Fallen Angels

by Tara Hyland

  Pulling his wheelchair round to his Louis XIV oak desk, Max opened the top drawer and took out his custom-made Smythson stationery. Then, with his favourite Mont Blanc fountain pen, he finally began to write the letter that he’d composed so often in his mind.

  Chapter Fifty

  London, September 1972

  Neil Simmons, Editor of the Chronicle, put down the article he’d been reading. Leaning back in his leather chair, he regarded his star investigative journalist with grave eyes. They were in his office, the noise of the newsroom muted by the glass walls and the closed door.

  ‘Legal’s going to have a coronary.’

  Cara shrugged. ‘So? Every word’s gospel.’

  She could afford to be confident. She knew the article was dynamite – it showed a romantic link between a member of the Royal Family and an associate of the Krays. There had been rumours about it for weeks, and every newspaper hound in London had been sniffing around for confirmation. But Cara was the one who had managed to get both parties to give an interview.

  Over the past two years she had garnered a name for her daring exposés. Now, at twenty-five, she was one of the foremost investigative journalists on Fleet Street. The story that had shot her to fame was on James Buchanan, the Anglo-Irish diplomat who sat in the House of Lords. According to Cara, a secret source had passed on knowledge of Buchanan’s sexual deviance to her, and she had relayed the information to the authorities. In exchange for the tip-off, she had been included in the sting operation, where he had been caught trying to procure an underage girl from an undercover policeman. She’d also been given the exclusive on his arrest and subsequent trial. It had been one of the biggest scandals for many years, running a close second to the Profumo affair.

  Work had pretty much become her life. Her flat was somewhere that she went to sleep. Her friends were all fellow journalists. Even among a notoriously workaholic group, her dedication was legendary.

  ‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’ Jake would often tease her.

  Jake.

  Things had changed between them after that embrace at the Christmas party. She’d tried not to think about what had happened – but it wasn’t easy. That night, Jake had become more than just her boss. She suddenly felt aware of him as a man. She found herself eavesdropping on conversations about him, wanting to hear what others thought, wanting to find out everything she could about the kind of person he was. If she was out in the pub with other journalists, she’d find ways to steer the discussion round to him.

  She suspected that Jake might feel the same way, too. Sometimes she’d look up from her desk and catch him staring straight at her. Their gaze would meet for a couple of seconds, and then they’d both look away.

  But even though Cara could feel the attraction between them, she was determined that nothing would happen. She still felt so damaged after the way Danny had treated her. She might be attracted to Jake, but she wasn’t prepared to let it go any further than that.

  One night, in the early spring of 1970, a few weeks after the Christmas party, Cara had been working late. Although back then she was officially still secretary to the News Desk, since the Drug Lord article, she’d begun to write more pieces for the Chronicle, squeezing the research in around her everyday tasks. It was just after nine by the time she packed up. By sheer fluke, when she got to the lift, Jake happened to be there, too. They’d got talking about what she was currently working on – a piece about illegal dog-fights – and, just as they stepped out into the downstairs lobby, he mentioned, as casual as anything, that he was going to grab a bite to eat, and asked if she fancied coming along.

  Cara hesitated. It wasn’t such an unusual request. Their profession had a high divorce rate, and a lot of the journalists lived alone. They worked late, and seemed to hate going home to an empty house. Several times Cara had been roped into spending long nights in a restaurant or a bar, keeping some lonely soul company. And yet . . . something in her head was telling Cara it was a bad idea to go along. After all, she didn’t want to give Jake any further encouragement.

  So she started to say no, that she’d already eaten earlier. But then her stomach, with impeccably bad timing, decided to let out a growl of protest, betraying her. After that, she’d had no choice but to give in.

  Cara had assumed they’d head to the Stab, but Jake had other ideas. It was the one night of the week he liked to get away from Fleet Street, he told her. He insisted on driving them, telling Cara to leave her bike chained up over the weekend, and catch a taxi back the following Monday morning. ‘Charge it to expenses,’ he assured her.

  She didn’t know much about cars, but she knew enough to tell that he had a great one – a silver sports car. ‘Very James Bond,’ she commented, sliding into a buttery leather seat.

  They drove to a little pub that Jake knew in South Kensington. Downstairs, where sawdust covered the cellar floor, food was still being served. The menu listed hearty pub grub. Jake recommended the shepherd’s pie, and they ordered two, along with two pints. Once they had their drinks, Jake sat back in his chair and regarded Cara with keen eyes.

  ‘So,’ he drawled. ‘Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Cara couldn’t help being guarded. This whole evening was beginning to feel like a date.

  Jake considered the question for a moment. ‘Something . . . personal.’ Inwardly, Cara groaned. But he didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. ‘You’re a bit of a mystery around the office, Cara. You never talk about friends or family.’

  ‘There’s not much to say.’

  ‘Oh, come on. This isn’t an interrogation. I’m just trying to make conversation. We’re going to be here for – what – at least an hour. Just tell me . . .’ He hesitated, as though trying to decide what he wanted to know. ‘Just tell me about where you came from,’ he said finally.

  So she did. Not the whole truth, of course; not about who her mother really had been. But she gave him an abridged version, sticking as closely as possible to the facts – saying that her parents had died when she was young, and that she’d lived with her grandmother in Ireland, and then about the orphanage and running away to live with Annie Connolly, whom she described as a family friend.

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded knowingly when she’d finished. ‘That explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Why you’re so tough. You’ve had to be.’

  ‘Am I tough?’

  ‘Yes.’ His dark eyes twinkled. ‘For a girl.’

  Cara reached across the table and playfully punched his arm. ‘Hey!’ she objected.

  Their food had arrived whilst she’d been talking, and between telling him her story, she’d managed to eat it all up. Now she glanced at her empty plate.

  ‘That was good.’

  ‘I know all the best places.’ He nodded at her empty glass. ‘Another drink?’

  ‘Why not?’ But at the same time as she answered, she was trying hard to stifle a yawn.

  Jake saw what she was doing, and grinned. ‘On second thoughts, let’s skip it. It’s late and you’re tired. Let’s get you home.’

  They were both quiet on the drive to her place, lost in their own thoughts. Somewhere along the way, Cara must have dozed off, because when they pulled up outside her flat, Jake saw that she was sound asleep. He gazed down at her for a long moment.

  ‘Cara?’ He spoke softly, not wanting to startle her. When she didn’t move, he laid a hand against her cheek, and said, a little louder this time, ‘Cara, wake up.’

  Cara stirred in her sleep, hearing the voice whispering her name. She could feel something warm touching her face, and she nestled against it. Sighing contentedly, her eyes fluttered open.

  It took a moment for everything to come clear – that she was in Jake’s car, parked outside her flat, and that he was leaning over, trying to wake her; that it was his hand she had been nuzzling.

  ‘God, I’m sorry.’ She drew away, her own hand going u
p to her reddening cheek, embarrassed at her display of affection. But Jake didn’t seem to care.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ In the glow of the nearby street lamp, she could see him smiling at her. ‘I enjoyed myself tonight.’ He cleared his throat, and that’s when she knew what he was going to say. ‘In fact, Cara—’

  ‘Don’t,’ she interrupted. She said it quietly, but there was no mistaking the urgency in her voice.

  Jake seemed taken aback. ‘Don’t what?’

  She looked up at him then, quiet pleading in her eyes. ‘Don’t say what I know you’re going to.’

  ‘What? That I think it might be nice if we did this again?’

  She closed her eyes. ‘I told you not to say it.’

  ‘Why not? What’s the problem?’

  ‘You’re my boss,’ she said simply.

  Jake looked genuinely confused. ‘So?’

  ‘So, how’s it going to look if I get promoted now? It’ll seem as if it’s because we’re together.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Jake scoffed. ‘Everyone knows you deserve to be a reporter.’

  ‘Perhaps, but there’ll still be gossip. People who are jealous will point the finger. It’ll start interfering with work. And once Neil hears about what’s going on,’ she said, referring to the Chronicle’s Editor, ‘he’s going to want one of us gone.’

  Jake waved away her concerns. ‘I can handle Neil,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe,’ she agreed. ‘But you know the company’s policy on office romances – someone has to go, and it’s always the woman.’ She’d been planning this little speech for a while, sensing that at some point it would come to this. The work angle was the best explanation she’d been able to come up with for why nothing could happen between them – a perfectly reasonable explanation that would invite no more questions or arguments from Jake. ‘It’s fine for you. You’re really senior. If there’s any fallout, I’d be the one to suffer. And this job means everything to me. I don’t want to lose it.’

  There was silence in the car after she’d finished. She could see that Jake was stunned by the vehemence of her rejection. He’d thought this evening was going to be the start of a relationship, and she’d just told him in no uncertain terms that nothing was ever going to happen between them.

  ‘I should go,’ Cara said quietly. She made to get out of the car.

  ‘Cara.’ Jake put out a hand to stop her. Reluctantly she turned back. She could see the confusion in his eyes. ‘I get what you’re saying – really, I do. But . . .’ He stopped then, as though realising that there was no way to convince her. She waited, sensing that he was running through the arguments in his head. Finally he sighed, as though giving in. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe it isn’t a good idea.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He gave her a rueful smile. ‘But we can still be friends, right?’

  He offered her his hand. After a moment, she took it.

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘Friends sounds good.’

  And that’s what they’d been ever since. Friends. And if sometimes Cara felt a stab of regret that there was nothing more between them, she tried to put it from her mind. It was better this way – she got to keep him in her life, and didn’t risk getting hurt.

  Now, as she left Neil’s office and headed back to her desk, she saw Jake walking towards her, as though he’d sensed she was thinking about him.

  The News Editor perched on the edge of Cara’s desk, his eyes automatically sweeping over her. In a midi-length brown suede skirt and a French-style cream polo neck, she looked professional and right up to date, but along with most of the men in the office, he couldn’t help regretting the demise of the mini, particularly in Cara’s case. He missed her legs. Clearing his throat, he looked away, down at his notepad.

  ‘I heard Rachel Travers is transferring to Holloway tomorrow,’ he said, forcing himself to be all business. ‘Thought you might want to go up there and see if you can get her to talk.’

  Although Cara was no longer on the News Desk, and was officially a columnist in her own right, Jake still occasionally asked her to cover stories, if it was a topic she was interested in. Rachel Travers had become something of a crusade for Cara. She was a forty-year-old prostitute, who had eventually cracked after years of abuse and stabbed her pimp to death. Despite the mitigating circumstances – not just the daily beatings she’d endured, but the fact that she had the mental age of a child – a lacklustre defence had meant that she’d ended up sentenced to life in prison. Cara had taken up her cause and run a crusade in the paper calling for her release, or to at least have her transferred to a secure hospital. So far, despite overwhelming public sympathy, Cara had had no luck getting a pardon for her, but she looked for any excuse to bring the topic up again. Jake knew that, which was why he was giving her first refusal on the story.

  ‘Sorry. Can’t.’ Cara sounded as regretful as she felt. ‘I’ve got the day off.’

  Jake raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? Is there an apocalypse I don’t know about?’ He had every reason to be curious. Cara was renowned for never taking any of her annual leave. Christmas, Easter, any public holidays that normal people wanted to spend with their families – she was first in line to man the desk.

  ‘Funeral,’ she explained briefly. ‘Of an old friend.’

  He knew not to press her for details. ‘Ah. Well, let me know if you fancy going for a drink afterwards.’

  Cara smiled up at him. ‘Thanks. I might take you up on that.’

  Chapter Fifty-one

  It was Annie’s funeral that she was attending. Although Cara hadn’t stayed in touch with Danny’s mother directly, after starting work at the Chronicle she had resurrected some of her East End contacts, which meant that she’d been able to keep tabs on how Annie was doing. Through one of them, she’d found out that the older woman had ovarian cancer. It was aggressive, and she went downhill quickly. By the time Cara went to visit her in the hospital, she’d already been near the end, in intense pain. It had been a short visit, as Annie had been too tired to speak for long – just enough time for them to make their peace. She’d been so ill that Cara had been surprised to hear she’d held on for another month after that.

  The funeral service was held at the Catholic Church on Underwood Road, between Whitechapel and Bethnal Green, where Annie had attended Mass every Sunday. Cara stood at the back during the service and at the burial, as she didn’t know how Annie’s family would feel about her being there. But Bronagh came up to her afterwards to thank her for coming.

  ‘It was good of you . . . after everything that happened.’

  Cara shrugged, and said with honesty, ‘Your mother was very kind to me over the years.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Annie’s daughter agreed. ‘But Danny wasn’t.’ She clearly wanted to draw Cara into a debate, but the younger woman wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘That’s all in the past now,’ Cara said evenly. She looked around the crowd. ‘He didn’t make it, then?’

  Bronagh snorted. ‘As if. You know Danny, always looking out for number one. Knew the coppers would be waiting for him as soon as he stepped foot here, and this time he’d be going down for an eighteen stretch.’ It was said in a tone that showed she didn’t agree with his choice. ‘’Course, Mum was still asking for him at the end. She always had more time for him than us girls.’

  Cara gave a noncommittal, ‘Hmm.’

  After a few more unsuccessful attempts to get Cara to bad-mouth Danny, Bronagh gave up, and instead invited her along to the pub for the wake. Cara declined, not wanting to push the Connollys’ hospitality.

  An hour later, she regretted her decision. Opening the front door to her flat, empty silence greeted her. It was cold inside, too. The Earls Court apartment was bright and spacious, but she’d rented it for its proximity to Central London rather than its south-facing view or any of its other qualities. She hadn’t done much to spruce the place up, never spending enough time there to justify making it feel homely. The livin
g room was filled with books and old copies of magazines and newspapers. It wasn’t as if she ever had anyone to stay.

  Wanting to distance herself from the day, she changed out of the dark funeral clothes and into a pair of hipster jeans and a rainbow-coloured cheesecloth shirt. Walking around the flat, she switched on all the lights, trying to make the place more cheerful. Instead of feeling relieved that the funeral was over, she felt down, strangely empty and aware of her own mortality. If I died, who would come to my funeral? she pondered. Work colleagues, of course. But other than that, she had few real friends. Her life revolved around the Chronicle. That’s how she’d wanted it – it was easier than being with people who let you down. She shook her head. At twenty-five, that was hardly the sort of thing she should be worrying about. Except, she could already see how her life was panning out, and it worried her.

  Perhaps that was why she’d been taking more of an interest in her mother lately.

  It had started with a letter she’d received out of the blue a few weeks earlier, from Maximilian Stanhope, her stepfather – or her mother’s husband, as she preferred to think of this man she’d never met. The letter had raised more questions than answers. He didn’t explain how he’d found out about her existence. Instead, he simply said that there was a matter he wanted to discuss with her while he was still able, alluding to information he had on a mutual acquaintance – clearly referring to her mother. He also included a bankers’ draft for £2,000, a huge sum of money, to cover your fare out to California, and any additional expenses that you might incur.

  Cara had always insisted that she didn’t care about what had happened to the woman who had so callously abandoned her. But a few months after she’d started working at the Chronicle, she’d been in the clippings library one day, researching a totally unrelated story, and found herself asking the researcher to dig up anything he could on the actress Frances Fitzgerald.

  From the articles, Cara had been able to piece together an idea of what the media believed had happened on the night that the former movie star had died. There were two theories. First, that Franny had been so depressed after losing her baby that she’d killed herself. Or, secondly, that her husband, Maximilian Stanhope, had finally tired of her flirting and killed her. Two dead wives – it felt like more than just a coincidence. But Max had been such a powerful person that clearly the papers hadn’t been able to say too much without risking being sued.