Deadline

by Terence J. Quinn

  Silence. I ploughed on: ‘She also says that young people especially will follow us on social media and the rewards could be significant.’

  More silence.

  Just as I thought he must have thrown down the phone in disgust, he replied, ‘Okay, Jonno, maybe we can do this. But let me say now, I want something from you in return.’

  ‘Of course, Bolshy, what do you need?’

  ‘I once again ask you to help persuade British people to stop sanctions on Russia. Create climate for Prime Minister Marvell and his team to change tack.’

  ‘Is that what you were talking to him about before the lunch at Downing Street?’

  ‘Pfff. That’s not your business. But I repeat: if you do this little thing I ask, I agree to paper tomorrow.’

  24

  ‘THE TROOPS are well up for it,’ Griffo said. The head of content was shorter than me, but wider. He had a fleshy face and a wrestler’s chest. A short stubby pencil had taken up permanent residence above one ear, a throwback to his days as a sub.

  Mike Kelly nodded. ‘Everyone knows that this will be one of the biggest stories of their career, so they want to be part of it.’

  ‘Even if it means giving up Christmas with friends and loved ones?’

  I knew that Griffo had three youngsters at home so this would be a huge sacrifice, but he got right down to business: ‘Boss, I reckon we can probably put together enough content for a thirty-six-pager tomorrow. Small, I know, but it’s probably the best we can do. Remember, there will be bugger all sport or adverts.’

  Mike said, ‘I reckon we can recycle some of the stuff in today’s paper and Sandy Barratt and the features team are putting together a solid “life and times” package on the princess that will run to a twelve-page middle section. Apart from her news stuff, Shiv has promised a colour piece from the scene that will make a great spread plus another one based on interviews with members of the public who are laying flowers and lighting candles at the scene.’

  ‘What about the PA?’ I asked. The Press Association had excellent contacts with the major British institutions, including Parliament and the Palace.

  ‘They’ve already put up a series of quotes from world leaders, including Merkel and US president-elect Charles Connor who, not surprisingly, is saying that this latest atrocity proves he is right on the Muslim immigration issue.’

  ‘Predictable.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ Griffo said, ‘we can work up plenty of other stuff on recent terrorist acts, here and elsewhere.’

  ‘Any reaction from local Muslim leaders?’ I asked.

  ‘None so far. You’d think they’d be the first to come out and condemn it,’ Griffo said.

  ‘Maybe they are waiting for the authorities to confirm that it was an act of Islamic terrorism first.’ Nevertheless, I was surprised at the silence from the Muslim community. Given the princess’s popularity, staying quiet could be highly damaging to them. ‘Any word on the suspects?’

  ‘Yes, we’re working on that. Shiv’s info seems to be standing up,’ Griffo replied. ‘Looks definite that it’s the same arsehole that murdered Hugo Morgan.’

  ‘Have any other media picked up on that?’

  ‘Not yet as far as I’m aware. Shiv has leaned on her source to keep it quiet for as long as possible.’

  ‘Fantastic. That could be our splash tomorrow. I’d rather not go too heavy on the whole beheading thing just yet, if we can help it. Our readers would choke on their Christmas pudding.’

  ‘Boss, have we got the green light from Bolshakov yet?’ Griffiths asked.

  ‘Funny you should ask. The answer from our Russian master is “Da”. He called Martha to tell her the bad news. She’s madder than a cut snake. And, according to her, the other departments are bitching about it. The poor possums. But the main thing is, this might be doable if the print mob don’t put the proverbial spanner in the works.’

  ‘Incredible,’ Mike Kelly said. ‘Well done.’

  Jacinta Corrigan was even more impressed. ‘Yeah, congratulations, I didn’t think Bolshy would go for it.’

  ‘Safe to say, he’s not happy about it but he wants something from me so he’s agreed.’ I thought of the Faustian bargain I’d made with Bolshy. What have I done?

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s got to be worth it to see the look on our competitors’ faces tomorrow when they see UKT on the streets of London tomorrow,’ Jacinta said.

  As the execs started walking out the door, Mike Kelly looked back at me and said, ‘Boss, one last thing. What about a leader? Do you want me to get Douglas French to draft something for you to look at?’ The paper’s political editor wrote many of the paper’s editorials.

  I thought for a moment. ‘No, I’ll do it myself. Right now, I’m feeling quite angry and surprisingly emotional. The thought of that spunky girl’s life just being snuffed out like that. It will do me good to get knock something out.’

  And Cassandra Marvell would be a happy woman tomorrow when she read it.

  25

  MARTHA FRY, on the other hand, was not such a happy woman.

  ‘Jesus freakin’ Christ, Jonno, are you out of your tiny mind? What possessed you to run that – that – goddamned suicide note?’ Martha was wired, her eyes wide, red lipstick smeared, her usually rigid hair in wild disarray. We were in her office, cocooned by fat cushions, stripy curtains and scented candles. Black Mac was there too, his saturnine face set in a sneer. The fact that they’d both come into the office on Boxing Day indicated the strength of their anger.

  A copy of the Christmas Day edition was on her desk, open at the editorial page. The headline under a ‘UK Today Says’ label read:

  IZZY OUTRAGE: Why UK Muslim leaders need to take more responsibility

  ‘You mean the editorial?’ I asked mildly.

  I had written a fiery leader, deploring the murder of Izzy and calling on both politicians and Muslim leaders to go beyond the usual weasel words of multicultural mumbo-jumbo and actually do something to stop the blood-letting. It demanded that hate preachers should be banned from British mosques. It also pointed out that, according to British Intelligence, there were as many as twenty-three thousand jihadists living in the UK.

  In other words, 23,000 potential terrorists, for Christ’s sakes! Izzy’s death should be the turning point, I wrote, that persuades the Imams and other leading Muslims to step up and help the authorities identify and, where necessary, neutralise radicalised young men. Otherwise they’d have more blood on their hands.

  ‘Bullshit! That was no editorial … that was a gilt-edged invitation to every jihadist in the country to bomb the shit out of this newspaper, and all the people in it. Have you not heard of Charlie Hebdo, for fuck’s sake?!’

  ‘Come on, that was different. They published a caricature of the Prophet’s face. I simply urged moderate Muslims to be more proactive in the fight against terror.’

  ‘No, you shamed them and encouraged them to be stool pigeons. Rat out their own people. And in doing so you put the lives of everyone in this building at risk – you most of all. Don’t you see how irresponsible and selfish that was?’

  To tell the truth, I’d had some qualms while writing the piece. I was forced to ask myself: Was I Islamophobic? Certainly I was against radical Islamism … I didn’t want to return society to the seventh century nor did I wish to be governed by Sharia Law. But the bottom line was: I would react in the same way if people were committing similar acts in the name of Catholicism or Judaism. I remembered the shitstorm with the Catholic Church that the Jacky James story had caused – was still causing. In the end, I’d decided that I must do what I was urging others to do: step up and help stamp out the plague of Jihadism. And, as editor of a major national newspaper, I was in a good position to contribute to the fight.

  ‘In my defence, Martha, at least the punters seem to like it,’ I said. ‘The overwhelming response from readers has been positive. The Meerkat says it’s gone viral.’

  ‘Meerkat?�
� said Macrae, looking puzzled. Then his face changed: ‘Right, I get it. Nice one.’

  ‘People are saying, “About bloody time”. I’ve even been invited on TV to talk about it.’

  ‘Hope that goes better than the last time,’ Black Mac could not resist the jibe.

  Bastard!

  ‘Think carefully about that, Jonno,’ said Martha. ‘You could easily make yourself – and us – even more of a target. If these madmen put a face to the name, who knows what might happen? Remember the fatwa on Salman Rushdie? It’s never been officially lifted. And I do not want you to do anything that might place more people at risk. That editorial was incendiary enough.’

  26

  WHEN I GOT home a few hours later, the atmosphere inside the house was frostier than out. Annie was well pissed off. ‘Welcome home, stranger! Long time, no see. Let me introduce you to your son.’

  I didn’t blame her. This was the first time I’d been home since the terrorists murdered Princess Izzy in the early hours of Christmas Eve. I had been at the paper for more than forty-eight hours, bunking down on the leather sofa in my office whenever I could grab a quick nap.

  Despite the icy reception, the apartment felt warm and comfortable. There was a mix of sweet, aromatic smells: pine needles from the pine tree and mince pies in the oven. Carols burbled in the background. It was all a peaceful, harmonious contrast to the bleak, terrible events of the past few days.

  ‘Sorry, love. Been a big hectic.’ I gave her a hug. ‘I’ll try to make it up to you. Promise.’

  ‘You’d better. You’re just in time to say goodbye to Mum and Dad.’

  Shit. That’s not good.

  ‘They’re heading off shortly. Actually, they were just telling me how much they enjoyed your company this Christmas.’

  ‘All right. All right. I get the message. Look, I haven’t exactly been having a fabulous time, you know.’ That was a lie. It had been an incredible few days. The business of newspapering can be exhilarating and the adrenaline had been flowing almost as freely as when the bullets were flying while we fled from Rehab Island on The Scoop. But I was certainly not going to tell Annie that.

  Her parents were both holding Percy as if it was to be the last time they’d ever see him. My son was flushed, excited, wriggling with pleasure. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he was loving the attention. I went over and extricated him from their embrace while apologising for my absence. Annie’s father, Simon, was a country solicitor; normally a pleasant, courteous man, he now looked at me with a hint of disapproval.

  ‘I’m not sure I agree with newspapers being printed on Christmas Day, Jon.’ He always called me that – I think the vowel at the end of my nickname seemed too foreign for his British reserve. ‘It seems an unfortunate break with tradition.’ Simon was a great man for tradition. Besides, I don’t think he altogether approved of newspapers in the first place. Certainly not the tabloids.

  ‘Yes, I apologise. But the beheading of a young woman on Christmas Eve wasn’t very traditional either,’ I said with a touch of sarcasm. Look, I was tired. I craved my warm, comfortable bed.

  Annie gave me a stern look. ‘Jonno, perhaps you could take Mum and Dad’s suitcases down to the taxi?’

  Once the Spencers had left, I gave Annie a big hug and apologised all over again. I felt her face crack a smile into my shoulder. ‘Okay, no need to overdo it,’ she said. ‘I forgive you. ’Tis the season after all.’

  ‘Look, I’ll call your parents and make peace. Once I’ve had some kip.’

  ‘And a shower. You stink. So … an eventful few days?’

  ‘An understatement. I’d forgotten how exhausting newspapering can be.’

  ‘How long do we have the pleasure of your company?’

  ‘Just tonight. Sorry. I need to get back to the office in the morning. I’ll have a quick snooze then we can have Christmas dinner leftovers. Nothing like a turkey and stuffing sanger. Then we can put Percy to bed and perhaps fool around a little while we watch It’s a Wonderful Life and drink a nice big Aussie shiraz.’

  ‘Mmm, I haven’t given you your Christmas present yet.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ I said and started to take her in my arms again.

  But then my phone beeped. Ah, shit.

  ‘Don’t you dare look at that …’ Annie said, but she was too late.

  A text from Shiv O’Shea: ‘Izzy suspect named. Call me.’

  Defying Annie’s death stare, I immediately rang Shiv back. ‘Boss, the cops have just put out the name of the main terrorist they want for Izzy’s murder. A Brit with a Bangladeshi background – Ghulam Hazari. The other guy has not yet been identified but is thought to be Somali. And we were right to run that splash yesterday: Hazari is also definitely suspected of killing Hugo Morgan.’

  ‘Have the witnesses – Izzy’s friends – said anything?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. My source says they’ve not been much use. One of them, her best friend, is still totally traumatised. But the male friend did apparently confirm the guy in the CCTV photos as the one who did it.’

  ‘What photos?’

  ‘Two grainy shots. Not great quality but they’ll look dramatic on page one.’

  ‘Sure, but everybody will have them. We need to get some exclusive stuff if we want to stay ahead of the pack on this.’

  Shiv said she had a lead on Hazari. According to her police sources, he lived in Tower Hamlets, though they didn’t know where he was now. ‘He’s known to them because of links to local radical groups and an Islamic political movement back in Bangladesh. ISIS has claimed him as one of theirs but that hasn’t been confirmed.’

  ‘What about the other guy, the one you say looks like a Somali?’

  ‘Nothing yet. He’s not appeared on their radar before now. Looks quite young. Maybe a teenager. They expect to have his name soon.’

  ‘Okay. Anything else?’

  ‘Nope, but me and Juggs are heading for Tower Hamlets as we speak. Should have background on Hazari in a few hours. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Have you told the news desk?’

  ‘Yeah, I already called Griffo. He told me to give you a heads-up. Thought you’d want it straight from the horse’s mouth.’

  ‘Thanks Shiv. I’ll get back to the office once I’ve had a shower. Text me if anything happens in the meantime.’

  I turned to look at Annie, but she had already walked away. I heard a door slam.

  27

  SHIV O’SHEA looked at the map on her phone. ‘Next left into Whitechapel Road. Should be just around the corner. It’s supposed to be huge so we shouldn’t miss it.’

  ‘Bloody idiot!’ Juggs Jagger swore as a London bus swerved out in front of him. ‘Okay, that looks like it … that brown brick building on the left-hand side.’

  Shiv laughed. ‘No shit, Sherlock, the golden dome and giant minaret kinda give it away.’

  A frosty veneer coated dirty, cracked pavements. The air was icy, the sky overcast. They parked the office Ford up a side street, fed a meter and walked back past a bookshop and clothing store to the imposing entrance of the East London Mosque on the main road. It had tall brown doors and two more minarets.

  A crowd of around half-a-dozen Asian youths were standing outside the London Muslim Centre, their combined breath forming a cloud of vapour above them. Most were in their early teens and wearing western clothing including jeans and baseball caps. But the oldest, a gangly youth who Shiv reckoned was about seventeen, was dressed more traditionally in a brown shalwar kameez – a tunic shirt that reached below his knees, matching baggy cotton pants and a black crochet prayer cap. As a concession to the late December chill, he also wore a sleeveless North Face vest, a dark scarf coiled round his neck and black trainers. He had the beginnings of a would-be beard and an intensity burning in his eyes as he looked at Shiv.

  ‘You cannot come here. Cos this is Muslim area, innit. Remove yourself away from the mosque. Go now.’ His voice was thin and reedy, with a stro
ng London accent that conflicted with his appearance.

  Shiv was undaunted. She flashed her Press Card at the group. ‘I want to know if Ghulam Hazari prayed here. Have any of you seen him here?’

  The leader took a step forward, his Adam’s apple wobbling like a Christmas bauble. ‘Hazari? He is a great man.’ He touched the area above his heart and his voice hardened. ‘This is sacred place. We do not respect stupid women that disobey God. You better go now.’

  One of the younger boys piped up, ‘Yeah, fuck off, you ginger whore.’

  Juggs edged in front of Shiv, his bulk causing the Muslim youth to go quiet. ‘Now look, guys, we don’t want any trouble. Just tell us if Hazari was ever here and we’ll get out of your way.’

  The youth turned to his mates and they all started chanting: ‘Allah is great! Allah is great! Death to the kuffar!’

  Juggs looked back at Shiv and twitched his head to indicate they should leave. With the chants still ringing in their ears, they crossed the street to a coffee shop on the ground floor of a concrete and glass office block. They took seats at the window looking out on to the bleak main road. Shiv checked her phone while Juggs went for the hot drinks. A moment later there was a tap on the window. She looked up. A short, elderly man stood there smiling. He was wearing a beige anorak and a furry, grey Jinnah cap that marked him out as a Pakistani. He had a grey and white beard but no moustache. The man beckoned Shiv to come outside. Wrapping her heavy parka around her, she shouted to Juggs at the counter and pointed to the door before going out into the cold.

  The man smiled again and then spat on the pavement. Shiv looked down. There was a big red splatter that she at first took for blood, then realised it was the juice of a betel nut. Trying not to look disgusted, she looked inquisitively at the man.

  ‘Madam,’ he said in a fruity baritone, ‘I heard you ask those very rude boys about Ghulam Hazari. They show great disrespect to you. It is the younger generation, you know. They –’