by Phil Walden
Struggling to find a space on the crowded grass verge, he managed to squeeze between an ambulance and one of a host of police vehicles now in attendance at the location. Further up the track he had passed a similar gathering, this time supervising the recovery of a body swept downstream and its removal to a black van drawn up nearby. He walked onto the bridge. A mobile crane had been edged carefully into position at the side of the river, its extending legs supporting the vehicle on the bank. He spotted Start and Olivia, both sporting dressings around their heads, leaning against his cab and in deep conversation with a man down by the water’s edge.
A chain unfurled from the crane and splashed into the water. Two wet suited divers slipped into the water and with a swish of their flippers disappeared.
Thorne swung back around. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
Olivia gently fingered the bandage. “It looks worse than it is. How’s Angel?”
“It’s too early to say.”
The line into the water creaked in complaint as it was drawn taut. An engine powered up and the chain began to turn.
Thorne looked out across the fields, still and tamed under the bright sunlight and clear, blue sky. “You know the body tends to recover quickly. But the mind, that can take much longer. People come here to recover. They think they can retreat, hide and forget. They feel safe. Here, everything is open. You can see for miles. But they’re mistaken. They misunderstand this place. There are still surprises, secrets, shocks.”
“And dykes deep enough to swallow a car,” Start said.
The outline of a silver roof broke the surface of the water. As it rose higher, torrents of water cascaded from the rusty shell of the porter’s car. A number plate precariously held in place by one screw swayed as the wreck was slowly swung towards the bank.
Thorne shook Olivia’s hand. He then grasped Start’s.
“You should learn from the sheep. Wise creatures. When the dogs circle, the flock packs together. They feel protected, secure in numbers. Less chance of being picked off.”
“Is that your professional advice?” asked Start.
Thorne smiled. “You want me to spell it out?” He raised a hand in farewell. “Go back to London, Start. There are no answers for you here.”
Ed Donnelly had also rung Deacon very early that morning. Coburn’s personal assistant had been in contact to say that the chief was not weekending away after all. Instead, he would be in to supervise and edit the next day’s edition. It was rare for Coburn to serve notice and extraordinary, even for him, to want such a degree of control. Donnelly went on to describe how his boss had been aghast at Devaney’s triumph, authorising an all-out attack upon the Opposition leader, a line distinctly and unusually at odds with the prevailing and favourable public reaction to the outcome of the 1900 Committee meeting. Particularly puzzling was the fact that Harry Spenser was the focus of extensive praise for his role in attempts to modernise the party, and that the editorial written by Coburn chose to portray him as a leader in waiting.
It was now all clear to Deacon. The phone message delivered into Simon’s ear on the twenty ninth floor of The Shard told of Devaney’s refusal to endorse Spenser, of his shrewd political manoeuvrings, his success in maintaining his control and preserving his leadership, and the impossibility of a coup at this present time. But Deacon realised the Zealots would not give up. There would be more secret gatherings, a fresh plan and a new timetable. The government within would live on, its plot far from abandoned, merely put on hold. They would get stronger and they would come again.
Deacon dropped down from the bridge. It was time to put his two colleagues to work. Start had his story. The mystery of Angel was solved, the culprit had met an ignominious end and Faversham was under arrest pending a full scale police enquiry into his tenure at the school. But there was a far bigger story begging, one which would bring him and Start closure and shake the very foundations of every major institution in the nation. And there were questions too still to be answered. Who was Judas? How did he have such a hold on key figures in the Establishment? Just how high and deep did the conspiracy reach? He could expose the Zealots and ask those questions but at present he knew it was futile. He did not stand a chance. Any voicemail evidence would be inadmissible in the current climate. What else did he have? Nothing which would not be down to his word, the word of a disgraced washed up editor, against that of some of the most powerful figures in the nation. No, he couldn’t do this, not on his own.
Deacon studied Start as he approached the group. He was definitely thinner and appeared fitter. The smoking and drinking, if not fully conquered, were certainly curtailed. Just as he thought, Olivia had been good for him. She had all the bravery, skill, anger and sheer bloody minded determination that Start had possessed at her age. Just as Deacon had hoped, Start had seen in her everything he had ceased to be.
He shouted across to them, “Don’t just stand there gawping, you two. Time you gave this paper its biggest splash in years.”
Olivia made to move towards him but stopped when she realised Start was not budging. “You coming?”
He shook his head. “No.” He watched her surprised and disappointed face. For once she looked vulnerable but he remained unmoved. She’d made him care once again, igniting a long dead spark buried deep within his soul. But this reawakening, he convinced himself, was down to professional pride, even a touch of jealousy rather than anything else. Whatever Thorne said, however much Deacon went on at him, he simply wasn’t ready. “I’m staying here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You take it.”
“What? Me? On my own?”
“Why not? You did all the hard work.”
“I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”
“No arguments. This could be your big break.”
“The story’s as much yours as it is mine.”
“You deserve it.” He reached out and gripped her hand. “It’s yours, Olivia. Go make your name.”
Deacon sighed as he watched Start wave her away. His friend’s journey back had stalled. No matter. If the mysterious Judas and his fellow conspirators could wait, then so could he. One thing the whole Angel affair had told him was that pretty soon Joe Start would be ready, strong enough once again to tackle and expose the corrupt and the dishonest wherever they resided in British society.
He fumbled in his jacket pocket and whipped out a large crumpled envelope. “Oh, I nearly forgot. This came for you first thing this morning.” His finger pointed to the word URGENT stamped in the corner. “Paula said it was delivered by courier.”
Start took it and watched Deacon and Olivia pace away. She turned twice to look back at him. Then, abruptly, she stopped. She had intended to tell him several times but had stalled on each occasion, not at all sure of how he would react. To tell him that it wasn’t desperation that drove her to seek an internship at the Eastern Mail. Nor was it coincidence which had seen her assigned to his tutorial care.
The truth was she had targeted him months back. The opportunity to finish an apprenticeship with one of the nation’s best would have been impossible had he maintained his position at the Globe. But it became tantalisingly possible after he had fled the capital to scrape a living in this remote backwater. She had tracked him down and worked hard on an editor who was initially reluctant but eventually gave in. The experience proved to be everything she had hoped for. Not only did she learn so much about the profession but also unexpectedly a lot more about herself; that she was tough, talented and direct enough to hack it with the best, that the deep seated insecurities embedded since her teenage years could be overcome. Whether it was what he said or what he did was immaterial.
She strode back towards him. She looked him directly in the eye for several seconds but no words escaped her mouth. Instead, she found herself leaning into him, wrapping her hands around his neck and pulling him towards her. The kiss was formal at best. Neither his lips nor hers moved. They merely pressed long and har
d against each other. She stepped back. His expression was soft and gentle, belying the cold sentence he delivered by way of goodbye.
“You still here?”
She smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m going.” Something inside her, whether a sense of growing emotional attachment or further professional hunger, told her that she would work with him again, somewhere, sometime.
Start watched her slope away. He ripped open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Before he could look at it, his mobile rang.
“Yes,” he snapped, slinging the sheet into the car and pacing away along the river bank.
Trisha’s upset voice crackled down the phone. “So you were right…about Tom.”
“I guess so.”
“I can’t take it in.” She sounded upset.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“It’s all such a shock.”
“You weren’t to know.”
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
Trisha paused, struggling to hold back the tears. She took a deep breath. She had to know. “I take it Start the Shark is well and truly back?”
“Your words, not mine.”
“London’s calling, Joe.”
“Sorry, Trish. The line’s really bad.”
“Joe?”
“You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.”
Start cut the call and walked on. The abandoned sheet of paper lay on the driver’s seat of his cab. It was a photograph. A shark was strung up by the tail fin. Its underside had been slit along the full length of the body, its bloody innards spilling out onto the ground below.