by Ken Follett
As Cole walked back to his desk with his paper cup, the far door bumped open. A short, gray-haired figure came in, wearing a bulky parka and cycle clips. Cole waved and called: "Morning, George."
"Hello, Arthur. Cold enough for you?" George began to take off his coat. The body inside it was small and thin. Despite his age, George held the title Head Lad: he was chief of the office's team of messengers. He lived in Potters Bar and cycled to work. Arthur thought that an astonishing feat.
Arthur put down his tea, shrugged out of his raincoat, turned on the radio, and sat down. The radio began to murmur. He sipped tea and gazed straight ahead. The newsroom was scruffy--chairs were scattered randomly, newspapers and sheets of copy paper littered the desks, and redecoration had been postponed in last year's economy drive--but the scene was too familiar to register. Cole's mind was on the first edition, which would be on the streets in three hours.
Today's paper would have sixteen pages. Fourteen of the first edition's pages already existed as semicylindrical metal plates on the press downstairs. They contained advertising, features, television programs, and news written in such a way that its age would--it was hoped--be overlooked by the reader. That left the back page for the sports editor and the front page for Arthur Cole.
Parliament, a strike, and inflation--they were all yesterday stories. There was not much he could do with them. Any of them could be dressed up with a today intro, like "Cabinet Ministers today held an inquest on the Government's narrow escape . . ." There was one of those for every situation. Yesterday's disaster became today's news story with "Dawn today revealed the full horror . . ." Yesterday's murder benefited from "Detectives today searched London for the man who . . ." Arthur's problem had given birth to scores of cliche's. In a civilized society, he thought, when there was no news there would be no newspapers. It was an old thought, and he brushed it out of his mind impatiently.
Everyone accepted that the first edition was rubbish three days out of six. But that gave no comfort, because it was the reason Arthur Cole had the job of producing that edition. He had been deputy news editor for five years. Twice during that period the news editor's chair had fallen vacant, and both times a younger man than Cole had been promoted. Someone had decided that the number-two job was the limit of his capabilities. He disagreed.
The only way he could demonstrate his talent was by turning out an excellent first edition. Unfortunately, how good the edition was depended largely upon luck. Cole's strategy was to aim for a paper which was consistently slightly better than the opposition's first edition. He thought he was succeeding: whether anyone upstairs had noticed, he had no idea; and he would not let himself worry about it.
George came up behind him and dumped a pile of newspapers on his desk. "Young Stephen's reported sick again," he grumbled.
Arthur smiled. "What is it--a hangover or a runny nose?"
"Remember what they used to tell us? 'If you can walk, you can work.' Not this lot."
Arthur nodded.
"Am I right?" George said.
"You're right." The two of them had been Lads together on the Post. Arthur had got his NUJ card after the war. George, who had not been called up, had remained a messenger.
George said: "We were keen. We wanted to work."
Arthur picked up the top newspaper from the pile. This was not the first time George had complained about his staff, nor the first time Arthur had commiserated with him. But Arthur knew what was wrong with the Lads of today. Thirty years ago, a smart Lad could become a reporter; nowadays, that road was closed. The new system had a double impact: bright youngsters stayed at school instead of becoming messengers; and those who did become messengers knew they had no prospects, so they did as little work as they could get away with. But Arthur could not say this to George, because it would call attention to the fact that Arthur had done so much better than his old colleague. So he agreed that the youth of today were rotten.
George seemed disposed to persist with his grouse. Arthur cut him off by saying: "Anything on the overnight wire?"
"I'll get it. Only I've got to do all the papers myself--"
"I'd better see the wire copy first." Arthur turned away. He hated to pull rank. He had never learned to do it naturally, perhaps because he took no pleasure in it. He looked at the Morning Star: they had led with the industry bill.
It was unlikely that there would be any national news on the teletype yet; it was too early. But foreign news came in sporadically during the night, and more often than not it included one story which could be the splash, in a pinch. Most nights there was a major fire, a multiple murder, a riot, or a coup somewhere in the world. The Post was a London paper and did not like to lead with foreign news unless it was sensational; but it might be better than "Cabinet Ministers today held an inquest . . ."
George dumped a sheet of paper several feet long on his desk. Not cutting the sheet into individual stories was his way of showing displeasure. He probably wanted Arthur to complain, so that he could point out how much work there was for him to do with the early Lad off sick. Arthur fumbled in his desk for scissors, and began to read.
He went through a political story from Washington, a Test Match report, and a Middle East roundup. He was halfway through a minor Hollywood divorce when the phone rang. He picked it up and said: "News desk."
"I've got an item for your gossip column." It was a man's voice, with a broad Cockney accent.
Cole was instantly skeptical. This was not the voice of a man who would have inside information on the love lives of the aristocracy. He said: "Good. Would you like to tell me your name?"
"Never mind about that. Do you know who Tim Fitzpeterson is?"
"Of course."
"Well, he's making a fool of himself with a redhead. She must be twenty years younger than him. Do you want his phone number?"
"Please." Cole wrote it down. He was interested now. If a Minister's marriage had broken up, it would make a good story, not just a gossip item. "Who's the girl?" he said.
"Calls herself an actress. Truth is, she's a brass. Just give him a ring right away, and ask him about Dizi Disney." The line went dead.
Cole frowned. This was a little odd: most tipsters wanted money, especially for news of this kind. He shrugged. It was worth checking out. He would give it to a reporter later on.
Then he changed his mind. Innumerable stories had been lost forever by being put aside for a few minutes. Fitzpeterson might leave for the House or his Whitehall office. And the informant had said: "Give him a ring right away."
Cole read the number off his notebook and dialed.
SEVEN A.M.
4
"Have you ever watched yourself doing it in the mirror?" she had asked; and when Tim admitted he had not, she insisted they try it. They were standing in front of the full-length glass in the bathroom when the phone rang. The noise made Tim jump, and she said: "Ouch! Careful."
He wanted to ignore it, but the intrusion of the outside world took away his desire. He left her, and went into the bedroom. The phone was on a chair underneath a pile of her clothes. He found it and lifted the receiver. "Yes?"
"Mr. Fitzpeterson?" It was the voice of a middle-aged man with a London accent. He sounded slightly asthmatic.
"Yes. Who is that?"
"Evening Post, sir. I'm sorry to call you so early. I have to ask you whether it's true you're getting divorced."
Tim sat down heavily. For a moment he was unable to speak.
"Are you there, sir?"
"Who the devil told you that?"
"The informant mentioned a woman called Dizi Disney. Do you know her?"
"I've never heard of her." Tim was regaining his composure. "Don't wake me up in the morning with idle rumors." He put the phone down.
The girl came into the bedroom. "You look quite white," she said. "Who was it?"
"What's your name?" he snapped.
"Dizi Disney."
"Jesus Christ." His hands were trembling. He
clenched his fists and stood up. "The papers have got hold of a whisper that I'm getting divorced!"
"They must hear that sort of thing about famous people all the time."
"They mentioned your name!" He slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand. "How could they find out so quickly? What am I going to do?"
She turned her back on him and put her panties on.
He stared out of the window. The gray Rolls was still there, but now it was empty. He wondered where the driver had gone. The stray thought annoyed him. He tried to assess the situation coolly. Someone had seen him leave a club with the girl, and phoned the information to a reporter. The informant had built the incident up for dramatic effect. But Tim was sure no one had seen them enter the flat together.
"Listen," he said. "Last night you said you weren't feeling well. I took you out of the club and got a taxi. The cab dropped me off, then took you home. All right?"
"Whatever you say," she said uninterestedly.
Her attitude infuriated him. "For God's sake, this involves you!"
"I think my part in it is over."
"What does that mean?"
There was a knock at the door.
Tim said: "Oh, Jesus, no."
The girl zipped up her dress. "I'll go."
"Don't be such a damn fool." He grabbed her arm. "You mustn't be seen here, don't you understand? Stay here in the bedroom. I'll open the door. If I have to ask them in, just keep quiet until they go."
He put on his underwear shorts and struggled into his dressing gown as he crossed the living room. There was a tiny hall, and a front door with a peephole. Tim swung the flap aside and put an eye to the glass.
The man outside looked vaguely familiar. He had the face of a boxer. Broad-shouldered and well built, he would have been a heavyweight. He wore a gray coat with a velvet collar. Tim put his age at late twenties. He did not look like a newspaper reporter.
Tim unbolted the door and opened it. "What is it?" he said.
Without speaking, the man pushed Tim aside, stepped in, and closed the door behind him. He walked into the living room.
Tim took a deep breath and tried not to panic. He followed the man. "I'm going to call the police," he said.
The man sat down. He called: "Are you in there, Dizi?"
The girl came to the bedroom door.
The man said: "Make us a cup of tea, girl."
"Do you know him?" Tim asked her incredulously.
She ignored him and went into the kitchen.
The man laughed. "Know me? She works for me."
Tim sat down. "What is this all about?" he said weakly.
"All in good time." The man looked around. "I can't say you've got a nice place here, because you haven't. I expected you to have something a bit flash--know what I mean? By the way, in case you haven't recognized me, I'm Tony Cox." He stuck out his hand. Tim ignored it. Cox said: "Please yourself."
Tim was remembering--the face and the name were familiar. He thought Cox was a fairly wealthy businessman, but he could not recall what his business was. He thought he had seen the man's picture in a newspaper--something to do with raising money for boys' clubs in the East End.
Cox jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Did you enjoy her?"
"For God's sake," Tim said.
The girl came in, carrying two mugs on a tray. Cox asked her: "Did he enjoy it?"
"What do you think?" she said sourly.
Cox took out his wallet and counted out some bills. "Here you are," he said to her. "You done a good job. Now you can fuck off."
She took the money and put it in a handbag. She said: "You know, Tone, I think the thing I like most about you is your beautiful manners." She went out without looking at Tim.
Tim thought: I've made the biggest mistake of my life.
As the girl left, the door slammed.
Cox winked. "She's a good girl."
"She's the lowest form of human life," Tim spat.
"Now, don't be like that. She's just a good actress. She might have got into films if I hadn't of found her first."
"I presume you're a ponce."
Anger flashed in Cox's eyes, but he controlled it.
"You'll regret that little joke," he said mildly. "All you need to know about me and Dizi is that she does what I tell her to. If I say 'Keep your mouth shut,' she does. And if I say 'Tell the nice man from the News of the World how Mr. Fitzpeterson seduced you,' she will. Know what I mean?"
Tim said: "I suppose it was you who contacted the Evening Post."
"Don't worry! Without confirmation, they can't do a thing. And only three people can confirm the story: you, Dizi, and me. You're not going to say anything, Dizi's got no will of her own, and I can keep a secret."
Tim lit a cigarette. He was finding his confidence again. Cox was just a working-class hoodlum, despite his velvet collar and his gray Rolls-Royce. Tim had the feeling he could handle the man. He said: "If this is blackmail, you're on to a loser. I haven't any money."
"Quite warm in here, isn't it?" Cox stood up and took his coat off. "Well," he resumed, "if you haven't got money, we'll have to think of something else you can give me."
Tim frowned. He was lost again.
Cox continued: "In the last few months, half a dozen or so companies have put in bids for drilling rights in a new oil field called Shield, right?"
Tim was astonished. Surely this crook could not be connected with any of those respectable companies? He said: "Yes, but it's too late for me to influence the result--the decision has been made. It will be announced this afternoon."
"Don't jump to conclusions. I know it's too late to change it. But you can tell me who's won the license."
Tim stared. Was that all he wanted? It was too good to be true! He said: "What possible use could you have for that sort of information?"
"None, really. I'm going to trade it for another piece of information. I've got a deal going with this gent, see. He doesn't know how I get my inside dope, and he doesn't know what I do with the stuff he tells me. That way he keeps his nose clean. Know what I mean? Now, then: who gets the license?"
It was so easy, Tim thought. Two words, and the nightmare would be over. A breach of confidence like this could ruin his career: but then, if he did not do it, his career was finished anyway.
Cox said: "If you're not sure what to do, just think of the headlines. 'The Minister and the Actress. He wouldn't make an honest woman of me, showgirl weeps.' Remember poor old Tony Lambton?"
"Shut up," Tim said. "It's Hamilton Holdings."
Cox smiled. "My friend will be pleased," he said. "Where's the phone?"
Tim jerked a thumb. "Bedroom," he said wearily.
Cox went into the room, and Tim closed his eyes. How naive he had been, to think that a young girl like Dizi could fall head over heels in love with someone like him. He was a patsy in some elaborate scheme which was much bigger than petty blackmail.
He could hear Cox speaking. "Laski? It's me. Hamilton Holdings. You got that? Announcement this afternoon. Now, what about your end?" There was a pause. "Today? Terrific. You've made my day, pal. And the route?" Another pause. "What do you mean, you think it's the usual? You're supposed--okay, okay. So long."
Tim knew of Laski--he was an aging City whiz kid--but he was emotionally too exhausted to feel appropriately astonished. He could believe anything of anyone now.
Cox came back in. Tim stood up. Cox said: "Well, a successful little morning, one way and another. And don't feel too bad about it. After all, it was the best night's nooky you'll ever have."
"Are you going to leave now, please?" Tim said.
"Well, there is one more little matter to discuss. Give us your dressing gown."
"Why?"
"I'll show you. Come on."
Tim was too battered to argue. He slipped the robe off his shoulders and handed it over. He stood in his shorts, waiting.
Cox threw the garment to one side. "I want you to remember that word 'ponce,' "
he said. Then he punched Tim in the stomach.
Tim turned away and doubled over in agony. Cox reached out, grabbed his genitals in one huge hand, and squeezed. Tim tried to scream, but he had no breath. His mouth gaped in a soundless howl as he tried desperately to suck air.
Cox let go and kicked him. Tim toppled to the floor. He curled up there, and his eyes flooded with tears. He had no pride, no dignity left. He said: "Please don't hurt me anymore."
Tony Cox smiled and put his coat on. "Not just yet," he said. Then he went away.
5
The Hon. Derek Hamilton woke up with a pain. He lay in bed with his eyes shut while he traced the discomfort to his abdomen, examined it, and graded it bad but not incapacitating. Then he recalled last night's dinner. Asparagus mousse was harmless; he had refused seafood pancakes; his steak had been well done; he had taken cheese in preference to apple tart. A light white wine, coffee with cream, brandy--
Brandy. Damn, he should stick to port.
He knew how the day would go. He would do without breakfast, and by midmorning the hunger would be as bad as the ulcer pain, so he would eat something. By lunchtime the hunger would be back and the ulcer would be worse. During the afternoon some trivial thing would irritate him beyond all reason, he would yell at his staff, and his stomach would ball into a knot of pain which made him incapable of thinking at all. He would go home and take too many painkillers. He would sleep, wake with a headache, eat dinner, take sleeping pills, and go to bed.
At least he could look forward to bedtime. He rolled over, yanked open the drawer of the bedside table, found a tablet, and put it in his mouth. Then he sat up and picked up his cup of tea. He sipped, swallowed, and said: "Good morning, dear."
"Morning." Ellen Hamilton sat on the edge of the twin bed, wearing a silk robe, perching her cup on one slender knee. She had brushed her hair already. Her nightwear was as elegant as the rest of her large wardrobe, despite the fact that only he ever saw it, and he was not interested. That did not matter, he surmised: it was not that she wanted men to desire her--only that she should be able to think of herself as desirable.
He finished his tea and swung his legs to the floor. His ulcer protested at the sudden movement, and he winced with pain.
Ellen said: "Again?"