Fiona Barton - The Widow

Mark Perry watched her, nodding encouragingly whenever she spoke and smiling broadly when she signed and dated the document.

“Okay, let’s get started,” he said, standing and propelling her out of the office to the waiting feature writer who would do “the Big Interview.”

The paper had thousands of words already written, prepared for the expected guilty verdict. Before Glen Taylor’s trial, they’d interviewed former colleagues from the bank and delivery firm, collected the sordid tales of the chat-room women and had the child porn confirmed in an off-the-record briefing by a detective on the team. They’d also bought up a neighbor of the Taylors, paying her for her exclusive photos of Taylor with her kids—one of them a little blond girl.

The neighbor had told her story about him watching the children from a window and how she’d nailed up the gate between their houses.

None of it would go to waste now.

“She won’t go for the ‘KILLER!’ headline, but we’ve got a great first day,” he told his deputy, slipping his jacket on the back of a chair on the back bench and rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s work on the editorial. And get the lawyers up here. Don’t fancy prison just yet.”

The Herald splashed the story over the first nine pages, pledging to bring Glen Taylor to justice and demanding that the home secretary order a retrial.

It was journalism at its most powerful, hammering home the message with a mallet, inciting reaction, and the readers responded. The comment sections on the website were filled with unthinking, screaming vitriol, foulmouthed opinion, and calls for the death penalty to be reinstated. “The usual nutters,” the news editor summed up in morning conference. “But lots of them.”

“Let’s show a bit of respect for our readers,” the editor said. And they all laughed. “Now, what have we got for today?”

THIRTY-ONE

The Reporter

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 2008

Kate Waters fumed over her desk breakfast. “We could’ve had this,” she told anyone who would listen as she turned the pages of the Herald . Across the newsroom, Terry Deacon heard but carried on typing his news list. She abandoned her brown toast and honey and walked over. “We could have had this,” she repeated, standing over him.

“Of course we could, Kate, but she wanted too much money, and we’ve already had three big interviews with her.”

He pushed back his chair and looked pained. “Honestly, what is new here? Wouldn’t have minded the pictures with the kids next door, but the Internet sluts and the child porn have been everywhere.”

“That’s not the point, Terry. The Herald is now the official Bella Elliott paper. If Taylor is retried and found guilty, they’ll be able to say they brought Bella’s kidnapper to justice. Where will we be? Standing on the steps with our dicks in our hands.”

“Find a better story, then, Kate,” the editor said as he suddenly appeared behind them. “Don’t waste time on this old rehash. Off to a marketing meeting, but let’s talk later.”

“Okay, Simon,” she said to his retreating back.

“Bloody hell. You’ve been summoned to the headmaster’s study,” Terry said, and laughed once his boss was out of earshot.

Kate returned to her seat and cold toast and began searching for the elusive better story.

In normal circumstances, she’d just ring Dawn or Bob Sparkes, but her options were vanishing fast. Dawn had decamped, and Bob had mysteriously disappeared off the radar for weeks. She’d heard from the crime man that there’d been a bit of row over interference in the Bella review, and Sparkes’s phone seemed to be permanently off.

She gave it another try and gave a silent cheer when it rang. “Hello, Bob,” she said when Sparkes finally answered. “How are you? Are you back at work yet? Guess you’ve seen the Herald .”

“Hi, Kate. Yes. Quite a bold step for them, given the verdict. Hope they’ve got good lawyers. Anyway, good to hear from you. I’m fine. Had a bit of a break but back at work. I’m in town, working with the Met. Tidying some loose ends. Up near you, actually.”

“Well, what are you doing for lunch today?”

He was sitting in the expensive, tiny French restaurant when she walked in, dark suit and black mood stark against the white tablecloths.

“Bob, you look well,” she lied. “Sorry if I’m late. Traffic.”

He rose and offered his hand across the table. “Just got here, myself.”

The small talk stopped and started as a waiter brought menus, offered suggestions and water, hovered for the order, and poured the wine. But finally, with matching plates of magret de canard in front of them, she began in earnest.

“I want to help, Bob,” she said, picking up her fork. “There must be some line of inquiry we can look at again.”

He didn’t speak but sawed at the rosy meat in front of him. She waited.

“Look, Kate, we made a mistake and can’t unmake it. Let’s see what the Herald ’s campaign produces. Do you think he’ll sue?”

“It’s a dangerous game, suing for libel,” she said. “I’ve been there. If he does, he’s got to go in the witness box and give evidence. Will he really want to do that?”

“He’s a clever man, Kate. Slippery.” He was rolling the crumbs of the bread into beads of dough between his fingers. “I don’t know anymore.”

“For goodness’ sake, Bob. You’re a fantastic copper—why are you giving up?”

He raised his head and looked at her.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to nag. I just hate seeing you like this,” she said.

In the lull, while both sipped their wine, Kate cursed her haste. Leave the poor man alone , she thought.

But she couldn’t. It was not in her nature.

“So what’ve you been doing with the Met today?”

“Loose ends, like I said. Sorting through some stuff from a couple of joint investigations—car thefts, that sort of thing. Actually, there were also some bits and pieces left over from the Bella case. Early stuff, when we first picked up Glen Taylor.”

“Anything interesting?” she asked.

“No, not really. The Met went to make sure the other Qwik Delivery driver was at home while we drove up from Southampton.”

“What other driver?”

“There were two drivers in Hampshire that day—you know that.”

She didn’t, or she hadn’t remembered.

“The other one was a bloke called Mike Doonan. He was the one we went to see first. Perhaps his name didn’t come out at the time. Anyway, he’s crippled with a crumbling spine—could hardly walk—and we never found anything to pursue.”

“Did you question him?”

“Yes. He was the one who told us Taylor was also making a delivery in the area that day. Not sure we’d have found that out without him. Taylor did the drop as a favor, so there’s no official record of it. The case review team went to see him, too. Nothing added, apparently.”

Kate excused herself from the table and went to the ladies’, where she scribbled down the name and put a quick call in to a colleague to find an address for Doonan. For later.

When she got back to the table, the detective was putting his credit card back in his wallet. “Bob, I invited you,” she said.

He waved away her protest and smiled. “My pleasure. It’s been good to see you, Kate. Thanks for your pep talk.”

She deserved that, she thought as they walked out in single file. On the pavement, he shook her hand again, and they both went back to work.

Kate’s phone began vibrating as she hailed a taxi, and she waved away the cab to take the call. “There’s a Michael Doonan in Peckham, according to the electoral roll—I’ll text the address and the names of the neighbors,” the crime man said.