Deadline

by Terence J. Quinn

  ‘Sorry, Corny, but I gotta get back soon. We need to talk about the video. Did you bring it with you?’

  ‘Of course, sweetheart. It’s right here, on my phone.’ And he rummaged around in a sling bag he’d put on another seat before brandishing a Samsung in the air. ‘Ta da!’

  ‘So how come you got the film?’

  ‘My boyfriend Antonio is related to David Marinello so we got invited to the wedding. Only he got the flu and I went on my own. Tony asked me to take pictures and that so he could see what went on.’ Corny explained that he had followed the newlyweds outside to film them leaving when the atrocity happened. He began to weep.

  Shiv handed him her napkin and took the phone from him. ‘What does it show? The video?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been too scared to look at it.’

  ‘Why not give it to the police?’

  ‘Cos I have a bit of history with the Old Bill. Busted me more than once in the old days before being gay became respectable. So-called public morality offences. Total bollocks, all of it. I’ve still got no love for the cops.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’

  ‘To be honest, dear, I wanted the money so me and Tony could have a right big fabulous wedding.’

  Shiv played the video on mute for about twenty seconds before switching it off. The footage was dark and grainy but, even for a battle-hardened pro like her, it was shocking stuff: raw, visceral … the sheer joy of the happy, laughing couple erased in one bloody thrust of a monstrous blade. She shuddered and drained her glass of wine in one gulp.

  ‘Fuck me, Corny, that was really bad. Trust me, you do not ever want to watch it.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ More tears fell.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not even sure UK Today can use it,’ Shiv told him. ‘The police would go nuts. You do know we’ll have to hand it over? It could provide vital evidence. Might even help catch the killers. The cops will want to speak to you.’

  Corny looked panicked. Shiv felt sorry for him. Maybe he wasn’t the money-grubbing ratbag she had thought he might be, just a harmless guy who had now got himself into a slight pickle. She put her hand on his arm. ‘Look, here’s what we’ll do. You send me a copy of the video now and any pictures you took earlier at the actual wedding, then take it to the police. Tell them you’ve only just realised you might have recorded something important. They won’t believe you, but they won’t be able to prove it.’

  ‘And what about the cash?’

  Shiv’s heart sank. Christ, always the money. ‘Okay, we’ll give you a grand upfront, more if we’re able to use any of it once the dust settles. Now, before you go, I need to ask you a few questions about that night.’

  9

  BORYA BOLSHAKOV watched Jonno’s three-day-old BBC interview on YouTube, a wireless mouse in one hand and a glass of chilled chardonnay in the other. Not just any chardonnay: a 2005 Domaine de la Ramonet Montrachet Grand Cru at more than US$2000 a pop.

  ‘Govno! Suka, blyad.’ The billionaire swore the way only Russians and Glaswegians can: with explosive vowels and lip-smacking relish. He was shocked at what he was seeing, hearing: was this tongue-tied cretin really the man to whom he had entrusted not just his newspaper but his master plan? Maybe Hamish Minto has screwed me? No, he decided. That business with the young Romanian hookers … he knows I could destroy him.

  Then he grimaced. Perhaps it was not so bad. What do they say? No such thing as bad publicity? And, after all, he needed someone soft and malleable in that position. Wasn’t that why he had picked the Australian? Someone who would follow his agenda? Do what he was told? And, if the clumsy performance he had just witnessed was anything to go by, Jonno Bligh was the perfect choice.

  The oligarch was onboard the Ikon in the Mediterranean. The $400 million boat was modest by Russian billionaire standards – a mere 100 metres and dwarfed by Abramovich’s and Melnichenko’s swankier ships. But Bolshy didn’t care; he was long past the stage of look-at-me wealth display. The Ikon was everything he required in a floating office: three decks, eight staterooms and a crew of forty. Plus gym, cinema and Bolshy’s palatial office. Helipad, of course. And the most up-to-date satellite communications systems money could buy.

  An expensive toy, some would say. But Bolshy did not regard Ikon as a toy. To him it was a business necessity, allowing him freedom of movement, flexibility and, above all, maximum privacy. Particularly when it came to his under-the-counter operations. The ship had the fuel range to sail from London to New York. And, if he needed to be somewhere else in the world in a hurry, his helicopter could take him to the nearest airport where his private jet would be waiting.

  Martha Fry had alerted him to the YouTube clip. It had already gone viral on social media. Although it was after midnight, he skyped her. ‘Martha, I –’

  ‘Bolshy? Do you know what the goddamn time is?’ It was the first time the Russian had seen his UK chief without make-up. Dressed in a pale silk wrap, she looked somehow diminished.

  ‘Yes, but I need to speak with you. I just saw our new friend’s comedy show. It is, as you said, like watching train crash.’ He paused, swirling some of the bold yellow wine in his glass. ‘You’ve had a few days to see him in action. What you think? Will he play ball?’

  ‘He was a bit shell-shocked after the interview. I could strangle that freaking Francesca Walker and her jackass husband.’

  ‘You think it will damage him? Us?’

  ‘Yeah, a bit. Peter Horgan – he’s a British media commentator and a total asswipe – tweeted “If Jonno Bligh is an editor, I’m a Vegemite sandwich”. But hey, Carlos has been doing some spinning of our own. Damage control. We said he was fresh off the plane and got ambushed by the wife of a competitor. Conflict of interest, unprofessionalism, yada yada yada. We’re talking to our contacts at the BBC and demanding that Francesca be fired. Basically, we’ve turned the story on its ass.’

  ‘Good. What do you make of him?’

  ‘He’s surprisingly shy. Kinda subdued. Carlos doesn’t like him – thinks he’s too soft, reckons he’ll get slaughtered by the guys in the newsroom. You know what they can be like if they smell blood.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Carlos tomorrow. Do you agree with him?’

  ‘What, that Jonno’s too soft? Not sure. He’s certainly not your usual Hannibal Lecter tabloid editor who eats rookies for breakfast. But I guess that’s why you chose him. Will he play ball with us? Don’t know. Shit, we’ll find out soon enough. But speaking kinda personally, I like the look of him. He’s my type: big, tan, good looking in that ageing surfer dude kinda way.’ She growled like a cougar.

  The Russian laughed. ‘You keep hands off him! He has pretty wife. We need sex problem like hole in head. Have you told him about changes we need?’

  ‘Yeah, I was gonna call you about that. Saw him today. Took it slow, didn’t tell him everything. Just what we’d agreed. He looked as if he’d been handed a shit sandwich but said he’d think about it.’

  ‘You think he’ll do it?’

  ‘Can’t say. Carlos reckons not. He says he’ll start working on a Plan B with Bill Todd. Just in case.’

  ‘Okay, Martha. Now I have to call my papa in Moscow. He is still concerned we are not doing enough. He says –’

  ‘Goddammit Bolshy!’ Martha interrupted. ‘We’re doing everything we can. Your politician buddy must know he has to play ball – from the little you’ve told me, he’s no choice. I don’t know what you’ve got on him and I don’t wanna know. But we have to apply the pressure gently. Big-ass politicians do not like to be bullied.’

  ‘Of course. But you also know what Papochka is like: he always wants to – what you Americans say? Fucking “double-down” on everything? Do I make myself clear?’ Bolshakov’s face brooked no dissent.

  ‘Okay, you’re the boss,’ Martha sighed. ‘Anything to keep your papa happy. But don’t blame me if it comes back and bites us on the butt.’

  10

  THE DOOR burst open, hinges vibr
ating like a tuning fork. Startled, I looked up as a short, fiery figure exploded into my office – face as red as the hair, eyes glowing like rocket afterburners, and mouth twisted in a torrent of four-letter words. I watched, dumbstruck, as my PA, Mrs H, who was half running, half stumbling, followed the crimson tornado through the door.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Bligh,’ she shouted to be heard above the abuse. ‘I told her you were busy but she simply brushed past me and –’

  ‘No worries, Mrs H.’ Apparently no one ever called her by her first name, she was too intimidating. ‘I’ve got this.’

  The red dragon, still snorting fire, had come to a stop in front of my desk, the high-pitched cursing now reduced to a low growl.

  ‘Hello Shiv. You still know how to make an entrance.’

  Shiv O’Shea, pocket rocket and giant of British journalism. She had the build of an Irish jockey but the heart of a Grand National winner. Her oval face, bright red hair and elfin figure made her look like a lollipop but no one ever took her sweetness for granted. Her propensity for self-combustion was famous in the newspaper industry yet was largely tolerated because she was a human conveyor belt when it came to cracking yarns. I went around the desk to give her a hug but she recoiled and slapped a copy of that day’s UKT on my desk.

  ‘Cut the crap, Jonno. I want to talk to you about this piece of shit.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?

  ‘For starters, it’s on page seven. It should have been page one. And second, the fucking subs have cut the guts out of it.’

  ‘You mean your interview with the witness to the Morgan murder? Er, actually it was the lawyers who insisted –’

  ‘Those weasels? For fuck’s sake, are you gonna be the sort of shit editor who gives a toss what those miserable bastards say? That’s all this rag needs. If they had their way, the whole fucking paper would be blank.’

  ‘Well, apparently the police protested to Martha that we had bought and paid for a piece of evidence. They threatened to have us – you, actually – up on charges of perverting the course of justice, hampering a major inquiry and a few more that I hadn’t come across before. Those weasels managed to sort out a deal.’

  ‘Fuckin’ lawyers. That was a great exclusive. The pictures we had were amazing. All wasted.’

  ‘Okay, let’s sit down and talk about it.’

  Shiv (real name Siobhan but the nickname suited her perfectly) quickly calmed down and we talked a little about old times, being careful to avoid any mention of our night together at the British Press Awards. We had always shared a love of great journalism and a prejudice against the British upper class – probably due to her Irish Catholic roots and the colonial chips on both my shoulders.

  She told me that the UKT staff had a book running on how long I’d last as editor: anywhere from a week to three months.

  ‘What’s your money on?’ I asked.

  Shiv smiled. ‘Before I came in here – two weeks. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe two months.’

  ‘I appreciate your confidence. Now, what can you tell me about Borya Bolshakov?’

  She looked at me oddly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason. But you must have done some digging on him.’

  She told me that Bolshakov had been just twenty-three in the early nineties when Mikhail Gorbachev opened up the old corrupt Soviet Union with perestroika. During the chaos that followed, a lot of black market guys like Bolshakov who had been importing or smuggling Western goods saw their chance. ‘A bunch of them went on to bank billions from leveraging state-owned assets as the communist regime collapsed.’

  ‘Stealing them, more like,’ I said.

  ‘Definitely. These young entrepreneurs call themselves oligarchs but the ordinary Russians still label them kleptocrats.’

  ‘So my new boss is basically a billionaire bootlegger? I read somewhere that he’s worth eight billion.’

  ‘About that. He started off importing western goods as a sideline at uni; in the mid-nineties he went on to win some oil and gas tenders in the Komi Republic that became a licence to print roubles. Turned up in London around 2015. Did you know his dad was a KGB sidekick of President Andrei Rodchenko? So there was the young Bolshy with an economics degree and a high-ranking KGB official as a father; that made him ideally placed to take full advantage of all the opportunities.’

  ‘Are you saying he’s bent?’

  ‘Let’s say I trust him as much as I could read Tolstoy’s handwritten manuscript of War and Peace.’

  That reminded me of what Annie had said after the first time she met Bolshy: ‘There’s something dodgy about your new BFF. I can’t put my finger on why but I have a bad feeling about him.’ So much so, she flat out hadn’t wanted me to take the job.

  ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘Varvara Moroshkin. Still uses her maiden name for professional reasons. Like him, she’s a high flyer. Some sort of economist. Works in New York for a Russian bank.’

  ‘Wasn’t there some resistance when Bolshakov bought UK Today? I had already left for LA when it happened.’

  ‘You bet. When Lord Malleson died and his sons were more interested in the dosh than the paper, he suddenly came along with a swag of roubles. It was after his fellow oligarch Alexander Lebedev bought The Independent and the Evening Standard.’

  ‘If I remember right, one of the old directors lobbied hard against him?’

  ‘Colin Wishart. From an old newspaper family. Wishart said that Bolshy was not a fit person to be in charge of a British newspaper.’

  ‘Is Wishart still on the board?’

  Shiv snorted. ‘He’s dead. Stabbed in the street near his townhouse in Bloomsbury. Just another victim of London’s endemic knife crime, according to the police. Two men in hoodies were seen hurrying away; his wallet was missing.’

  ‘Lucky break for Bolshakov,’ I said.

  ‘Dead right. So, Jonno, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Why did he want you as the editor?’

  ‘I do have my good qualities, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen some of them up close and personal.’

  Choosing to ignore that, I mimicked Bolshakov’s accent: ‘You will make UK Today taste like Beluga caviar!’

  11

  THE HIKER took off a fleecy mitten and rubbed stiff, numbed fingers over the letters chiselled into the gritty millstone of the crag. Two sets of initials were tucked snugly into a rough-hewn outline of a heart: FM and JL, plus the date – May 16, 1847.

  Sweet, she thought. I wonder who those two mystery lovers were? In the gathering dusk, cold wind whistling around her ears, she looked at the other names and legends carved into the giant rocks high up on Ilkley Moor. Some went back centuries; there was more graffiti here than in a thousand public toilets.

  She smiled. This was her favourite place in the world – perched up there like an eagle in an eyrie surveying the great expanse of the Wharfe Valley far below. The brown bracken and mauve heather on the moor were punctuated by snowy patches, and the grey and black tarns and becks glinted as the town lights began to twinkle. Her spirit soared along with the large blue-grey bird she spotted high above Hebers Ghyll, not far from her house. A peregrine falcon looking for its supper.

  Her walk had taken her up the ridge and past the Pancake Stone and Haystack Rock, parallel with Backstone Beck before going uphill and on to open moorland. Then on to the Twelve Apostles, a ring of upright stones, before taking a steep path downhill to White Wells. Finally, grateful for her well-worn hiking boots and weatherproof parka, she had skirted a small tarn before crossing a little footbridge and descending to the craggy outcrop known as the Cow and Calf or, as she preferred to call them – the Hangingstone Rocks.

  For once there was no one else around – only one other vehicle in the car park below. Just the way she liked it. She had been coming here since her schooldays but nowadays always avoided this part of the moor at peak periods and school holidays, preferrin
g space, silence and solitude to think, particularly when she was working on a big story. The peace and the panoramic view helped clear her mind, put the facts into proper order.

  This story, she knew, was extra special. Like many scoops, it came from a small, seemingly insignificant detail in a routine report. After a bit of digging, she now had the makings of a story that could severely embarrass the Prime Minister, perhaps even bring his already shaky government down. It would be the biggest story of her career. By a country mile. The thought made her shiver, a mix of pride and apprehension. Sheldon Heginbotham, her news editor at the Yorkshire Telegraph, said that it would be picked up by the nationals as well as television and the foreign media.

  ‘Now then, Barbara lass, I reckon it’s a chuffing great yarn.’ Higgy always called her lass, even though she was in her early forties and had teenage children. Not the most politically correct man in the world but a heart of gold, she reckoned. She had once harboured ambitions to work for one of the London papers – she had the talent – but kids and life had got in the way. ‘But you know what,’ she’d tell colleagues, ‘I don’t regret it for one moment.’ Some of her friends had made the leap. Siobhan O’Shea for instance. She had been her best mate on the journalism training course. Shiv was now a top reporter at UK Today. That reminds me, Barbara thought, I must call her – see what she made of the notes I sent her about Marvell Manufacturing. Knowing Shiv, she’ll do a fantastic follow-up.

  Raising her head, she saw a few pale, puffy clouds still visible against the pewter sky, holding the moon and stars at bay. Time I was getting back while there’s still a little light. Besides, the kids’ tea won’t make itself. She had a torch but the track was rough and uneven underfoot, not for the faint-hearted in the dark.

  On a whim, she decided to take a selfie for her Facebook page. Was there enough light? With the flash, she decided. Her phone was in her knapsack along with an empty water flask and the remains of a salad wrap. Tucking a few grey-blonde wisps of hair into her thermal beanie, she turned to face the hill behind the crags, her back to the valley, and raised the phone. As she smiled for the camera, she sensed rather than saw movement from behind a rock and heard an angry protest as two pigeons launched themselves into the air. A heartbeat later, she felt a sudden, savage thud to her chest.