Fiona Barton - The Widow

“Poor you. Which one?” Kate asked. He was notorious for recycling stories—“the green bin of news,” he called it cheerfully.

“Bella. It’s Dawn’s third one without her. How about a drink at lunchtime?”

“Bella. Oh my God, I forgot you,” she told the child’s picture stuck on her filing cabinet. “I’m so sorry.”

The Herald ’s campaign had gone quiet once the threat of a libel action had become a reality, and both camps had drawn back behind their battle lines.

Kate heard on the grapevine that the legal director of the Herald had had a stand-up row with the editor over the initial coverage, and she persuaded her rival Tim to tell her all about it over a glass or three of wine. He’d been cautious about the details at first, but the story was too good not to tell properly. He propped up the bar in a pub opposite the High Court and told her how the house lawyer had accused Mark Perry of ignoring his advice and using “lurid comments” and allegations in the copy.

“I expect ‘Taylor’s killer eyes’ was one of them.” Kate laughed. “I thought you were on pretty shaky ground there.”

“Yes. One of Perry’s choicer phrases. Anyway, the lawyer said Mark was ramping up the potential damages every time he pulled a stunt like that.”

“And Taylor’s got money to fund a case. All that compensation from the police,” Kate said.

“The editor’s agreed to pull back from the direct accusations and harassment. Soft-pedal while the libel case is pending.”

“But he’s not going to give up the campaign, is he?” Kate asked. “He’ll definitely have to pay up if he does that. It’s tantamount to admitting he’s in the wrong.”

Tim grimaced into his Merlot. “He’s not happy. He hit his monitor with his fist, then crashed back into the newsroom to tell everyone they were ‘fucking amateurs.’ He likes to spread the pain. Calls it inclusivity.”

Kate had patted Tim’s arm sympathetically and headed for home.

As Tim had predicted, the Herald had quieted down, and the libel action appeared to have stalled in the chambers of both sides.

But she was ready to have another go. She needed to find her notebook from a year ago. There, scribbled on the cover, was an address in Peckham for one Mike Doonan.

“Slipping out to knock a door on a tip,” she told Terry. “On my mobile if you need me.”

It took an age to cross Westminster Bridge and crawl down the Old Kent Road, but the cabbie finally pulled up in the shadow of a grim relic of 1960s cutting-edge architecture. A gray concrete box, studded with filthy windows and satellite dishes.

Kate went to the door and pressed the bell. She knew what she was going to say—she’d had plenty of time in the taxi to plan—but there was no answer. The flat echoed with the bell ringing, but it was the only sound.

“He’s out,” a voice called from next door. A woman’s voice.

“Bugger. I hoped I’d catch him in. I thought he was housebound,” she replied.

A head appeared out of the door. Ancient, tight perm, and an apron. “He’s down at the bookies. Doesn’t go out much now, with his back, poor Mike. But he tries to get out once a day. Was he expecting you?”

Kate smiled at the neighbor. “Not really. It was on the off chance. I’m doing a story about a man he used to work with when he was a driver. Glen Taylor. The Bella case.”

The neighbor opened her door wider. “The Bella case? Did he work with that bloke? He never said. Do you want to come in and wait?”

Within the first five minutes, Mrs. Meaden had told Kate about Doonan’s medical condition—“degenerative osteoarthritis, getting steadily worse”—his betting habit, ex-wives, kids, and diet—“beans on toast practically every night; can’t be good for him.

“I do a bit of shopping for him every week, and the kids on the estate run errands.”

“That’s kind of you—he’s lucky to have a neighbor like you.”

Mrs. Meaden looked pleased. “It’s what any Christian would do,” she said. “Tea?”

Kate balanced the flowered cup and saucer on the arm of her chair and took a shop-bought mince pie out of the proffered cake tin.

“Funny he never mentioned he knew this Glen Taylor man, isn’t it?” Mrs. Meaden said, brushing crumbs off her lap.

“They worked together. At Qwik Delivery,” Kate prompted.

“He drove for years. Says that’s what did it for his back. He doesn’t really have friends. Not what I call friends—people who come and see him. He used to go to a computer place around here—said it was sort of a club. Used to go regularly before he retired. Funny thing for a man of his age to be doing, I always thought. Still, he’s on his own, so he must get bored.”

“I didn’t know there was a computer club around here. Do you know what it’s called?”

“It’s on Princess Street, I think. Shabby-looking place with blacked-out windows. Oh, there’s Mike now.”

They could hear the heavy sound of dragging feet and the stabbing of a stick onto the concrete walkway.

“Hello, Mike,” Mrs. Meaden called as she opened her door. “Got a lady from the press here for you.”

Doonan pulled a face as Kate emerged. “Sorry, love. My back is killing me. Can you come back another time?”

Kate moved closer to him and took his arm. “Let me at least help you in,” she said. And did.

The smell in Doonan’s flat was nothing like the cabbage and Dettol disinfectant permeating next door. It smelled of men. Sweat, old beer, stale cigarette smoke, feet.

“What do you want to talk to me for? I told the police all I knew,” Doonan said as Kate perched on a hard chair opposite him.

“Glen Taylor,” she said simply.

“Oh, him.”

“You used to work together.”

Doonan nodded.

“I’m writing a profile on him. Trying to get a better picture of who he really is.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong person. He was no friend of mine. I’ve told the police. Stuck-up little prick, if you want to know.”

I do , she thought.

“Always thought he was better than us. Slumming it until something better came along.”

She had found his sore spot and scratched it. “Heard he was a bit arrogant.”

“Arrogant? That’s an understatement. Lorded it over us in the lunchroom with his stories of when he ran a bank. And then he got me into trouble over my back problem. Told the boss I was having them on about how bad it was. Said I was faking.”

“That must’ve caused you problems.”

Doonan smiled bitterly. “Joke of it is that I helped him get the job at Qwik Delivery.”

Kate pounced. “Really? So you knew him before. Where’d you come across him?”

“On the Net. On a forum or something.” Doonan sounded less sure of himself.

“And at the club in Princess Street?”

Doonan flashed a look at Kate. “What club?” he said. “Look, I need to take my pills. You’ll have to go.”

She put her business card down beside him and shook his hand. “Thanks for talking to me, Mike. I really appreciate it. I’ll let myself out.”

She headed straight for Princess Street.

The sign for Internet Inc. was small and amateurish, the shop window painted black on the inside, and there was a CCTV camera positioned over the door. Looks like a sex shop , she thought.

The door was locked, and there were no opening times posted. She walked to the greengrocer’s at the top of the street and waited until one of the assistants in a Santa hat came out to serve her from the stall on the pavement.

“Hi. I want to use the Internet, but the place down the street is closed. Do you know when it opens?” she said, and the young man laughed.