And then, like the peregrine, she was flying …
12
A RARE shaft of pale November sunlight slanted through the tinted newsroom windows as I picked my way through the various news, photo, features and sports pods. A raft of reporters worked on late stories, the men with ties loosened, the women with shoes kicked off, all working the phones and tapping their keyboards. The TV monitors high on the walls and pillars tuned to news channels burbled in the background. Around me, the jungle was stirring into life as dusk approached.
I reached the News Hub, a huge round table slap-bang in the middle of the hangar-sized room with the various editorial sections – news, features, sport, and the rest – fanning out from it like spokes in a wheel. The assortment of glowing and beeping hi-tech stuff on top made it look like the helm of the Starship Enterprise. There were comfortable seats for about eight section heads including the content kings – the news and picture editors, who were discussing staff stories, reviewing agency copy and selecting freelance photos. Night editor Mike Kelly and the design editor were sketching out the key news pages.
Vernon Sharp looked up at me with a smug smile. ‘Looks like another good ’un.’
‘What’s today’s special?’ I asked. It was still half an hour before the late news conference but it was always useful to get an early heads-up.
‘Have you heard of Jacky James?’
‘The wrinkly pop star? Course I have. What about him?’
‘Well, it seems Sir Jacky has been a naughty boy. Once upon a time, the young ladies used to take their pants off and throw them at him. Now, allegedly, he’s the one taking his off and throwing them at the young ladies.’
I whistled softly. Jacky James had been just as big in Australia. His seventies hit ‘Tick-Tock Rock’ was in the charts for months and even now it was still played on radio. Here in the UK he was regarded as something of a national treasure. Forty years after he and the likes of David Bowie and Elton John had been early adopters of glam rock, he had been knighted for services to music and charity.
I sighed. ‘Lord, what a bloody idiot!’ He must be, what … in his seventies?’
Sharp snorted. ‘At least! Thing is, he’s a poster boy for the Catholic Church. Since the early days. Reckons he was “saved” by a priest when he first found fame. Got into all sort of bother with sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll but then this monsignor guy sorted him out and, behold, the Blessed Jacky was born again. Been doing charity stuff for the Church ever since.’
For decades, according to Sharp, Jacky James had been invited to Catholic schools and other institutions around the country. He would get down on his knees and pray with the students. Now it seemed that the ageing pop star had forced many of the young fans to get down on their knees for other, non-religious reasons.
‘Where did the story come from?’ I asked.
‘A showbiz freelance,’ Sharp said. ‘Offered it to us first. Cost us thirty grand if we want it exclusive, boss. I reckon it’s worth it – she’s got chapter and verse from Jacky’s former tour manager. Guy called Archie Ingles. You know: sorted his travel, packed his bags and lined up the best-looking schoolgirls. Ingles got the sack after a drug arrest. Anyway, we’ve first dibs on his exclusive story: “Pop goes the weasel – the Jacky James I knew and hated.”’
‘Sad, really,’ I said. ‘All those years he looked so squeaky clean. Just like Jimmy Savile, I guess. The lawyers will do overtime on that story.’
‘I’ll send Freddie Solomon to talk to Ingles first, make sure the guy’s kosher.’ Freddie was a feature writer who specialised in in-depth kiss-and-tell interviews. Legend had it that he could extract a ton of marrow from the bones of a budgie.
‘Make sure it’s all copper-bottomed. Signed statements, affidavits, the lot.’
Sharp nodded. He reckoned once we splashed it, dozens more victims would come out of the woodwork. ‘We think the randy old sod is still at it, even now. The Catholic hierarchy will cream their collective cassocks when they read this stuff, pardon the pun.’
* * *
He was right. That same night I got a personal call from the country’s top Catholic. At Finkelstein’s insistence, we had already splashed the Jacky James scandal on our website and His Eminence Cardinal Declan Dougan knew all about it.
‘Mr Bligh, we have not yet met, but Father Benjamin Lafferty has provided me with some interesting details about you.’ The cardinal’s voice was careful, clipped and precise. A slight hint of an Irish accent.
Bugger me, I thought. Big Ben was the headmaster of St Jude’s – the Jesuit school that had expelled me more than twenty years before. St Jude, aptly, is the patron saint of lost causes. How the devil had the cardinal found out about that? But then I realised … the Catholic Church is a global network and it would have been easy to check me out.
‘Um, how is Big Ben – I mean Father Lafferty?’
‘Not well, alas. I believe he has a heart problem.’
Yeah, probably having trouble finding it.
‘Now, Mr Bligh, I want to talk to you about a story in your newspaper. It concerns Sir Jacky James, a man who has done a great deal for the Church over many years. A good man. A man of faith. But my colleagues in the media office tell me that his reputation has been besmirched.’
Besmirched? Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I almost laughed at the archaic word but the red hat carried on without pause.
‘I wanted to tell you personally that, if you persist with these wild and completely unwarranted accusations, then the Church will not take it lightly.’
‘Is that a threat, Your Eminence?’ Some things never bloody change. I told him that UK Today was indeed publishing serious allegations of sexual misconduct involving minors and that the public had every right to know what sort of man he really was.
‘That’s a pity. Father Lafferty did say you were rather headstrong. What I am now about to say to you should not be construed as a threat, it is more like a sacred pledge. Unless you desist from this sensationalist tabloid nonsense, I will instruct every parish priest throughout the British Isles to denounce your publication from the pulpit next Sunday. And I will ask them to encourage members of their congregations who may, misguidedly, be readers of your newspaper, to cancel their subscriptions immediately.’
‘Now wait a min–’
‘Good night to you, Mr Bligh. And may Almighty God help you see the error of your ways.’ He uttered the last bit in dark, ponderous tones as if he was administering the Last Rites before I went to the electric chair.
The lawyers had put up a fight. They were seriously unhappy that one of their pop heroes was being ‘trashed’, as one of them put it, but had finally signed off on the story with a few amendments and redactions.
It was after midnight when a taxi arrived at the office from the printing plant with a freshly minted copy of the final edition.
The front-page headline read: SIR JACKY ROCKED BY UNDER-AGE SEX CLAIM
13
SEVERAL WEEKS went by in a blur of one-on-one meetings with editorial staff and marketing people. Bolshy called me a few times. On the face of it, he was full of charm and bonhomie. The script was always the same. ‘How is paper doing? Is your hotel suite comfortable? When is Annie coming to London? Is there anything I can do to make life better?’
Another time he rang out of the blue and complimented me on the paper. ‘It is more like Beluga already!’ he said before inviting Annie and me to an upcoming Bolshoi Ballet performance at the Royal Opera House. His private box, of course.
But every time the Russian called, the conversation would always turn to the UN issue: ‘Has Martha briefed you? She told you the issue is close to my heart? Are you ready to start a news campaign?’ I always batted his questions away like Steve Smith at the crease. I said I needed more time to think about it, get my head around it, etcetera, etcetera. But, by the third call, I could sense he was getting pissed off. The mask began to slip slightly and he started to pressure me a little more eac
h time. It was becoming uncomfortable. I needed a new strategy, particularly as he was coming to London soon.
There were also countless meet-and-greets with other media elites as well as a range of allegedly important people: politicians, titans of industry, movers and shakers in the sports world and the odd celebrity. I had even taken tea with some unhappy Muslim leaders who had taken exception to my editorial after the Morgan murder. Bill Todd sat in on that one, his self-satisfied smirk saying ‘I told you so’ very eloquently.
It seemed to me that the only ‘real’ person I’d met so far was Neville, my driver. Nev was a Cockney, a former black-cab driver who had seen the way things were going with Uber – among other threats to his livelihood – so he’d sold his cab, put on a suit and tie, and now chauffeured me everywhere in a sleek company Merc. Like most cabbies, Neville had an opinion on everything and anything, delivered out of the side of his mouth with a cynical, cheerful confidence that the world was in deep shit and there was nothing we could do about it.
‘Maybe you can sort it, guv, you being an ’eavyweight geezer and all. But there’s bugger all the rest of us can do, know wot I mean?’ Riding into work in the morning and back again at night was always a treat, thanks to Nev’s proclamations. The perfect antidote to all the other preeners and posers I had met recently, he was a master of the non sequitur. ‘You know that ’illary Clinton? She’s got a bleeding nerve. Tellin’ the ’ole world what to do, what wiv ’er old man bein’ a serial shagger an’ all.’
I was feeling more confident now that my feet were firmly under the table, my hands on the paper and my head around the internal issues. The biggest of these, I had discovered, was the lack of strong, clear-thinking leadership. Some of the editorial department heads like Vernon Sharp were like soldiers who had spent too long in the trenches: battle-weary, gun-shy, shell-shocked.
‘If I hear anyone say “but we’ve always done it this way” one more time, I’ll scream,’ I vented to Annie. Every other night I gave her an update on my progress (and the English weather) via FaceTime. ‘We desperately need some new blood.’
‘Why not just get on with it?’
‘I’ve never had to get rid of people before. It’s hard. But I’ve talked things through with the HR director and she’s on board. Says we can offer them a decent package to go. She reckons many of them will bite my hand off.’
Annie nodded. ‘Sure, from my experience in advertising, there are a lot of burn-outs just waiting for a pay-off.’
‘I’ll be able to move one or two sideways, if they want. The guy I told you about – Vernon Sharp? I’m going to offer him the managing editor’s job. The present guy is retiring in a month. Vern is perfect for it.’
‘What does the managing editor do?’
‘Admin mostly: legal stuff, editorial budgets, staff expenses, contracts. The ME is also like the editor’s consigliere.’ I smiled as I thought of Todd’s description of Macrae.
‘What else have you got in mind?’
‘My deputy Bill Todd, for a start. I don’t trust him. He’s too close to Black Mac.’
‘And Black Mac is?’
‘Carlos Macrae. He’s Bolshy’s bloke. Lives up to his nickname.’
‘How?’
I told her that Martha had tipped me off that the snaky bastard was feeding information back to the Russian. All of it bad – industry gossip about me, mistakes in the paper, how the other papers beat us to something. ‘I’ve banned him from the newsroom. The bastard used to stroll in as if he owned the place. Of course, now he hates me even more. He’ll screw me over if he can.’
‘You poor darling. But where does Todd come in?’
‘He and Macrae are thick as thieves. A lot of the inside stuff that he gives Bolshy must come from Todd. And some of it appears in the trade press or Private Eye. I reckon he’s the snitch.’
‘Never mind,’ Annie said. ‘The good news is we’ll be there soon. I’ve booked the tickets. Once Posh gets back from saying goodbye to her family, we’ll be on our way to London. In time for Christmas.’
‘So she’s definitely coming?’
‘You bet. When I asked her, she nodded so fast her piercings rattled!’
14
THE DAY Annie arrived in London, I had yet another heavy-duty confrontation with Black Mac.
Before leaving with Nev for the airport, I had gone looking for Bill Todd to remind him he’d be looking after the ship for a few hours. Picking my way past the features desk and the Meerkat’s digital pod – dubbed ‘Clickbait Corner’ by the print journos, I exulted in the energy and excitement of the newsroom: reporters banging out stories, snappers pushing their pics for page one, subeditors sweating over raw text, headline writers practising their black arts and the lawyers tutting and tsking as they slashed blue lines across precious copy.
Todd’s poky, windowless office was next to the conference room. His door was closed but the blinds were up and I could see him deep in conversation with Carlos Macrae. Bolshy’s henchman was laying down the law about something, his chair jammed up to the desk and his finger jabbing at the deputy editor. Then he slammed a meaty fist down on Todd’s desk. Documents bounced in the air and a photo of Todd’s sour-looking wife fell on to the floor.
A red mist descended. I barged straight in without knocking and said, ‘Macrae! I thought I bloody told you never to come into this newsroom without my say-so?’
Todd jumped up, his red face a melange of shock and embarrassment. Even his moustache seemed to stand up like iron filings on a magnet. But Macrae merely sat back with a sneer. He started to whistle softly through his teeth and it took me a moment to realise the tune was ‘Waltzing Matilda’. The smug bastard.
Todd started stuttering. ‘N-n-now look, Jonno, Carlos just wanted to –’ But I put a hand up to shush him and said to Macrae, ‘OUT!’ hooking my thumb towards the door.
After a pause, Macrae grinned like a Halloween lantern and stood up. He was about the same height as me – six-three – but with at least thirty pounds more padding; the office was small, so he had to edge past me to get to the door. As he came close, he leaned in and I smelled his brimstone breath as he whispered, ‘Unless you get going with the UN campaign soon, Bolshy won’t put up with you for long and when that time comes, I’ll be here to give you a special send-off.’
When the door rattled shut behind him, I ripped into Todd, calling him a few choice Aussie words he probably wouldn’t understand, but he got the drift. He sat down, ashen-faced, his mouth opening and closing like a demented blowfish.
I finally got myself under control and started to leave but at the door I turned to face him again: ‘Mate, you’ve got some thinking to do. There’s going to be trouble between that mongrel and me and you better decide which side of that fight you want to be on. We need to have a chat when I get back this arvo.’
As I shut the door behind me, a couple of news subs were standing at the nearby coffee machine; both smiled and silently clapped.
I’ll never forget the sight of Annie’s slim, elegant form emerging through the big sliding doors in the arrivals hall at Heathrow, her face turning this way and that searching for me. She was holding our sleepy son in her arms while Posh trailed behind, trying to navigate a squeaking trolley laden with suitcases. My heart leapt as I gazed at my wife. Wearing black jeans, boots and a padded jacket, her chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail, she could have passed for a teenager.
My mind cast back to the first time I ever laid eyes on her: buried up to her neck in sand on Rehab Island where BangBang Budiman and his crew of Indonesian pirates had left her and her friend to die. Annie’s face then had been a mass of cuts and bruises, her hair a frizzed mess of sand and debris. Fate had decreed that I had arrived at the island after a storm had crippled my yacht The Scoop Jon B and I had remained there because it was the perfect place to kick the cocaine habit I’d picked up while in Hollywood. In the two years since our escape, her physical beauty had been restored but the mental sca
rs remained.
Standing there in the airport with Annie and Percy tight in my arms, I felt utterly elated. After so many weeks of feeling lonely and under siege from inside and outside the paper, the cavalry had arrived and now everything would be all right. Annie was the most sensible, serene person I knew. As an only child with an alcoholic mother and a father who was mostly MIA during my early years, I had found it difficult to form strong relationships with anyone until fate brought us together on that island. She and I were now bound together for life.
We piled into the car for Nev to drive us back to the city, Annie and I squished together in the back of the big Merc with Percy taking up most of the room in a kiddie seat. He was already asleep. Posh was in the front chatting amiably with Nev. The earIy morning sunshine had given way to sleet but still I was grinning from ear to ear, alive to Annie’s warm body as she reached over and picked up the copy of UK Today I’d left in the seat pouch. The front page headline shouted in heavy black caps: CAPITAL BRACED FOR ‘CRITICAL’ TERROR HIT
The subhead said: Jihadi extremists plan major hit during Christmas rush, MI5 warns.
Shiv’s story quoted high-up sources in the government and security forces admitting they had credible intelligence suggesting that as-yet-unknown terrorists were poised to commit an atrocity during the festive period. The shops and stores were crammed at this time of year, with thousands of office parties in full swing at pubs and clubs. The ‘critical’ tag was the highest of five classifications for terror alerts, meaning an attack was ‘imminent’. In other words, Shiv’s story might be sensational but it was kosher. She had stood it up with high-level, albeit anonymous sources, lending it weight and credibility. Needless to say, the rest of the media, including radio and TV, had swarmed over the scoop. Left trailing in our dust, our print competitors could only ramp up their online coverage as they waited for the Home Secretary to make a statement at noon that day.
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