a novel by
NICOLAS TRAVERS
Newspaper offices can be lonely places at lunchtime on a fine summer day: half the reporters are out on stories, the other half are gossipping in the nearest pub, and secretaries and other support staff are all busy either eating and drinking, or shopping, or filling their lungs with fresh air, or possibly even engaging in secret liaisons.
Sometimes they can be frustrating places as well. Political reporter Richard Hunter stared blankly at his Financeday computer screen, chewing at the end of a ballpoint pen, and tried hard to think of the best way to present a highly speculative piece about government plans to push VAT up sharply - he had been earlier fed a tip by a friend in Whitehall, an impeccably knowledgeable source, only to have it flatly denied by the Treasury, and coldly scorned by the Prime Minister's press office, and the story was proving a tough nut to crack. Something was in the wind, something must be in the wind, for impeccable sources earn their reputations by being impeccable - but he was caught between suspicion and doubt, and was unsure, and his words were not flowing free.
He also chewed because he was hungry, very hungry indeed, and considerably bothered by an inner vision of a thick rare filet steak, bedded in a heap of golden matchstick chips, garnished with a sprig of watercress, and accompanied by a fragrant glass of fine claret. The vision was succulent, and insistent, for nearly an hour had now passed since Hunter had nibbled the last lettuce shreds of an early salad lunch in Financeday's canteen, and he was finding it a real struggle to push it out of his mind. He was a chubby man on a diet, with too much flesh hanging in dewlaps under his jaws, and much too much flab around his middle, on the very first day of a bid to trim a gathering paunch, and hunger was killing him.
A telephone broke into his reverie, ringing on a desk some way off, and he was alert for a moment. But then he ignored the sound. It was nothing but a noisy interruption, and a nuisance, and the caller could go to hell. The signal died, and then began again on the desk behind him, died again, and homed in on his own telephone. Someone was plainly working through Financeday extensions, and plainly hunting for a response.
Hunter reached reluctantly for his phone. Nothing was more annoying, when one was trying to focus, and push thoughts of steak away, and build up a head of creative steam, than to be bothered by a dedicated caller.
‘Yes?’ He made his grunt unwelcoming, hoping against hope that gruffness would frighten the caller into hanging up.
‘Are you a journalist?’ The voice was elderly, and a little querulous.
‘Yes. What do you want?’ Hunter spoke sharply, balancing his telephone in his hand, ready to slam it back onto its cradle. He was knowledgeable when it came to judging voices, it was part of his trade, and he could already picture the speaker as an elderly man in a shabby suit, with some long boring tale to tell, and he really did not want to listen.
The voice returned, strengthening a little. ‘I have papers, concerning a military coup, a plan to impose martial law.’
‘What?’ Hunter gripped his telephone a little tighter. Coups were good stories, when they were probable, or even possible. But martial law was something only madmen talk about, and he needed a chat with a nutter like he needed a hole in the head.
‘It was all planned, there was a dress rehearsal at Heathrow. They wanted the PM to suspend Parliament and set up a Committee of National Safety.’ The telephone voice possessed a thin aetherial quality, as though beaming in from another planet. ‘It was all there, in black and white, and they were all still alive. They have tried to silence me, but I have been too clever for them. But now I am growing old, and the story must be told.’
Hunter listened, and now the voice began to ring a distant bell in his mind, conjuring up a memory dating back some thirty years to the miners' strike that stretched through the winter of 1973 into early 1974, and an accompanying three day week, when - as a cub reporter in Slough - he had watched light tanks rumble out from the Guards barracks in Windsor, to patrol along the M4 towards London, and the army had set up roadblocks at the airport.
The roadblocks had been officially described as anti-terrorist measures, steps to keep Arab extremists at bay. But important people had whispered together excitedly, and a handful of dottier Conservative MPs had called for tough measures to break and ban the unions. Then it had all blown over, as suddenly as it had blown up, to fade into the mists of time.
Memory can stir curiosity. ‘You're going back a very long way.’ He edged his voice with doubt, but he was no longer abrupt. Britain was by and large a peaceful country, and coups were best left to more volatile temperaments. But there had been talk, at the time, and the silence that followed, with its total lack of aftershocks, suggested that concerted efforts might have been made to hush things up. Some scoops can grow stale after thirty years. But some can be polished up again, particularly when protagonists still strut the political stage. Some unexploded bombs can lie dormant for many years before wreaking destruction. A nice, well documented tale, naming names and sending shivers of terror running through the great and the good, might have the makings of a winner. Hunter decided to play the voice along. He was getting nowhere with his VAT story, he needed a break.
‘I told you, I have facts.’ The voice sounded irritable. ‘A lot of facts - letters, minutes of meetings, copies of orders. It was all there.’
‘All right.’ Hunter let his voice warm a little. ‘Let's meet. Tell me your name, and where I can find you.’
‘No.’
The voice hesitated. ‘People have been looking for me. Tell me your name, and
your mobile number, if you have one, and I would call you again tomorrow, at
the same time, and we would meet near where you work.’
Hunter hesitated for a moment, and rapped out his number, adding his desk extension, and the desk next to him as back-ups, and threw in his flat number and email address as well. He realised as he spoke that he was hooked, and experienced a quick rush of excitement. There is something about stumbling inadvertently on a scoop that can joy even the most hardened journalist. But he wondered at the same time whether the voice might also be targeting other papers. Perhaps he was being caught up in some sort of test, or some sort of editorial game. Perhaps the voice planned to try every paper in town.
The telephone grunted at him in acknowledgement, and then clicked into oblivion. Hunter realised that was pressing a dead line to his ear. He weighed his receiver in his hand for a moment, and then replaced it and turned back to his screen.
Suddenly he found himself writing. Somehow his mystery caller had unlocked the mental block in his mind, and driven hunger clear away. Fluent speculative words began to gush through his fingertips into his keyboard as fellow reporters drifted back to their desks, and he hammered away steadily until he had a good six hundred words in the bag. Then he scrolled his text quickly, polishing deftly here and there, and smiled at his screen, because he knew that he had just completed a neat little invention, whilst most of Financeday's other journalists were still gearing up for creation.
He leaned back on his swivel chair to look around. Financeday reporters were now busy all around him with telephones and keyboards, and he felt good to be ahead of the pack. But completion had also left him empty and at a loose end, and he rolled his eyes hopefully as a nubile blue eyed new secretary passed, eager to celebrate his completion by dallying for a moment
Nubility paused, and Hunter smiled wolfishly, his eyes gleaming. He was a single man, prosperous with it, and newspaper secretaries generally have good antennae. But the blue eyes hardened to steel as they caught his, and he winced. He realised that he had been weighed, and found overweight, and knew with a dreadful certainty as the new secretary stalked on that his jowls consigned him to damnation.
He decided to have a strong black coffee instead. However coffee proved no palliative, and disappointment began to slide him down from his adrenalin high towards depression. For emotionally Hunter was travelling through a bad, dangerous patch. Outwardly he was prosperous, tough and pushy and brash, with smart suits and a swagger to his steps, a news man to his fingertips. But he was also lonely. True, he shared his comfortable Notting Hill Gate flat with Elaine, a divorced antique dealer, and Elaine was a good cook, and ever willing in bed, because Hunter expected no rent. But she disliked politics, regarded writing as money for old rope, and preferred the Daily Mail to Financeday, Hunter’s employer. She was also becoming a pain, for she plainly wanted to manoeuvre Hunter towards a register office rendez-vous, and he had absolutely no intention of stamping himself up as a long-term meal ticket.
He needed out. But good food and an expanding waistline paved a hard road ahead. A few old flames still flickered - he lunched occasionally with Claire, a tall, dark and always perfectly groomed PR girl working in Mayfair, spent the odd Saturday night with Karen, a flaxenhaired Dane working in London for the UN, and pulled an occasional press party pick-up. But Claire was now stalking a Chilean millionaire, Karen wanted to return to Copenhagen to settle down and focus on serious living, and every pick-up foundered on the fact that he already had a live-in lover.
From time to time Hunter dreamed of meeting a nice girl with a ready smile and shapely legs, an interest in politics and a fondness for reading, and possibly a prosperous daddy into the bargain. But most nice girls preferred younger and slimmer men, and his hopes were waning. Elaine and domesticity seemed to be calling all the shots.
For a moment he closed his eyes, and spirited himself away in his mind to a golden beach. He was with a girl in a bikini, and she had grey eyes and a flowing blonde mane, a perfect figure with proud little breasts and narrow waist, and the most beautiful long legs. It was a honeymoon memory - he had just married Arabella, an up-and-coming TV girl, and they were planning to storm the world together. But Arabella had been sadly ambitious, and begun going out on her own, and coming home late, and had finally stopped coming home at all. One day her father had come to collect her belongings, and that had been that. They had divorced amicably, and Arabella had found herself a new man in Jack Cosgrave, a wealthy city banker.
They were still friends, of course, for they both lived in a world where contacts count for a great deal more than devotion, and political reporters need gossip every bit as much as rich merchant bankers pursue a good press. But Hunter shed blood every time they met, because he knew that Arabella worked hard at being rich and sophisticated and beautiful to punish him for his failure to amass a fortune.
So he sat in front of his screen, adrenalin degrading into gloom and introspection, sipped his coffee, and suspected glumly that he was growing old.
Suddenly a voice called his name, breaking his reverie. Martin Scott, Financeday's news editor, was waving a sheet of computer printout, and beckoning.
Several heads turned as Hunter hurried forward. Financeday's newsroom was a great open-plan space, set with serried rows of reporters' desks and computer terminals, with Scott and Mike Naismith, his deputy, seated together on a kind of dais at one end, framed by the banks of giant news agency and stockmarket monitors filling the wall behind them. Their dais was a throne, and Financeday's reporters danced attendance on their every gesture.
Scott was beaming. He was another tubby man, with piercing blue eyes and close-cropped ginger hair, jovial in a blue shirt with cuffs turned half way up to his elbows and a loosely knotted rainbow silk tie. ‘Good story.’ He waved Hunter's piece like a flag, his face creasing into small rolls of appreciation. ‘Nice bit of guesswork: I've asked Terry to run it on the front, as a panel at the bottom of the page. It'll make a neat contrast to the splash.’
Hunter immediately soared from deep depression to flattered elation. Newspapers operate on a star system. Favoured reporters are dealt the best stories, and remain favoured as long as they keep churning good copy. Terry Manning, Financeday's editor, was a tough man to please, and pleasing him meant piling on kudos. However he kept his smile modest, for his VAT piece was really most speculative. ‘It's not very hard.’
‘Doesn't matter.’ Scott waved his reserve away. ‘We're thinking of leading on sterling, the rate's taking a real pasting, Kent's going to have to tighten up massively on consumer spending. Terry wants your piece to give the Government a sharp prod.’
His eyes shifted to someone coming up behind Hunter, and he bounced to his feet. ‘Here he was now.’
Manning was a tall, wiry man, with hard steely eyes and a shock of close-cropped steel grey hair. He gripped Hunter's shoulder momentarily: it was a sign of approval.
‘Downing Street was shilly-shallying, Kent won't make up his bloody mind.’ His voice held a Belfast edge, as hard as his eyes. ‘We've got to have some action.’ Manning was busy negotiating to buy a holiday villa in France, and had been following the sterling-euro rate closely: he calculated that every ten cent slide added several hundred to his prospective outlay, and the Chancellor, Harry Kent, was not his favourite minister.
His grip tightened. ‘I want you to stick close to this one. Some Eurosceptic malcontents are having dinner together tonight, they want us to get much tougher with the bloody wogs. Go along and have a jar with them, pick their brains.’
‘Take them seriously?’ Hunter hesitated, taken by surprise. Financeday was strongly European, and counted eurosceptics as demons. ‘Are we changing sides?’
‘Never.’ Manning’s rejection was quick. ‘But we've got to help bring things to a head. Stir them up, shake 'em about a bit. Bring back something really provocative for tomorrow - you can bounce it off Downing Street in the morning, stir up the shit good and proper.’ He laughed harshly. ‘If the PM can't make up his mind, we'll do it for him.’
A voice called, and he was gone.
Scott beamed again. News editors are experts at scenting success, and Hunter was plainly now a star. ‘There you were, what did I tell you?’ His voice was warm. ‘He liked your Treasury piece - maybe you'll make it into politics.’ He glanced down at a sheet of paper. ‘They'll be meeting at San Isidro at half past eight, Ben Butcher's going to be in the chair - I'll tell him you're coming.’
‘Any others?’
Scott shook his head. ‘Ben owes Terry a favour, so you'll be the only newsman. But remember, no names, strictly QT.’
‘A group of leading eurosceptics, sources report?’
Scott nodded again. But then something on his screen had caught his eye, and he was back in his chair, tapping busily at his keyboard, and it was a dismissal. Stars might shine, but news editors have deadlines to meet.
Hunter returned to the newsroom coffee machine, poured himself a fresh cup, and realised that a prospective diet dinner of baked fish and broccoli, sauced perhaps with just a little plain yoghurt, had just been superseded by a prospect of lots to eat, and probably even more to drink. His depression gave way to radiance, and he made eyes at another nubile secretary. But this time the secretary dimpled, and smiled shyly, and suddenly he had a totally new spring in his step.
Suddenly Scott waved again, and now Hunter positively bounced forward as Financeday's news editor brandished a fresh sheet of paper.
‘Here's something to keep you busy meanwhile. More rumours about a bid for Wonders. Knock up a hundred words, it'll give you an appetite.’
Hunter hesitated. Financeday had a City news team, led by industrial editor Grant Madison, and bids were not politics. Madison could also be complex about poaching.
‘Grant's gone out on an interview, and his team were all busy.’ Scott read his mind, and was impatient. ‘You've met Morissey, Wonders' chairman, that's why I'm picking you. I'll keep Grant off your back.’
Hunter glanced around the newsroom quickly, to make sure Madison had not returned, and took a deep breath. Bid stories were easy meat, mostly pure invention. But boundary-bashing could be a dangerous game. However orders were orders. He would read the Wonders' file and dice with danger.
The file was thick and fat, replete with cuttings. He read carefully, making notes from time to time, then settled himself comfortably into his seat, and punched at his telephone keypad. He looked conspiratorial as a male voice answered. ‘Dick? Richard Hunter here. I've got to write a piece about Wonders, and all the bid rumours. What's the word?’
The telephone laughed. Dick Lester worked as an investment analyst with a top merchant bank, and rated as an expert on the retail sector. He had spent all week fielding Wonders bid talk, and was still not much wiser than most of his callers. ‘Don't ask me, ask Croesus, mate.’ He was on a taped line, and needed to be economical with his words.
Hunter quivered, pencil poised. The whole City rated Ned Harris, a super-rich right-wing Tory MP nicknamed after the richest man in ancient history, as a wheeler-dealer king. He licked his lips hopefully. ‘A bid?’
‘People say so.’
Hunter glanced at a clutch of numbers that pencilled on the sheet of paper in front of him. Wonders was a ragbag of assorted High Street electronics, retailing and DIY operations with a fat property portfolio and a sliding profit record. The group presented a tempting break-up target.
‘Smash and grab?’
Lester laughed again. ‘So they say.’
‘Does Morrissey have any downstream backing? Could he fight it off?’
‘You'll have to ask him and his bankers.’ Lester had heard all sort of rumours, but none of them had been very definite. Perhaps he could run a hare of his own. He lowered his voice. ‘Some say that he's planning a big blocking deal.’
Hunter caught his breath. ‘How big?’
Lester chuckled. ‘Some Russians came out of his office, shaking snow off their boots.’ He hung up. Sometimes one can say too much.
Hunter listened to the click of disconnection, made a face, and quickly punched a new number.
‘Colin? Richard Hunter here, Financeday.’ His voice was now deferential. ‘A broker has just rung to say a bid is on the way.’
The telephone snorted at him contemptuously. Colin Blakeley, Wonders' PR man, had been fending off bid rumours all day. ‘Croesus is just a lot of hot air.’ His voice softened, growing suave. ‘Harris is gambling on breaking us up and knocking us out to a bunch of tame institutions. He hasn't a chance.’
Hunter glanced at his figures again. ‘You're going through a bad patch.’
‘Clouds with silver linings, old boy.’
‘Russians to the rescue?’
Blakeley laughed out loud. ‘You heard about the snow?’
‘Is it true?’
‘In June?’
Hunter was ever a man for quick-fire banter. But he had a distinct feeling that the PR man was mocking him. He decided to counter-attack. ‘Would it work?’
‘Would what work?’
‘The Russians?’
Blakeley cleared his throat. This was his third briefing in an hour, and all his hopes of spending Friday afternoon playing a little light golf were fading fast. ‘We're actively exploring some foreign opportunities, old boy. That's as much as I can say at the moment. Call me again next week. Maybe I'll be able to tell you a bit more then.’
Hunter tried a last shot. ‘Will it be a big deal?’
But
his telephone had died. He sighed, and replaced his handset, and scanned the
newsroom quickly. Madison was still out. He rested his chin on his hands for a
moment, debating whether to build on the Wonders file, ad-lib a little, and
risk a turf war, or wait.
A movement caught his eye. He could see Scott making typing gestures with his hands, and looking impatient. Hunter closed his eyes for a moment, conjuring up a punchy intro, opened them again, and began to hammer at his keyboard. He would be creative, and imaginative, and inventive, mingling fact and fantasy, and help shape the future.