I headed back towards the shopping precinct, where I had seen more than one café open, but by a different route, which took me past the frontage of a solid, Victorian building. It was built of a reddish stone, and looked as though it might at one time have been one of the more oppressive schools or a trade union. The stern look of the frontage nearly put me off.
But on my park bench I had been thinking very seriously for the few seconds spared to me. I still doubted whether there would be any serious attempt at pursuit, and what there was would be aimed at the unfortunate Mr Gruber with myself in the role of dupe. My small hoard would not last for more than a few weeks, but until what fuss there was had died down, I would be unwise to apply for any financial help or to look for any job which would entail producing a National Insurance card. The sort of casual work requiring no stamps would be unattractive and, worse, not remunerative.
A large plate, much newer than the building, announced that here was the headquarters of a local paper. I knew the name, the Edinburgh Piper, well. It was a prestigious paper, bought and read beyond its notional boundaries and regularly the winner of awards although its circulation lagged behind the other local papers. It had a reputation for investigative journalism and had been first in with several famous scandals. On a sudden impulse I turned in through the glass doors.
The interior of the building failed to live up to my notion of a newspaper office. The construction was a mixture of solid Victorian and contemporary cheap-and-nasty and the decor was patchy as though the whole place was subject to sudden changes of layout. There seemed to be a typically Sunday paucity of people, yet there was a constant undercurrent of sound.
A large man who looked ex-army or ex-police, possibly both, and was probably a partially promoted doorkeeper, was reigning in solitary state over a long desk laden with papers and other reading matter. He raised bushy eyebrows at me in enquiry and surprise.
‘I would like to see somebody,’ I said firmly. ‘I have a story.’
The man’s look said, I’ll bet you have, but aloud he said, ‘Not a good time, miss. Almost all the editorial staff have left, those that came in on a Sunday.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Monday’s paper should have gone to press by now.’ He looked back at me. I could read his thoughts clearly. The ones that would bear repetition were that my story might be no more than some snotty teenager getting a job in Bootle, but occasionally a real scoop emerged from just such an unpropitious beginning. His head, and more than his head, would be on the block if he let a rival organ be first with a serial killer or an adulterous MP, although the latter, becoming either more commonplace or less discreet, was losing its power to shock. ‘Mr McRitchie may still be here. I’ll see what I can do.’
I thanked him, which he seemed to take as his due. He picked up one of several phones, keyed a number, spoke respectfully for a few seconds and then listened. Hanging up, he said, ‘Mr McRitchie will be free in a few minutes. Through there –’ he pointed – ‘second door on the left. Don’t interrupt him until he speaks to you.’
I followed the direction of the pointing finger. The second door on the left was open into a tall room, apparently half of a former classroom, where a man was hunched over a keyboard and mouse in front of a computer terminal with an unusually large screen. He had sandy hair going thin on top and was wearing a threadbare old sweater and jeans.
Over his shoulder, I recognized a page of newsprint on the screen. I approached closer, my curiosity aroused. Mr McRitchie was adjusting the position of an advertisement. He made a satisfied sound in his throat.
I forgot the doorman’s admonition. ‘My God!’ I said. ‘You can’t print it like that.’
Mr McRitchie, who had been unaware of my presence, jumped, span round in the swivel chair and looked disbelievingly at me. He was younger than I had expected; perhaps thirty or thirty-two, and his face must have been both handsome and friendly before suffering a broken nose and sundry scars.
He forgot to be annoyed. Comely but facially damaged young black women in critical moods were not part of his routine. ‘Like what?’ he asked. I pointed. He looked baffled. ‘Photograph of the Queen opening the extension to the Cuthbert Strang Museum? What’s wrong with it?’
‘Look underneath,’ I said shyly.
The headline underneath, referring to the story below, read: WOMAN ON GRAVE CHARGE. He swallowed audibly. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘My God! Just about sums it up. Our proprietor’s a fervent royalist.’
‘It wouldn’t look so bad if you swapped the two stories over,’ I said.
‘I’ll do the editorial decision-making, thank you very much.’ But he exchanged the positions of the two stories, checked to see that there were no more unfortunate juxtapositions and keyed in a code. The screen went blank. ‘That’ll be in print in a few minutes,’ he said. ‘Thanks. Now, what can I do for you in return?’
I had entered the building on impulse but I had had time to decide my approach. ‘Do you pay for tip-offs?’ I asked carefully.
‘Not as a general rule,’ he said. ‘The national dailies do. You have a story?’
‘A big one, I think. Can you give me an introduction to somebody on one of the nationals?’
Mr McRitchie’s interest sharpened. Evidently I was serious. ‘Our editor refuses to get involved in all the complications of paying for tip-offs – separating the wheat from the chaff, weeding out the stories which would have come to us anyway and arguing over the value of a phone call. Most people come running to us anyway with whatever they’ve got. But there’s a way round it. We’ll buy a complete article of local interest from a freelance. How would you like to write it yourself?’
I hesitated for a moment. I decided that I was as likely to be ripped off by a national paper as by a local one and Mr McRitchie appeared trustworthy. My mind was made up when I realized that he was looking at me doubtfully, as though wondering whether a girl of my colour could write at all. ‘I could do that,’ I said. ‘But could you keep my name out of it? And my description?’
‘We protect our sources. But is the story hot?’ he asked. ‘Would we need to get it out now? Or would a day or two not matter?
‘A day or two wouldn’t matter.’
‘Can you operate a pc?’
I just stopped myself from saying that I could probably operate one better than he could. ‘No problem.’
‘Sit down here,’ he said. ‘I’d better go and check the email before the print run begins, in case war’s broken out or some pop star’s had a baby. Let’s see what you make of it. I shan’t be very long.’
He left the room. I settled at the keyboard and began to type. I deleted my first two attempts at an opening paragraph but then my past reading came to my aid. I had a story to tell and the journalistic trick was to grab for the reader’s interest with the first words. After that, facts were what counted. The screen filled and began to scroll upward.
I was checking through what I’d written when Mr McRitchie came back, apologizing for the delay.
‘Has war broken out, then?’ I asked.
‘Nothing so newsworthy. Let’s see how you’ve got on.’ He wheeled another chair over and scrolled to the top of the screen. After reading for no more than a few seconds, he stiffened. I glanced at him and saw that his eyebrows were trying to merge with his hair. ‘You’re sure of this?’
‘Positive,’ I said.
‘But can you prove it?’
‘I think so.’ I opened my shoulder bag and took out a small sheaf of papers.
McRitchie frowned. ‘This had better be good,’ he said. ‘He’s a prominent man as well as being an MP.’
There was a hollow place where my stomach usually belonged but I put it down to hunger. ‘It is good,’ I said. ‘The election expenses he submitted—’
‘They’re on open record,’ McRitchie interrupted.
‘I think you’ll find that this is an accurate copy of what’s on record,’ I said, handing over the first of the papers. �
�And here are copies of the printer’s invoices for posters, handbills, invitations and tickets. You can see that only a fraction has been declared. It’s the same with travelling and entertainment. It’s serious, isn’t it?’
‘For an MP to falsify his election expenses?’ McRitchie said absently, his eyes flicking from one document to the next. ‘Very. There was a recent case . . .’ He read through to the end and then sat silent. At last he said, ‘I’ll speak to the editor in the morning. This will need careful handling but I think I know what he’ll say. The story will have to go to the police. They’ll play ball. If the story stands up, they’ll tip us off just before they make a move. Then we’ll print your article, with any necessary amendments, and we’ll sell it on to one of the nationals for publication immediately after we’ve come out with it. You’ll get paid for the article and you’ll also get half of what we’re paid for it. Would you consider that fair?’
I had no idea whether it would be fair or not. I suspected that it was as good a deal as I could get; but if they had to wait for the police, time could slip away. The money in my shoulder bag would not last forever. ‘I’d like something up front,’ I said. ‘An advance. And a good one, or else I’ll take it to one of the nationals myself.’
‘That could be arranged. What’s your name?’
‘No cheques,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m going to be kind of unpopular and I want to leave as few tracks as possible.’
‘I understand that. But we still have to call you something.’
I had to think for a moment before I remembered my alias. ‘Harriet Benskin,’ I said.
‘All right, Harriet Benskin.’ He glanced at the screen again. ‘It needs a little re-arrangement, but you could have a future in journalism. Do you want a job? Young reporters only come to us to get experience before moving on to Fleet Street.’
‘I think . . .’ I said slowly, ‘I think I’d rather remain a freelance.’ The biggest disadvantage of my change of identity, I realized, was my lack of National Insurance cards in that name.
McRitchie nodded understandingly. ‘Let’s get this story out of the way and we’ll see what we can do. Give us time to check the facts. And then . . . I won’t ask you for an address, but do you have a phone number?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘I’m going to get a mobile.’
‘Can you come and see me here on Wednesday? Make it eleven a.m. I’ll have a cash advance waiting for you and an agreement to sign.’
‘I’ll be here,’ I said.
I gave the doorman a wink and a thumbs-up as I left. My emotions were jumbled. I was anxious but I was thrilled. Whatever was to come might be a long time coming but it would not be boring.
Chapter Ten
The precious period of peace and privacy was depressingly limited. Honey had no complaint as to the manner of the interruption, but home, it seemed, was to be only a little more peaceful than the office. The sound of the front door announced the return of Sandy and jerked her out of the world of Cheryl Abernethy alias Harriet Benskin. Honey was well aware that to treat Sandy’s return as a matter of less than momentous importance would be to sow doubts in his mind as to whether he had managed to capture the heart of a woman who he regarded as the epitome of brains, beauty and wealth. (In this, she thought, he had an exaggerated impression of her but she was in no hurry to dispel his delusions.) This period of insecurity would usually result in a resumption of courtship and culminate, if June were at home, in bed. (If she were not, it could happen anywhere.) To this, Honey usually had no objection but the busier she was the less she could afford the time for dalliance.
She kissed Sandy with genuine affection and asked after his day. His case, it appeared, had begun to open up but had then been caught in the doldrums, as can occur in any investigation when the road ahead is unmistakable but the next witness to be interviewed in the only possible sequence turns out to be abroad, in hospital or a congenital liar. ‘It’s all about the proposed new refinery,’ he said. ‘There’s huge money involved. We’ve had tips that there’s finagling planned but it hasn’t happened yet. There are signs and portents, but never anything to put a finger on. It’s like swimming in treacle.’
Honey’s case, however, was bounding ahead. She gave Sandy a quick summary of developments. ‘I’m just reading the statement she left,’ she explained. ‘I’m beginning to like the girl. She shows up as a victim of depression, but God knows she had enough to be depressed about. She still managed to keep some vestige of a sense of humour. And she’s a good witness. She tells it all chronologically, and tells it well. As a matter of fact, if she has a fault it’s that of verbosity, but it’s a good fault. You never know what detail is going to prove useful, somewhere along the line. Would you like to read it?’
‘Give me time to wash and get my jacket off.’
He was back, spruced and bearing two gins and tonic, within five minutes. His shirt was open under a loose sweater. Honey had used the time to fuss over Minka.
‘June says that we have a good twenty minutes,’ he said.
‘I’ll go on from where I’d reached. You can have the pages up to there.’
Honey resumed.
*
I found a small restaurant and ordered a meal of cold meat and salad. I’m determined to look after my figure, this being one of the few potential assets of a black girl in a white society, but I allowed myself a fancy cake to finish off, with a cup of milkless tea.
It was still only mid-evening when I returned to the YWPA, but the day had been both exciting and exhausting. I have to be rested and refreshed before I have the stamina and, to be honest, the courage necessary for making the acquaintance of strangers in the mass – such as other residents in the common rooms or in front of the communal television. I took to my bed, first carefully disposing of my shoulder bag between the bed and the wall. My room-mate was, after all, still unknown to me. Despite the turmoil in my mind, I was soon asleep. Much later, the arrival of the other girl half-woke me, but I pulled a corner of the duvet over my head to shut out the light and was soon lost to the world again.
Later, I became aware of morning sounds and I began to disentangle myself from bedclothes that had somehow become wrapped around my head.
‘You must be Harriet,’ said a voice. ‘I’m Dorothy. Dorothy Hall.’
‘How do you do?’ I asked politely. I managed to struggle partially clear of the duvet.
The other girl gasped. She was plump, verging on fat, very pale and silver-haired. ‘But you’re . . .’
‘Black?’ I said helpfully. ‘I know.’
The other girl blushed hotly. She was, I realized, an albino. ‘I wasn’t going to say that. I’m not . . .’
‘Prejudiced?’ I suggested.
The blush increased. ‘Please don’t keep . . .’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Putting words into your mouth?’ I said. ‘Finishing your sentences for you?’ I was beginning to find the whole conversation rather funny.
Dorothy Hall failed to see any humour in the exchange. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘It was just a bit of a . . .’
‘Shock?’ I was beginning to wonder how long I could keep the game going.
‘A bit unexpected.’
I threw off the duvet and decided to help the other girl out of her embarrassment. ‘I could always ask Miss Whatsit to move me, if you’d prefer to have somebody else in with you.’
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ Dorothy said rapidly. She was still half-dressed. She flopped down on her own bed. ‘I don’t mind your colour at all,’ she said. ‘You probably mind it more than I do. In fact . . .’ She studied me for a moment. ‘Colour must be a nuisance and it’s damned unfair, but mostly you dark-skinned girls have beautiful skins.’
‘Except for a little bit, in my case,’ I said.
‘Well, yes. I wasn’t going to mention it. And, you know, you really don’t notice it after the first surprise. I think I’d put up with all the disadvantages if I could have your figure. And legs. I d
on’t know, though. My boyfriend’s just asked me to move in with him and he might not have been quite so keen if I’d been . . .’
‘Black,’ I said.
‘Well, yes. So even if I minded, which I don’t, it wouldn’t matter for very long because I’ll be moving out. Probably. I don’t know if I should. What do you think?’
‘Not having met your boyfriend makes it hard to advise you. If you’ve already been sleeping together . . .’ I said delicately.
Dorothy was more outspoken. ‘The sex is just great,’ she said. ‘It’s like I’m going to inflate and blow away on the wind, blowing bubbles and singing. And he says it’s the same for him, though he doesn’t get quite so poetic about it. So you think I should go ahead? I’m a secretary with a law firm and he’s a lawyer. Well, he’s not exactly qualified yet but he’ll be a partner one of these days.’
I had an uncomfortable feeling that I was being appointed as a guru. ‘Listen, Dorothy—’
‘Call me Dotty. Please.’
I decided that I would have no difficulty with that. ‘Dotty, then. I can’t possibly advise you. I’ve only just met you and I don’t know the man at all. You’ll just have to make up your own mind. Try to think whether you’ll still be glad to have him around when the sex loses its novelty.’
Dorothy sighed. ‘I suppose so. It’s very difficult.’ She got up and resumed dressing. Some very frivolous underwear vanished beneath a severe business suit. She seated herself at the mirror. ‘God, how I hate Mondays! Do you have a job?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘Not yet.’
In Loving Memory Page 7