I shamelessly recycled the great one-liner from the TV series House of Cards: ‘You might think that, Mr Ambassador, but I could not possibly comment.’
I was saved from further jousting by the arrival of the main course (grey-looking turkey with congealed gravy). But before long, Antonia Oppenheimer picked up the baton again.
‘Mr Bligh, I would be interested in hearing if you or Mr Bolshakov give any credence to the allegations of Russian meddling in the US election?’
I glanced at Bolshy again. He was frowning, his shoulders hunched. ‘I think I will bat that one over to my boss.’
Bolshy gave me an inscrutable look before suddenly straightening up, his big teeth back on view. ‘My dear Antonia, I think I repeat what Jonno said earlier: “I could not possibly comment.”’ Then he laughed and everyone else joined in, including me. ‘And no comment also on the West’s sanctions on my poor misunderstood country!’ Cue more laughter, although I noticed the PM’s face had gone the colour of the turkey.
The dessert appeared – a rather deflated pavlova, presumably in my honour. Just as I inserted my spoon, Mrs Marvell fixed me with two flinty eyes that seemed to me to be just a little too close together and said, ‘Mr Editor, will you please do something about these beastly terrorists? I mean, what they did to poor Hugo Morgan was beyond the pale. Personally, I have never been a fan of same-sex marriage but he did not deserve that fate.’ Her cheeks clenched as if she were sucking on a bitter truth. ‘And now the threat alert has gone up again. Surely you could be doing more editorials that bring these Mad Mullah people to account?’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Devereux, although it was his department that had signally failed to contain the menace. I decided there and then that I really did not like the guy. However, in true Christmas spirit, I merely nodded and said, ‘Now that you mention it, I will certainly consider putting more pressure on both our politicians and the leaders of the Muslim community to be more proactive in rooting out these young jihadists.’
‘Well, hopefully the buggers will have the decency to be quiet over Christmas,’ said Mrs Marvell.
21
LIKE MANY people around the country – probably the world – I will never forget when and how I first heard the news. It was Christmas Eve, exactly 2:47 on the Sunday morning when my phone chirruped like a demented woodpecker. I woke up instantly, my senses registering, in no particular order, darkness, coldness and a lingering trace of Annie’s perfume. As she sighed and turned over, I propped myself up on one elbow and grabbed the woodpecker from the nightstand. The screen said it was Ray Griffiths.
‘This better be good, Griffo,’ I growled.
‘Boss, sorry to call you at this ti –’
‘Mate – have you been on the piss? Why the bloody hell are you calling me at this hour?’ I was whispering loudly, trying hard not to disturb Annie further.
‘No, I’m cold stone … well, I’ve had a couple but I’m not drunk. You obviously haven’t heard the news.’ His voice sounded a little hoarse.
‘What bloody news?’
I heard him take a deep breath, then the words seemed to tumble out in one long torrent. ‘Princess Izzy is dead. Murdered. Jihadis. Her head almost cut off, for fuck’s sake.’
PART TWO
Reporters trade in pain. It sells papers. Everyone knows that.
Jonathan Maberry, Dead of Night
22
THE FAMILIAR grin of the popular princess beamed out from the front page of the UK Today that Christmas Eve morning. It was a stunning stock photo – snapped a few years before by a UK Today photographer as she arrived at the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton; it captured perfectly the radiance and energy that flowed from her thousand-kilowatt smile and fiery tresses.
We had managed to put out a special four am late edition, literally stopping the presses and changing up the early pages to carry the news of her brutal beheading at the hands of Islamic terrorists. To their credit, our press operators, normally resistant to cooperating after hours, worked on without complaint and without demanding penalty rates. They were clearly as stunned by the dramatic news as the rest of us.
The simple headline DEATH OF A PRINCESS was juxtaposed with the photo on a flat black background. Normally we’d have taken the low road with something more in shock, horror mode, but because the story was already sensational, an over the top headline wasn’t necessary. We had considered other, more dramatic options, but the sombre mood in the newsroom dictated that now was not a time for one-upmanship or competitive chutzpah. Mind you, one of the tackier tabloids did come up with the tasteless screamer: ‘OFF WITH HER HEAD!’ A subhead read: ‘Royal horror as Islamic terrorists butcher Princess Izzy’. Jesus, what were they thinking?
According to Sandy Barratt, our Royal correspondent, Princess Isabella Maria von Hohenloe-Langenburg was – had been – the favourite of the UK redtops. Just twenty-three, the daughter of an American oil heiress and a prince of one of Europe’s oldest royal families, she was a renowned party girl whose effervescence and fashionista flamboyance had earned her the less-than-royal title of ‘Fizzy Izzy’. But while she mixed with the rich and famous, she was no Kardashian clone. No scandal had ever attached itself to her name; plenty of rock ’n’ roll, but no sex or drugs. A sweet person by most accounts, though a few internet trolls attacked her when she showed support for gay rights and sympathy for Muslim women subjected to genital mutilation.
Sandy wrote that Izzy was distantly related to Prince Philip through the Battenbergs, and could trace her lineage back to the Saxe-Coburg dynasty and the Dukes of Savoy, just one of the diaspora of old European aristocratic families uprooted by revolution, republicanism and rat envy: kings and queens, princes and princesses who are stateless, landless, and mostly penniless – unless, like Izzy – your father had married a rich American. The Queen was known to be very fond of the princess’s youthful exuberance and kind nature, and the accompanying pies showed her mixing with Britain’s young royals. Izzy had been educated in the US, Switzerland and latterly at St Andrews University where she had graduated with an honours degree in social anthropology. She’d been having a gap year before going to work for an international children’s charity.
I was proud of the way our team had put all this together in such a short time. After the phone alert from Ray Griffiths, I’d called Neville, thrown some clothes on and kissed a stunned Annie goodbye before heading for the office. By the time we arrived, many journos were already there. Initially, information had been scant and confusing. Shiv O’Shea and a full reporting team had already gone to the scene. Despite the shock nature of the events unfolding, the newsroom’s professionalism kept us all focused.
The nation, waking up to the news of her savage murder, was in deep mourning. The British public, used to seeing Izzy’s smiling face in newspapers and glossy magazines, had taken her to its heart. Everybody loved her. Her actual death was shocking enough but the appalling, cold-blooded nature of it left everyone numb and reeling. For most, the spirit of Christmas was effectively cancelled.
By five am I’d decided we’d also put together an unprecedented midday edition and distribute it for free on the streets of London. When I called Martha Fry to alert her to this, she, of course, tried to persuade me to charge for it.
‘For Christ’s sake, Martha,’ I said with some heat, ‘that will make us look cheap and opportunistic. It could result in a huge negative backlash. Just think of the goodwill – and the publicity – a free edition will achieve. It’s something we should do as the market leader.’
Fortunately, Jacinta Corrigan, the circulation director, backed the idea. She said it would strengthen the UK Today brand and so Martha reluctantly agreed to print and give away fifty thousand copies in the capital.
As the morning progressed, more and more details of the ghastly slaying emerged. Shiv called me and I put her on the speakerphone so that the other senior execs could hear.
‘Boss, I’m at the street in Chelsea w
here Izzy was killed. It’s mayhem here. We can’t get near the actual scene. As you can imagine, the police have it well cordoned off. It’s freezing and the sleet is starting but there are hundreds of ordinary people here. Just standing around quietly, paying their respects. Plus a massive media presence. I haven’t seen anything like it since Princess Diana.’
‘Any updates on what happened?’
‘Hold on, let me get my notes … Okay, about one-ish, Izzy was coming out of a nightclub – The Cosmopolitan in the King’s Road – with a couple of friends, a young man and another girl. Apparently, there were two terrorists. One, a black youth, brandished a large knife at the two friends while the other attacked Izzy with a meat cleaver or a machete. The killer was, allegedly, of Middle-Eastern appearance. Then both men ran off. The poor girl had no chance. An unconfirmed eyewitness report said that she died a terrible death. Suffered horribly. Blood everywhere.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Suddenly I was glad I hadn’t eaten breakfast. ‘She didn’t have any minders?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. She wasn’t a British royal so she wouldn’t have been entitled to a security detail.’
‘So why do the cops believe they were terrorists? Don’t tell me, they shouted “Allahu Akbar”?’
‘No. It’s more dynamite than that. One of my police contacts told me, strictly off the record, that it could be the same men who topped Morgan.’
‘You mean Hugo Morgan, the gay guy?’
‘Yup. The same MO and the cops have already got their hands on a CCTV snap. Could be the same suspects.’
‘But that was supposed to be a one-off incident. This suggests something more sinister – a terror cell perhaps. Do you think this was the whole “London in lockdown” affair that MI5 warned us about?’
‘Looks that way. I’ll know more shortly. There’s a press conference in half an hour.’
‘What about pics?’
‘Juggs has some scene shots. Nothing great yet. A grab of the van as the body was being loaded, but that’s it so far. Now he’s gone to try and get up on the roof of a building opposite so he can shoot down on the pavement outside the club. But the cops are being totally mental. The whole area is locked up tighter than a badger’s arse. They might even have snipers on the rooftops by now.’
‘Fingers crossed he gets something. All right, Shiv, call us after the press conference. We’ll need copy and pics by …’ I looked at Mike Kelly, the night editor. ‘Mike says eleven-thirty at the outside for final copy if we’re to make the noon deadline. Of course, we’ll need whatever stuff you can give us ASAP. We’ve got people working on the backgrounders, tributes and stock stuff and we can get some pages away in the meantime. Nothing yet from her parents but Sandy Barratt is trying to get a quote from Buck House. And we’ve been promised a statement from the PM soon.’
‘How is everyone back in the office?’ Shiv asked.
‘Pretty subdued. But they’ll feel better once we’ve put out this special edition. Meantime, the Meerkat is being a pain in the arse, as usual. He wants everything, now.’
‘The Meerkat?’
‘Hah. My pet name for Harvey Finkelstein. He thinks we should forget the midday paper and just put all our stuff on to the website. I told him to fuck off. He’s been bending Martha Fry’s ear about it. Wait until he hears that I plan to put out a paper tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? Are you serious? But no one publishes on Christmas Day.’
‘Always a first time. The thing is, Shiv, this is such a big story I don’t think we can skip a day’s coverage. Besides, I get the feeling a lot of people won’t feel like celebrating tomorrow. They’ll still want to know what’s happening about Izzy.’
‘Do you think the other papers will do the same?’
‘Doubt it. The cost will be phenomenal. The lovely Martha will have kittens when I tell her so I may have to go over her head and talk to Bolshy. It will be expensive but I think it’s the right thing to do.’
‘He’s a frigging billionaire. He can afford it.’
‘I’ll remind him of that. But I need to consult with Griffo and Mike about the logistics first. It’s new ground for me. It may not be possible to get a paper out. Getting the printers in will be an issue, distributing it will be another.’
‘Good luck, boss. For what it’s worth, I agree with you. It’s exactly what a paper like UK Today should do in times like these. You might make a decent editor, after all.’
‘Gee, thanks. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day. Look, Shiv, you need to nail down the terrorist cell angle. The Press Association just said that ISIS has claimed responsibility. Along with the other recent atrocities, it looks like we are facing a major, concerted wave of terror.’
After she had rung off, I discussed the possibility of getting a paper out the following day with the team. The news execs were up for it but Jacinta pointed out the formidable obstacles we might face.
‘It’s a brilliant idea, Jonno, but I’m not sure we will be able to distribute it around the country. We might be able to do a London-only delivery. Then there are the printers – the union will kick up an almighty stink. And, my God, the cost – Martha will go ape-shit!’
‘Let me worry about that. Can you go away and come up with a plan for delivering and promoting it?’ I turned to Griffo and Mike. ‘You guys do the same for editorial. Let me know what the problems will be. Bill, you talk to the production people, see if there’s any chance they can print the damn thing. There won’t be any advertising in it, so no point in consulting the ad people. And listen, Bill, not a fucking word to Black Mac. I don’t want Bolshakov alerted just yet until I speak to Martha. Got it?’
He nodded.
‘We’ll all meet again in, say, an hour? In the meantime, I’ll go see Martha but I strongly suspect she’ll veto it. Probably have to go over her head to Bolshakov. Wish me luck.’
23
I CALLED Annie once the special midday edition had gone to press and a grim-faced Mrs H had brought me some coffee and, joy of joys, a Tim Tam. How had she managed to find that?
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked Annie.
‘Oh, I’m okay. Bit tearful. I’ve been watching the TV and the whole thing is so sad. They’re not saying much but it sounds really bad. Presumably you know a lot more about what happened?’
‘Yes, but trust me, you don’t want to hear the details. I’ve just been looking at the file we have on Izzy. Seems she was like a cross between Princess Di and Mother Theresa.’
Annie told me that when she had lived in London, the media had been all over the princess. ‘Hello! magazine used to feature her constantly. She did seem a really nice person. What a tragedy. But what about you? How are you holding up?’
‘I’m okay. A bit tired. As you can imagine, it’s been a fraught morning but I’m proud of what we’ve achieved. Now listen, love, you won’t like this but – I might not make it home until later tonight.’
‘Oh Jonno, it’s Christmas Eve for goodness’ sake.’
‘I know. I know. But we may be putting out a paper tomorrow and that means all hands on deck, including the editor. Especially the editor.’
‘You’ve got to be joking!’
‘Sorry love, but the circumstances are highly unusual. Do you remember me telling you what Cassandra Marvell said to me?’
‘What, about hoping it would be a quiet Christmas, terror-wise?’
‘Yes. And it sounds like there might be more in the pipeline. Anyway sorry, got to go … I’m about to call Bolshakov to get his approval to publish tomorrow. Wish me luck.’
‘Shit, Jonno. My parents are here and it’s our first Christmas in England all together. Plus you were supposed to do the whole Santa Claus bit for Percy.’
‘Sorry my darling, but needs must. Don’t worry, I promise I’ll make it home in time for a late supper.’
‘You better. Otherwise, Mr Editor, there’ll be zero time under the mistletoe for you!’
‘Gotta
go. Mrs H has just signalled that Bolshy is on the line. Bye, speak later. Love you.’
The oligarch was not a happy chappy. Martha had obviously already spoken to him. He got right to the point. ‘Sounds like you are costing me lot of money. Did not Martha tell you UK Today is making serious loss?’
‘Good morning, sir.’ I thought it tactically expedient to be obsequious. ‘Well, yes, the special paper we are putting out in London shortly will cost money. But I believe strongly that the exercise will reap long-term dividends. We are the market leader, after all, and we will only maintain that position if we show strength and innovation.’
‘Maybe so. But what is this about paper tomorrow? Tell me it is mistake.’
‘No sir. I was about to call you –’
‘Jonno, let me explain something to you: Martha calculates that, even if possible, such thing will cost maybe million pounds. Fucking million pounds! That is crazy. You are crazy man. Nyet! Stop this nonsense. Go home to family, eat turkey and forget about this mad thing you do.’
‘Look, Borya, you hired me to improve the fortunes of your newspaper. Remember “oroshka”? This is an extraordinary story and we must be out in front of it. It’s a tipping point in the whole Islamic terrorism narrative in the UK.’
‘What this means? Tipping point? Islamic narrative? I tell you the tipping point – you cost me more money and I … I … I fucking tip you!’
Ah shit, this was not good. I could hear that he was working himself up to a frenzy, so I decided to change tack.
‘Sir, Princess Izzy is – sorry, was, an icon of sorts. The people loved her. She had become the new People’s Princess.’
‘Da, da, Jonno, I know this girl. I meet her family many times. She was nice girl. Such a tragedy.’
‘Well, I truly believe that, if we own this story, UK Today will get huge circulation gains in the coming weeks. Jacinta Corrigan says that we can sell hundreds of thousands of extra copies. Just think what that will do to bring more advertising in?’
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