave him an air of gravitas, that he would always look composed and organised and that his attendance would be that much more anticipated. As the City of London Police Assistant Commissioner, he had to maintain the appearance of certain standards and a refusal to rush was a big part of that.

  Besides, he knew who was waiting for him in the interview suite and he was in no hurry to get there. He could usually count on Constables Barnet and Sly to cope with most situations and had been disappointed when they had called him for assistance. Normally, he would have told them to grow a pair and deal with it. But there was a hint of desperation, perhaps even panic, in Barnet’s voice which was unusual. He and Sly were tough as old boots, but this situation was clearly out of their comfort zone. It was more political than police work and Lackie had to accept it was ultimately his doing, not theirs.

  It was 11am and he hoped to clear the matter up and still make his lunchtime appointment with the Women’s Institute. As he reached the interview suite, he was greeted by Barnet and Sly. “We’re sorry sir,” said Constable Sly, looking surprisingly shaken. “He came in, and it looked like he was going to cooperate. He just sat listening, seemed quite agreeable. But then he said he wanted to see you, and when we said no, it all changed. He started making threats and we didn’t know what to do.”

  “He ... he knows things, sir,” Constable Barnet added. “He knows lots of things. We thought it best if you spoke to him.”

  Lackie nodded and did his best to look un-fazed. “Leave him to me,” he said. “Which room is he in?” Although Lackie had never met him before, their paths ha
d almost crossed on numerous occasions over the years. Indeed, they had almost met so often that it didn’t feel like it was the first time they were coming face to face. As he entered the small, beige room he found Adam Jaymes looking directly at him. He was wearing a beautifully fitted, crimson three-piece suit and was sitting behind a desk with his legs crossed and one arm relaxed across the back of the chair. The air was gently perfumed with a spicy scent of lime, nutmeg and vanilla, a fragrance Lackie didn’t recognise and suspected he couldn’t afford, even on his inflated police salary.

  “I’m only here because of the unusual nature of these complaints and the high profile of this case,” he said, feeling the need to explain straight away why he had answered Adam’s summons.

  “There is no case,” Adam responded immediately, his voice soft but clear. It was the same calm tone with which he had casually destroyed Colin Merroney’s marriage on live television.

  Lackie tried to maintain an air of control but he suspected the situation was well beyond his grasp. He knew the Ear’s photographer was already positioned outside the station, ready to take photographs of Adam as he left. And he knew Leonard Twigg was waiting for his call, ready to publish the exclusive story about Adam Jaymes being questioned by the police. “We’ve received serious complaints from members of the public that you have used blackmail and intimidation to gather information to use against the staff at the Daily Ear,” he continued.