Ask No Questions

by Claire Allan

  ‘Well look, here’s my advice. Don’t push the Dohertys too hard. We have to do all we can to maintain our reputation as different to the gutter press. We don’t want to be seen to be hounding a grieving family.’

  ‘I’m not hounding them,’ I say, my tone sharp. ‘I’m going through appropriate channels. I’ve made an approach through Lorcan Duffy, their local councillor,’ I continue. ‘I do my job, Ryan, and I do it well, but if you don’t want the story this time, I won’t pursue it. For you.

  ‘But that doesn’t stop me taking a personal interest and if another newspaper feels braver, well, I’m not going to rule out helping them. In my own time, of course. We all know this paper is in trouble and I’m not prepared to sink with it. I want to make a name for myself.’

  He blinks; his mouth opens and shuts. Just as I’m not used to him pulling rank, he’s not used to me pushing back.

  I stand up, ready to make a dramatic exit from the room.

  ‘Ingrid,’ he says as I turn to leave.

  I face him, arms folded across my chest, expression stern.

  ‘I know you think you’re the big “I am” these days, but pride comes before a fall,’ he says. ‘You might think you know it all, but there are times when experience matters more in this industry. There are things more important than bylines and flashy headlines.’

  He is speaking in what I call his ‘arrogant arsehole’ voice. If we were alone, properly alone, I’d call him out on it. Tell him he gets an A plus for being patronising.

  He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. He bows his head and directs his attention at one of the two computer screens in front of him. As far as he is concerned, the conversation is over, but he’s wrong. It’s just on pause. It will resume the next time he slips his arms around my waist and pulls me to him, moaning in my ear that he needs me.

  I stalk back to my desk and sit down. Trina, one of my fellow reporters and the closest thing I have in the office to a real friend, gives me an ‘Is everything okay?’ look.

  I shake my head, roll my eyes. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ I mouth, and she nods.

  The newsroom is, unusually, deathly quiet. Everyone is hard at work, or hard at pretending to work. Even Tommy, our junior reporter who is usually up for a bit of banter, has his head bent low and his fingers are battering his keyboard with unnecessary force. I catch Jim, our very old school and nosy subeditor, glancing up at me, but he looks downwards as soon as he spots I’m looking at him. I know they were all listening. Now I’m seething.

  How did Ryan know I was in Creggan, or that I was talking to Declan Heaney? I take my phone out of my bag, where Declan’s number is now stored along with a recording of our chat in the café. I knew I’d only scratched the surface with him and if I got to speak to him again, I could get more out of him. I just had to be patient. And defy Ryan.

  I’m not denying that Declan is a damaged individual. He’d not been shy about telling me how he has struggled to cope, and hasn’t always made the right decisions, or even good decisions. He has an acute reminder in the shape of his overachieving twin brother that his life could have been very different. I’ve arranged to meet him again next week to chat some more. His story is powerful. It makes for good emotive copy. It illustrates how Kelly and her family were far from the only victims that day.

  I don’t understand why Ryan isn’t crawling all over this.

  I log in and check my email to find a note from Lisa on reception.

  Councillor Duffy called. Can you call him about an interview with the Doherty family.

  He said you’d know what it was about.

  I allow myself a self-satisfied smile.

  Chapter Seven

  Ingrid

  ‘You won’t over-sensationalise it, will you?’ Councillor Lorcan Duffy asks me.

  He’s been appointed as media go-between for the Doherty family and is taking his role exceptionally seriously, even if his understanding of how the media works is limited.

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ I say, and it’s true.

  Some stories don’t need to be sensationalised. They are huge of their own accord. I could outline nothing but the facts of this case and it would be hard-hitting enough. I mean, of course, I will have to write it to have the most impact it can, but I don’t intend to make life more difficult for anyone by overplaying things. I need Lorcan to understand that.

  ‘Look,’ I tell him. ‘Today, it’s me approaching you – but I’m willing to bet I’ll not be the only one. Everyone will want to do an anniversary piece, especially with Jamesy Harte making renewed claims about his innocence. The difference is that I know the Doherty family. I knew Kelly. We went to the same school. I can make this as painless for them as possible. If they tell me the story, give it to me as an exclusive maybe, it might just stop everyone else rattling at their door.’

  There’s an audible intake of breath on the other end of the line. ‘Oh, they wouldn’t like that. Everyone coming to talk to them. Mr Doherty isn’t all that keen in the first place. He doesn’t want to talk at all. He says he doesn’t want to draw attention to them and have everyone poking into their lives.’

  ‘This is how he can take control of the situation,’ I tell him, pulling all of my persuasive tactics out of the box. ‘As you know, the media can be unscrupulous at times. And persistent. If he tells their story to one reporter – a local reporter who they know – that could put an end to it all.’

  ‘That really will be an end to it?’ Councillor Duffy asks.

  ‘Any further queries can be directed to me and I’ll fend them off,’ I say.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, I think I can persuade them to talk to you. I’ll have a word with them. I assume you want to get this in the bag sooner rather than later. When suits and I’ll run it past them?’

  ‘Wednesday is best,’ I say, knowing my diary is usually quiet on that day. I can take my time. Do it properly. Ask questions I can use outside The Chronicle and Ryan’s retrospective and unambitious colour piece. ‘But look, I’ll work around them if Wednesday doesn’t suit. The only request I have is that they don’t talk to anyone else.’

  ‘I’ll make sure of it,’ he says.

  This is perfect. An exclusive, and after I’ve spoken to Jamesy, too. ‘Great,’ I say. ‘I owe you a pint, Lorcan.’

  ‘I’ll have to take you up on that offer sometime,’ he says, and I know he means it. This is not my first encounter with Lorcan Duffy and he has made his intentions quite clear in the past.

  ‘As soon as things are a bit quieter for me,’ I say, knowing full well I’ve no plans at all to slow down on my workload any time soon, never mind meet him for a drink.

  I hang up – and fire a quick email to Ryan letting him know the interview is as good as in the bag. It’s all coming together very nicely indeed.

  I’ve barely noticed the transition from day to evening and from evening into night. I’ve been vaguely aware of my colleagues leaving, of the newsroom getting quieter and eventually falling silent. Another paper has been put to bed and we get to start all over again in the morning.

  Ryan walks up to my desk before he leaves.

  ‘Are we okay?’ he asks.

  I look up at him, blinking.

  ‘Well, I’m okay,’ I tell him, looking back at my screen where I was just putting the finishing touches to an unrelated feature piece set to run in the weekend edition. ‘I wouldn’t dare try to speak for you.’

  ‘Look. Sweetheart,’ he says, and I cringe, biting back the urge to tell him that I am not his sweetheart. We’re not playing that game now. ‘I don’t mean to come across as heavy-handed, but I’m not telling you to go easy for the good of my health. I’m watching out for you.’

  ‘I appreciate the concern, but I can look out for myself,’ I say, still not looking up. ‘And before you get your knickers in a knot, don’t worry, I’ll make it very clear any extra stuff I look into isn’t for The Chronicle. Our precious reputation will be protected.’ Only then
do I look back at him. See him shaking his head.

  ‘You can be such a brat at times. You’re going to get yourself in a whole lot of trouble one of these days, Ingrid. Maybe then you’ll realise I was only trying to help you.’ He perches on the edge of my desk, and I feel him hook a finger under my chin and lift my face towards his. ‘You know I care about you.’

  I’m too angry to listen to him. Too angry to show him any respect, begrudging or otherwise. I shake my head, pull away from his touch.

  ‘Then stop patronising me,’ I say. ‘You’re not my father, so stop treating me like some stupid junior reporter without the sense I was born with. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘I’m not saying you’re stupid. But I am saying you’re in too deep, Ingrid. You’re too close to this and it’s never a good idea to get too close to any story.’

  ‘Ryan, if you don’t mind. I have a lot to do here.’ I nod towards my screen. ‘Can I just get on with it?’

  He shrugs. ‘Just think about what I’m saying,’ he says before he reminds me to lock up when I’m done.

  I mutter ‘Arrogant arsehole,’ under my breath as he leaves, resisting the urge to give a two-fingered gesture to his retreating figure.

  My feature article complete, and filed in the system for editing, I turn my attention back to researching the Doherty case. I want to find out as much as I can about Jamesy Harte’s campaign to have his conviction overturned before I speak to him. But our archives don’t give much to go on. It’s not a case that people have wanted to throw their support behind, not until recently, anyway.

  I figure the best way to start is to look at any contemporaneous court reports from the trial, of which there are many. Putting my cardigan on, I make my way back to the archive room, which is now cold enough that it could double as a fridge if it wanted to. I lift the heavy bound tomes of the relevant year’s papers and carry them back to the newsroom, where I make use of an abandoned desk to flick through them.

  Time passes. I’m not sure how long. The reports are a mixture of long legal arguments and details that make me feel sick to my stomach. I’m sitting, pen in hand, making notes, when a loud rattle of thumping at the doors of the office startles me. Ryan will have locked the door on his way out, brought the shutters to half mast, but it’s not usual for anyone to come near the building in the evening. And certainly not at this time, I think, looking at the clock on the wall to see that it has passed nine.

  Despite the thudding of my heart, I try to convince myself it’s just someone making a nuisance of themselves. If I ignore them, they’ll go away. Still, my attention has been pulled from my work and I’m too jittery to focus on it. Another loud bang, followed by a rattling of the shutters, has me grabbing my phone. I can call the police. I probably should. But then Ryan really would get on his high horse about lone working regulations and I’d not be permitted to stay on past hours any more.

  If I just stay where I am, whoever it is will eventually get bored and leave. I’m sure of it. It’s not like they’ll be able to break in, is it? I sit in silence. Afraid to move. I hear several loud, indiscriminate noises, crashes, something smashing, but it sounds too muffled to be one of the windows. Eventually, it goes quiet and I slowly exhale, only to be startled again by a loud thump to the newsroom window. The blinds are closed. Whoever it is can’t see in, but I can’t see out, either. I look at my phone. Maybe I really should phone the police.

  But there is no more noise. Not a peep. I try to get back to work, but I’m too rattled and even though I’m sure whoever it was is long gone, I don’t want to be here any more. After fifteen or so minutes, I decide to go home.

  My nerves are on high alert as I lock up and I keep my keys bunched in my hand ready to hit out at any attacker who might jump out at me. I scurry to the far end of the car park, cursing myself for parking so far away from the building. Only when I get closer to my car do I see that the driver’s window has been smashed and something has been spray painted across the bonnet.

  I look around, again worried someone is watching and waiting. My heart thuds and I’m not sure what to do. Do I run back to the office and try to get back inside? I’m gripping my keys so tightly I can feel them threaten to break the skin. A car passes, its lights illuminating all around me. There is no one else here but me, but still I can’t stop shaking.

  In the darkness I struggle to make out what the spray-painted word says, but as my eyes adjust, I clearly see the word ‘scum’. I decide the best thing to do is just to get the hell out of here, as quickly as I can, so I pull on my leather gloves and open the driver’s door, prepared to brush any broken glass out of the way so I can drive off. But there is a rock there, obviously the one used to smash in the window, and around it is a lined page of a notebook, bound with an elastic band. I pull the paper free and unfold it.

  Words are scrawled in thick black marker, in block capitals:

  LET THE MURDERING PAEDO ROT OR IT WON’T BE A WARNING NEXT TIME.

  Chapter Eight

  Ingrid

  Scared. Scared and embarrassed. Shamed. Angry. Scared again. Emotions swirl through me, clashing and changing and smashing together as I drive home. My heart is still racing. My foot is shaky on the clutch. I have already stalled at two junctions. What will people think when they see my battered car drive along the streets? When they read ‘scum’, what conclusion will they draw about me?

  I’m not scum. I’m a reporter doing my job. People want to read the news. They gobble up whatever we provide them. But people are never considered ‘scum’ for reading, are they?

  I hear the loud honk of a car horn, glance up and realise I’ve cut someone off without even realising. I shake my head. I have to stay focused.

  I’ll have to get the car to the garage first thing, I think. Get them to fix it as soon as possible. Get them to keep it quiet. I don’t want to report this to the police. If I do, there isn’t a hope in hell that Ryan won’t find out about it and he’ll be all over me with his ‘I told you so’ smugness. He might pull me from the story.

  My head is throbbing now, my face blazing as I drive – too embarrassed to stop at the off-licence for a bottle of wine, or at the Chinese for a takeaway. I don’t want people seeing. I pray that the dimly lit parking space at the far corner of the communal car park is empty. I want to park where as few people as possible can see my car.

  For a moment I wonder if I’m being followed. I look into the rear-view mirror and notice the same silver car has been behind me for at least the last five minutes. I’m starting to get really spooked, when it indicates and turns off to the left. Still, I don’t relax. I don’t relax even when I park in the mercifully free parking spot, or when I cover the broken window with a makeshift repair of a bin bag and duct tape.

  I stand in the rain, shivering with a mixture of adrenaline and cold. I just want to be in my flat. Behind a locked door. With the safety chain on, the curtains pulled, the entire world locked outside.

  I’m still jittery as I pour the dregs of a bottle of wine into my glass and gulp it down. I drop two slices of bread into the toaster for a quick dinner and flick the kettle on. I’m not used to feeling unsettled, even though I am used to people hurling abuse at me, or threatening me. I’ve even had one or two death threats in my time. It comes with the territory of journalism, I suppose. But this? This feels different.

  Normally, it’s just people letting off steam. They shout and roar and send angry emails in a pique of their own grief and fear. People who are programmed to think all journalists are bottom feeders. Their anger fizzes out as quickly as it erupted. The death threats are more likely to come from bored keyboard warriors who only know how to talk the language of extremist Internet messaging boards. All bluff and bluster. But this … this is not like that.

  Nothing about this story feels right.

  Not Ryan’s reaction to my suggestions.

  Not the way Declan Heaney had refused to say more after telling me he was sure that Jamesy Harte could
n’t have been Kelly’s killer.

  ‘We don’t need to talk about that any more, do we?’ Declan had said, pouring a second cup of tea out of the pot, hot tea leaking from the tin spout and trickling onto the table.

  He didn’t make eye contact, but I knew he was done talking about Kelly and Jamesy and the aftermath of that horrific afternoon, and it would be unfair of me to pursue it further.

  I’d reached across the table to rest my hand on his. He’d startled at my touch as if he wasn’t used to feeling the warmth of human contact. His hands were cold, thin, and his knuckles protruded like pebbles.

  ‘Of course we don’t. Well, not all the time, anyway,’ I’d said. It wouldn’t have done to go too far off topic for too long.

  ‘Dead on,’ he’d replied with a weak smile. ‘You know, sometimes it messes with my head too much.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I’d told him, and that much was true.

  ‘And I’m fed up of listening to my own voice anyway,’ he’d said. ‘How’re you, Ingrid? Life seems to be treating you well.’

  I’d smiled at him. Life was treating me well. It had its ups and downs, of course. But in the grand scheme of things – especially compared to Declan – I couldn’t, or shouldn’t, complain.

  That’s what I’d thought earlier, anyway, before my car was attacked.

  Maybe I’d have to watch my step a little with this one. Someone clearly wasn’t happy at having me snoop around.

  Chapter Nine

  Ingrid

  Friday, 18 October 2019

  I’ve had the nightmare again. The one I had throughout my teenage years. It’s been a long time since it bothered me, but here I am, shivering in my bed, my nightclothes damp with cooling sweat as scattered images jump about in my mind.

  I woke myself up with my shouting. I’ve put the bedside light on. It’s past 5 a.m. and already I’m thinking I won’t go back to sleep. I don’t want to risk slipping back into that dream.