‘Oh for fuck’s—’ Morag snorted. If anything, the Major had squeezed out more time than he was strictly entitled to. According to those who claimed to be in the know, had he really been the fearless leader his memoir claimed, he probably should have died on a Falklands’ battlefield.
She wasn’t sure if she believed the people who said that. Morag knew all too well that nasty rumours had a surprising affinity with envy. But there was no denying the haunted, hunted look in his eyes behind the handlebar moustache and genial sexist exterior. The look of a man waiting to be found out.
‘I hate to be a pain,’ Arjun said. He did not really hate to be a pain. Being a pain was what he was paid to do. ‘But this is going huge. If he died at any other time, it wouldn’t be a thing. After that press conference earlier this month, then the protest in Cameron Bridge . . . I’m saying, be prepared for the producers to cut you down. Or even bump you.’
Morag frowned. ‘You think they’re going to pre-empt me for some dead soldier?’
‘A dead Royal Marines officer,’ Arjun said. ‘And yes, they are. Television is live at Euston right now. Radio won’t be far behind.’ He switched on a TV in the corner of the green room and turned it over to a 24-hour news channel. There wasn’t much to see yet apart from a bit of the platform and some police in high-vis. The carriage where the body was found had been detached and rolled off to a maintenance shed where crime scene investigators waited for a pathologist to arrive.
‘You told them no call-ins while I’m on, yes?’ she said.
‘I told them. No guarantee they’ll listen.’
Morag pursed her lips. The fact that Jonathan had not tried to get in contact after their last argument concerned her. She had left the organising of this interview to Arjun and hoped that sent the message that things were strictly professional now. On the one hand, it was good to have drawn a line under the relationship. What the hell had she been thinking? On the other hand, she had no idea what this meant in terms of news coverage.
Maybe he would take the high road and decide to be a gentleman about it.
And maybe pigs would be spotted in their customary migratory pattern over Westminster Palace this very afternoon.
The runner waved at them. ‘Diana’s ready for you in the tank,’ she said.
Arjun peppered the runner with questions. ‘Are we still on for the full twenty minutes?’ he asked her. ‘Are you cutting away to news while the Shadow Home Secretary is on? Is she going to be expected to make a statement on this?’ The runner didn’t know the answer to any of them.
‘Morag, hi, good to see you,’ Diana Stuebner raised herself halfway from her chair and held out her hand.
‘Pleasure,’ Morag murmured and put on a pair of headphones. Jonathan’s voice came over and counted them back in from the advert break.
‘Welcome back,’ Diana purred. ‘In the next half hour we’ll be talking with Shadow Home Secretary Morag Munro. But first, a recap of breaking news. Police report the death of Major Whitney Abbott whose body was discovered on a train early this morning. They have yet to confirm a cause of death, though sources say foul play has not been ruled out. Welcome to the show, Morag.’
‘Thank you,’ Morag said. ‘Although not quite the introduction I was expecting.’
‘Did you know the Major?’ Diana asked, crinkling her nose and leaning forward.
Morag paused. There was no point lying because the press would be scrambling to find out who he had been lobbying to and photographed with over the years. ‘Only slightly,’ Morag said. ‘We met once or twice; he was a regular at various fundraisers in Scotland, as I recall.’
‘But he was one of your constituents,’ Diana said.
‘He had a house in the Highlands,’ Morag said. ‘I don’t know if he was registered to vote there.’
‘Still, given his association with your area . . .’
‘You have to understand, Diana, the Highlands are not like London. My constituency is the size of Belgium.’ Morag was trying not to be patronising, but it wasn’t easy in the circumstances. ‘I’m not on first name terms with everyone there.’
‘Such a loss to Britain today,’ Diana cooed. ‘And of course the nation of Scotland. The Major was perhaps best known for his opposition to Scottish independence in later years, and most recently for his campaign to represent Scotland Liberal Unionists in Brussels. Did you agree with his party’s policy to dissolve the Scottish Parliament?’
Morag smiled tightly. She despised these kinds of questions, the ones that came with an obvious agenda attached. In this case the agenda was getting a quote out of context that they could chop and run endlessly in a news loop for the next twenty-four hours. It didn’t matter which way she answered as long as they got their yes or no. Either was spinnable. ‘I am certain that irrespective of the outcome of the referendum, the people of Scotland can be assured of a positive future,’ she said.
Yes, she knew their tricks well. It was a catch-22. Producers knew that the audience take their cues off of the presenter, not the guest. No matter how capably and truthfully you respond to questioning, all the listener hears is hostility from the host, and they assume there is a valid reason for that. Whether there was or not.
‘That’s not answering the question, is it?’ Diana pressed. ‘You said that you campaigned for the No side – and I quote –to preserve Scotland’s prosperity. But, as a member of the Shadow Cabinet, were you not also worried that had the Yes won, it would have sent MPs home? Including yourself?’
Morag’s face set in a tight line. Her right hand started drumming the table reflexively. ‘As a politician I have no greater mandate than to respect the choice of the people, whatever that choice may be,’ she said. ‘I am confident that the results of the referendum and the general election are fair representations of our nation. The point now, surely, is to move forward and build our country and economy together.’
‘Naturally,’ Diana said. ‘But you have to agree you have come very close to losing your job not just once but twice in the last eighteen months.’ She moved on quickly, before Morag had a chance to object. ‘Would you agree that the Scottish wing of your party was treated as a – again, I quote – branch office of the London party?’
Morag opened her mouth to object, but Diana was talking again before she could get a word in. ‘Now, a break as we recap the headlines.’ Diana read through a summary of the Major’s career, from the Falklands to the recent appearance in Cameron Bridge when he’d been locked in a pub as Scottish nationalists rioted outside. The show cut away to audio clips from news pieces featuring Major Abbott.
Morag smiled stiffly as the minutes ticked by with no sign of returning to her. Diana announced an advert break. She saw Arjun in the corner waving his hands at Jonathan. ‘Bring it round to her,’ he was saying. ‘Let her answer the questions, or I swear to you we are not coming back again.’
Jonathan came into the studio. ‘Morag,’ he nodded. His voice was perfectly neutral. As if there had never been anything between them. ‘Diana, a quick chat outside.’
He pulled the presenter out into the hall. His voice was low. ‘I know you’re used to managing the beasts on call-in, of being the voice of reason. But this is in danger of going soft, especially with two women on. You need to go harder.’
‘I need gravitas,’ Diana said. ‘A reason for listeners to take this interview seriously.’
‘Exactly,’ Jonathan said. ‘Get her wound up enough that she cracks.’
Diana laughed. ‘Morag Munro? Crack? She has a reputation as a bit of a bore, but I’ve never heard of her losing her cool.’
‘Oh, it can be done,’ Jonathan said. ‘She has a temper under that cold exterior. I can vouch – I mean, I’ve heard.’
‘If you say so,’ Diana said. Her eyes sparkled. She had a feeling there was a lot more to this than he was telling.
‘Trust me,’ Jonathan said
. ‘Go hard after the break.’ He pressed a printout into her hand. ‘You wanted to bring social media into the station, well, here’s your shot.’ Diana unfolded the paper, looked at it, and nodded. ‘Be the terrier.’ Jonathan made a motion with his hand like a dog’s jaw snapping shut. ‘Get her.’
‘Got it.’
‘Good.’
Diana came back and gave Morag a smile. One that seemed to say, I’m so sorry about this. Morag suddenly felt stiff and sweaty. Something about that smile didn’t sit right. Before she could finish the thought, though, the show had started again.
‘We’re back. For those just joining us, our guest today is Morag Munro, the Shadow Home Secretary, and we have been discussing the shock death of Major Whitney Abbott whose body was discovered on a train this morning.’ Diana’s deep voice was pitched even lower than usual, as befitted the solemn occasion. ‘Thank you so much for coming on the show today, Morag.’
‘No, thank you, Diana,’ Morag said.
‘Before the break we were discussing your stand on Scottish independence . . .’ Diana said. ‘And since the topic du jour is Major Abbott, that leads us obviously to the uproar over Media Mouse.’
‘Um, I suppose so,’ Morag said. ‘To be honest, I haven’t followed that story. My office maintains an official social media presence, but I never go on it myself. It’s really for the younger generation.’ Moisture started trickling down her back under her jacket.
Diana tilted her head, obviously listening to something from Jonathan that Morag couldn’t hear. ‘And would you like to comment on Media Mouse’s latest scoop involving you?’
‘Scoop?’ Morag said. ‘As I said, my office have already released an announcement denying the silly rumour—’
‘Not about that,’ Diana interrupted. ‘About the photo posted today.’ Diana unfolded a piece of paper and passed it across the desk to Morag.
It was a printout of a picture, a black-and-white photo of her from the side. She was smiling at someone whose face was turned away from the camera. The angle was odd, shot from below.
She looked more closely at the picture, but couldn’t immediately remember what it was. When would she have been wearing a white jacket?
A shape in the corner of the picture caught her eye. It was a metal countertop, stainless steel. Just like the kind they used in the mortuary.
‘It appears to show you watching an autopsy,’ Diana explained for the radio audience. ‘Morag Munro, can you explain what this is please?’
‘I was on an official visit in my constituency, doing research for our planned response to natural disasters,’ Morag said. ‘I don’t see what the scoop is here.’
‘So you weren’t there for a particular autopsy?’ Diana asked.
The trickle of sweat down Morag’s back was now a flood. ‘As I recall, it was a routine day for them, nothing of interest,’ she said.
‘Our producer rang the facility. It turns out not only did you not sign in as a guest – they deny it was an official visit – the post-mortem was murdered scientist Professor Damian Schofield. And you had no particular interest in attending that? A murder victim turns up in your own constituency and this was routine?’
‘I had no way of knowing the body – Professor Schofield – was there,’ Morag snapped.
‘And what would you say about Media Mouse’s continued – I mean, sudden – interest in your activities?’
Morag’s hand ached to drum the table, but she resisted. The pent up frustration seemed to build under her skin like sparks of power down a cable. So now Jonathan was going to have his attack dog push the line that she was the one who was having an affair, without mentioning the inconvenient fact that he happened to be the other party? She had no way of dropping him into it without confirming that the blind item was indeed about her. He gave Diana a double thumbs up through the glass.
‘This is clearly an orchestrated smear campaign from someone with an axe to grind.’ Morag caught Jonathan’s eye through the window. Was he going to be man enough to look her in the eye when he stabbed her in the back? He flinched and looked down at the mixing board. Not only was he a weasel of a man, he couldn’t even stab her in the back the right way. Morag felt the sparks of suppressed rage reach her chest, and for once she did not push it away. ‘If they have something on me, they should show it. If they have something they want to say, they should have the courage to come out from behind the mask and say it to my face.’
Diana nodded. ‘So you are saying that there would be something on you to find?’
‘Will you shut up and listen!’ Morag shouted. ‘I came here to talk politics, not to answer baseless and defamatory claims about – about some anonymous troll. I’ve had enough of this.’ Morag stood up and ripped the headphones off. She turned and stomped out of the tank, nearly tripping over a cable on the way.
Diana leaned in to her mic, unable to keep the wide smile from her face. Getting a guest to fly off the handle was hands-down the best thing that could possibly happen from a ratings standpoint. There had been many highlights in her career so far, but this? This was radio gold. ‘You’re listening to Daily Edition,’ she purred. ‘Coming up after the weather, what next for Britain’s energy security? And what to make of the Government’s new oil and gas licenses being awarded north of the border in Scotland?’ She couldn’t resist twisting the knife one last little bit. ‘I had hoped the Shadow Home Secretary would stay with us after the break to comment on the issue, but I’m sure we’ll hear more about – I mean from – her soon.’
: 27 :
‘You’re going to be fine.’ Seminole Billy turned on to Erykah’s street. ‘Deep breath, style it out. Pretend nothing happened on that train. You weren’t there, OK?’
‘Thanks,’ Erykah said. ‘Can you drop me here and I’ll walk the rest of the way? I need some fresh air. I have to figure out what I’m going to tell Rab.’ She patted Billy’s hand. A stroll on the towpath was the best medicine right now. Her old thinking space.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You give me a ring if anything goes wrong with Him Indoors, yeah?’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Meaning, that husband of yours. I don’t trust him at all.’ Billy glanced at her wrists. The bruises were faded yellow now, nearly gone – you would have to know they were there to spot anything at all.
Erykah circled one narrow wrist with the other hand and nodded. ‘When Rab said it was the first time, he was telling the truth,’ she said. ‘He’s done a lot of terrible things to me in the past, but he’s not in the habit of knocking women around.’
‘They all say that,’ Billy said. ‘I watched my mother go through . . . anyway. I’ve seen how it starts.’
‘Rab knows what’s at stake,’ she said. ‘He knows we can’t afford to let emotion get the better of us right now.’
Billy snorted. ‘That’s your first mistake, woman,’ he said. ‘Assuming men aren’t the more emotional sex.’
‘I think I can handle my husband for one night.’
Billy nodded. ‘I can drive by later, check on you.’
She shrugged. ‘Sure, if it makes you feel better. How about if you don’t hear from me in a couple of hours, come past and make sure everything’s good?’
‘I’ll do that,’ Billy said. ‘Be in touch, yeah?’
Erykah smiled and waved. She watched the Merc disappear then started down the towpath. The sun was already behind the trees and the sky going dark. A couple of scullers were out on the water – she could see the silhouetted shapes, about a quarter of a mile upstream – but apart from that the river was hers.
A waft of breeze rose wavelets like scales on the water. She buttoned up her coat and turned the collar against the wind. The air seemed to have something different in it this evening, though. A hint of green. The start of spring, maybe.
How many times had she been out on this s
tretch of the river? Five sessions a week, sometimes more. Hundreds of times a year. Thousands over the time she lived in Molesey. If she closed her eyes, she could play back the various training routes in her head, stroke by stroke, metre by metre. She knew what every house looked like from the level of the water, every boat, every tree. The way the current ebbed and changed with the tide, the right place to point a boat to get in the fastest part of the stream.
Already it felt like part of the past. She searched her heart for something more than that, some deep well of feeling. It had seemed like something else was going to happen, something good, something new – and then nothing turned out the way she had imagined it would. Nothing ever did.
She had walked away, changed and remade her life before. She could do it again.
But how many times? Erykah wondered how long it would be before she ran out of options. Before she ended up trapped in a dead-end existence, like her mother had done. She shook her head. No. She would not, could not, be like Rainbow. That wasn’t a possibility. She refused to entertain it.
Leonie’s words in Ardgour haunted her. I wished you had come back. Why did she never think going back was an option?
A sculler passed leaning deep into his catches, a woolly hat pulled low on his brow. Most likely he didn’t even see her on the path, and if he did, well, what of it? The sport existed in its own self-contained bubble, everyone fully absorbed in the yearly treadmill of training and competition. Someone who wasn’t in a boat was someone you didn’t know – and therefore didn’t need to know. Civilians. Muggles.
It was funny how fast you could go from being part of the group to being invisible. Not only to the rowers – to anyone. No one who had known her growing up would recognise her now. Right now Rab was the only person who knew about her life in any real way. For better or for worse, he knew her secrets, or most of them. Realising that was something she couldn’t give a name to. She felt like she ought to know what it was, but she didn’t.
She walked slowly, trying to put off the inevitable. How much should she tell Rab about what had happened? How much would he know already? The story about the Major’s body being found on the train was everywhere. The only way he could have missed it would be if he hadn’t turned on the TV. Given that most of his time these days was spent in glassy-eyed silence in front of the tube, that was unlikely.
The Turning Tide Page 29