Хилари Боннер - A Kind Of Wild Justice

‘Apparently Cromer-Wrong bumped into a rather well-oiled Nigel Nuffield at some chambers do who informed him that he would never be doing business with him or anybody else at the Comet for as long as you remained employed here, but refused to elaborate,’ Paul continued, sounding highly amused now. ‘Actually, I’m beginning to come round to your way of thinking, that maybe that’s no great loss. But Nuffield’s been paid by the Phillipses, apparently, so that’s not his problem. I just want to know what you did to him, Jo.’ Paul was grinning as if in anticipation.

This was almost like the old days, thought Joanna. ‘I told him he was an overpaid, over-hyped, patronising fucking bastard,’ she explained casually. ‘Oh, and I think I may have mentioned something about prancing about in a damned silly wig...’

‘I’ve told you before, Jo, about being afraid to say what you mean,’ remarked her husband solemnly. Then he started to chuckle. She could still hear him chuckling as she left his office, closing the door behind her.

Paul had always had a wicked sense of humour, buried as it all too often was beneath that cool, rather distant exterior, and it pained her that she, at least, seemed to be seeing less and less of it nowadays. He also had a liking for journalists who stood their corner and showed spirit. Even the one who was his wife, it seemed. By the time she reached her desk she was remembering all the reasons why she had married him in the first place.

Then, just before first edition time, he phoned down and asked her to come along to his office. She was still feeling buoyant — until he told her he was taking her byline off the main story.

‘Sorry, Jo, you’re too much at the heart of it all. The Phillipses might still sue. I can’t take unnecessary risks. And God only knows what the O’Donnells might yet come up with. I want to distance you from it all. Having your name all over the splash every time something new breaks on this one just won’t do.’

‘Fine, whatever you say,’ she told him crisply. She made no further comment, but she did slam the door to his office on the way out.

As she walked back to her desk she couldn’t help but think back to the days when in an unhappy situation like this the first person she would have chosen to drown her sorrows with would have been one Paul Potter.

She told herself not to be so dammed stupid. If she hadn’t been his wife she doubted Paul would even have bothered to tell her about the byline, and she would have known nothing about it until the first edition dropped. It was utterly ridiculous that a byline should matter so much to her at her age and after all she had been through in newspapers, after all she had achieved. But it did matter, of course. Particularly when she was the one who had got the lead on the story. It was actually even more than that. This was her story, through and through, and had been from the very germ of the beginning of it to whatever decaying bones of it there were now. She had taken the flak when it had gone so badly wrong. She should also get any credit that was going. Even after all these years it was still important to her to be seen to be achieving, to be seen to be at the top of her particular game.

It mattered all right. And the day that it didn’t would be the day when she might as well not bother to continue even pretending to be a journalist.

The red-top Sundays had a field day. The News of the World homed in on Rob Phillips who gave a near-hysterical interview in which he said that O’Donnell had finally got what he deserved and that he only wished he had had the nerve to do the job himself. ‘What happened to O’Donnell is poetic justice,’ he said. ‘I just hope he died in agony and in terror, like my poor sister did. But no end, however dreadful, could ever be quite bad enough for that evil bastard.’

It was hard-hitting stuff. The fact that O’Donnell was officially an innocent man twice acquitted for crimes against Angela, including her rape and murder, in two different courts of law, received little attention. Because O’Donnell was dead, the Screws had a clear run at the story. You can’t libel the dead.

The People featured an almost equally hysterical outburst from Tommy O’Donnell. He more or less accused the entire Phillips family, Rob Phillips in particular, of involvement in the murder and even suggested that Mike Fielding probably had a part in it too. Joanna was only surprised that she didn’t merit a mention somewhere along the line.

She thought the People was on by far the most dodgy legal ground, but who was going to sue? Certainly not Mike Fielding who in any case appeared just to want the whole thing to go away so that he could ensure the safety of his pension. And certainly not the Phillipses. They would not have the bottle for yet another court case, she was sure of it, nor the cash, come to that. And in any event, with Rob Phillips’s rantings coincidentally appearing in the Screws on the same day as the Tommy O’Donnell stuff was in the People , what sort of case would they have? If, indeed, it was a coincidence. She thought it probably more likely that they had known over at the People what the Screws was running. After all, from about Friday morning onwards every week half the aim of the news teams of the two big red-tops was to find out what the other was splashing on. And if they’d had early knowledge at the People of the Screw ’s exclusive, that would have greatly influenced the advice of the paper’s lawyers and the decision of its editor.

She called Fielding the next day. ‘Just wanted to see how you were doing.’

‘I’m not quite sure,’ he said. ‘O’Donnell’s death has taken the heat off a bit.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Somewhat takes the attention away from all those claims about me pushing you guys and the Phillipses to get the private prosecution case against O’Donnell set up, doesn’t it?’ he said.

Typical, she thought. He always saw everything in terms of how it affected him and his career, always had done. Jimbo O’Donnell being found dead with his cock in his mouth was no exception.

And what did he mean ‘claims’? That was the trouble with Fielding, sometimes he seemed to bend the truth so much inside his head that he got to believe his own fabrication. Which was, of course, exactly what journalists were so frequently accused of. ‘Did you see all the stuff in the Sundays?’

‘Yup. Predictable, I suppose.’

‘I wondered if you knew how the investigation is going. Any progress?’

‘Don’t believe so. Not that I’m allowed to get a look-in, of course. One thing’s for sure, there’s a longish list of folk who wouldn’t have minded topping Jimbo.’

‘Yeah. And you are on it, according to his brother Tommy.’

He chuckled drily. ‘The O’Donnells think everybody’s idea of justice is the same as theirs,’ he said mildly.

‘Well, I must admit I’m glad the twisted bastard’s dead,’ she replied. ‘I’m beginning to get quite a warm feeling about it, in fact.’

‘Yeah.’ There was a silence.

Surely he had more to say than that? She waited.

‘Yeah,’ he said again, a little more life in his voice at last. ‘Come to think of it, so am I.’

Fielding told himself that for him it was good news not to be involved in the case any more. Things seemed to be straightening out quite nicely. With Jimbo dead the Complaints and Discipline guys did indeed seem to be losing interest in him and the part he had played in the private prosecution. He knew he would be sure to be interviewed by the team investigating O’Donnell’s murder, and he determined that he would be respectful and to the point, and not let any of his personal feelings get in the way.