Silent Truths (9 page)

‘It might be funny to you,’ she retorted, ‘but that man is nothing less than Satan to me, and you know it.’

She was right, he did know it, and since he was one of the few who was aware of the history behind her loathing of Elliot Russell he felt bad now for
mocking it. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘But it still doesn’t mean I might not be right.’

‘Even
he
wouldn’t be able to whisk a murdered girl’s family off to a secret address before the police had spoken to them,’ she snapped.

‘How do you know the police haven’t spoken to them?’

‘I’m not saying they haven’t. In fact, I’m damned sure they have.’

Gino’s eyebrows went up. ‘So what are you saying? That the police could have them holed up somewhere?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s possible. Even probable, considering the timing. And if they have, I want to know why. It’s certainly not normal procedure.’

His interest was more than pricked. ‘What does your chap at the Yard say?’

Her eyes gleamed. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ she teased.

‘Yeah. I would.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, deflating. ‘He’s stopped returning my calls.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘OK, my five minutes are up. I’m off to see Wilbur.’ He probably wanted to find out what angle she was taking for tomorrow, so she’d better start coming up with something fast. Not that she was even close to running out of material, since there were innumerable ways of skinning this cat, though it had to be said that even the tabloids appeared to be drawing blanks where anything new was concerned, and some of them would have sixteen people to her one working the story. Come to think of it, that was another interesting point. Nothing new had come out of this for over a week, which
was early days for such a potentially rich source to dry up.

As she waited for Wilbur to finish his phone call, she turned her back on the office mayhem and went to stand at the window, hands plunged deeply into the pockets of her baggy dungarees as she stared out at the dramatic, sun-splashed view of London that shimmered all the way upriver to the House of Commons. It was so clear today she could even make out the tower of Big Ben. After staring at it for a moment she allowed her eyes to drift back down over the rooftops, roads, historical monuments and grey, glistening snake of water. That vibrant, beloved metropolis was so many things to so many people, whose lives were interconnected in so many ways that even they couldn’t know them all. However, there was one connection they could never be in any doubt of. She looked again at the vast, splendid palace on the horizon, made small now by distance. Therein, she thought, resides the highest power in the nation; a comparatively small, but select group of people whose decisions, ambitions, personal agendas and human failings affected millions of people’s lives in almost every conceivable way.

It was awesome. So much so it could almost make her quiver, particularly since she, like every other journalist worth a column inch knew only too well how rabidly corrupt, malign, and very, very dangerous it could be, though in ways that, mercifully, were more often felt by those within than those who had helped put them there.

‘OK, in here,’ Wilbur shouted.

As Laurie turned to walk round his glassed-in
cubicle she heard someone guffaw, then snigger, and guessed that a couple of the more senior members of the news team were once again having a joke at her expense. But it was OK. Let them. It was their problem if they felt threatened by someone as young and inexperienced as she was. Besides, twenty-eight wasn’t even that young, though it probably didn’t help that she looked closer to twenty. She had no idea what kind of pressure they put on Wilbur to make sure she always got the dross but, give Wilbur his due, he hadn’t even attempted to take the Ashby coup from her. To the contrary, he’d backed her all the way, and hadn’t even demurred when she’d chosen Flaxie and Gino, two fellow members of the junior team, as her support crew. Of course, everyone had been waiting for them to screw up, but so far all they’d earned from Wilbur was praise and encouragement, along with an apology when it had become necessary to reassign Flaxie and Gino. But he’d left her on the case, hadn’t he? And though he had to know Gino and Flaxie were still helping her out where they could, he’d uttered not a squeak of reproof. So let the sniggering baby-boomers, with their superiority chips and depowered flowers, stuff that in their worn-out peace pipes to puff over in cruddy Strand pubs.

‘Are you OK?’ Wilbur said, leaning his long head curiously to one side as Laurie closed the door.

‘Yes, why?’ she asked, knowing very well that the little incident outside had probably turned her lips pale. That was what happened to her when she was upset, or stressed, or just plain tired: the blood fled her lips, leaving her looking strained and unwell.

‘Just checking,’ he responded, waving her to a chair. ‘Now tomorrow –’

‘I’ve got an in with the estate agent who was selling them the flat just along the river here,’ she said. ‘There’s also –’

‘The designer warehouse was done last week in the
Mail
,’ he interrupted.

‘It was the
Express
,’ she corrected. ‘And they did a warehouse next door that’s similar and also for sale. I can get us into the one they were actually supposed to be buying.’

As usual Wilbur’s hooded eyes were darting about like flies, giving the impression his attention was too. ‘What time’s your appointment?’ he said.

‘Two.’

‘Then you’re after just about every other paper in town,’ he told her bluntly.

Her face drained. ‘She told me I had an exclusive,’ she mumbled, wanting to kill the agent. She’d also like to know who’d gone to Wilbur with the information, though she probably only had to look just outside the door.

She was on the point of telling him about the minicab driver Flaxie had managed to track down when he said, ‘Anyway, this warehouse thing’s not for us. We’re a serious paper. We report the facts and move on.’

Laurie frowned her surprise. This was the first time he’d sounded anything less than keen to keep the Ashby story going, whatever the angle. ‘There are hundreds of different ways we can go with this,’ she reminded him, ‘and I thought –’

‘Let it drop,’ he said. ‘The wife’s kindergarten has been photographed more times than the Taj Mahal;
the tabloids have still got the empty house in Fulham under siege despite the fact no one except the removers have come or gone in a fortnight; the eighty-year-old mother’s going to collapse under the strain if we hound her any more –’

‘Wilbur, I’m not the one who’s been hounding her,’ Laurie cut in.

‘And there’s a limit to how many so-called friends and mistresses have actually got anything valuable to say. Now unless you can come up with something that’s going to set us apart –’

‘I can!’ she interrupted. ‘I just need some time, that’s all.’

He glanced at her sharply. ‘Impress me,’ he challenged.

‘I’m working on finding the Longs,’ she replied.

‘We’ve got other people out there on that.’

‘I’ve also got the name of a minicab driver who regularly drove Colin Ashby.’

‘Drove him where?’

‘Anywhere he was going, I suppose. I haven’t talked to him yet.’

‘What’s his relevance?’

‘I don’t know until I talk to him.’

‘Forget it. If he had anything worth saying the police or one of the tabloids would have found him by now.’

‘The police have found him, but he hasn’t talked to the press yet.’

‘And you think you’re going to get him?’

‘Flaxie’s found him. I’m seeing him tonight.’

His eyes shot up and down the office outside. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘But
Wilbur
…’

‘No, come on, Laurie. I know you’ve got an attachment to this story, but we’ve milked it so dry we’re not even making Marvel any more. When it goes to trial you’ll be assigned. Until then, let it go.’

‘What if I told you I think there’s some kind of cover-up going on?’ she cried, before he could dismiss her.

His eyes were suddenly unnervingly still. ‘Go on,’ he said.

Momentarily thrown by the abrupt shift of gears, she said, ‘Well, right now it’s just a feeling. No! It’s more than that,’ she added hastily as his eyebrows started an ascent. ‘It’s the fact that no one, except his lawyers, has spoken out in his defence.’

‘And you call that a cover-up when he was found with the tights in his hands and his trousers
in absentia
?’

‘No, listen. The Longs have disappeared. His wife hasn’t been to visit him. Not one of his colleagues is owning up to a friendship with him when it’s well known that in some cases, such as the
Prime Minister’s
, they go right back to Oxford. No, OK, no one would seriously expect the Prime Minister to comment, but there are others who knew him. They could at least say something. But not a single one is stepping up to the plate and admitting even to having had coffee with the man. All right! All right! We then come to the fact that he’s pleading not guilty, despite the kind of evidence he doesn’t have a hope in hell of refuting. And let’s not forget, the man’s extramarital affairs have been going on for years, most of which, according to the friends we’ve spoken to, his wife knew about, so why would he kill a girl who by all
accounts wasn’t much more than a one-night stand?’

‘All of which amounts to …?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just asking for more time. Wilbur,’ she pleaded, as he began shaking his head, ‘there’s more to this, I’m telling you.’

‘You’re not hearing me, Laurie,’ he said, his voice deepening with authority.

‘I am. I just –’

‘Laurie.’

She met his stare, held it and only then did she begin to hear him. She had no choice in this: he was
ordering
her to back off.

Apparently satisfied she’d got the message he said, ‘Features are looking for someone to do a piece on mistresses and political scandals. It’s yours if you want it.’

Her mind was elsewhere, still dealing with this veiled, and exciting order to back off.

‘Did you hear that?’ he asked.

She looked at him.

‘Did you
hear
it?’ he repeated.

She nodded. Then her eyes widened as she really came up to speed. He might be ordering her to back off, but in assigning her to a feature he was, unofficially, giving her at least some of the space she was requesting. ‘Yes, I’ll take it,’ she said.

‘Good.’

And she was dismissed.

‘The most intriguing part of it,’ she said to Gino as they stepped off a Docklands Light Railway train later and headed out of the station, ‘is who gave Wilbur
his
order?’

‘God, presumably,’ Gino answered, referring to their editor-in-chief.

‘Because I’m treading on the political or crime boys’ toes? Or because I’ve inadvertently stumbled upon something that’s making someone, somewhere nervous?’

‘Good question. But who would it be making nervous? We don’t know, unless we can find out what it is you might have stumbled upon.’

After flashing her travel pass she waited for him to slot his ticket in the exit machine, then fell in beside him again as they walked out into the sunny, noisy splendour of rush hour at Tower Hill.

‘If I’d found something,’ she said, ‘I’d know. Do you agree with that?’

‘I’ll go along with it if you want me to,’ he responded, dodging from the path of a speeding pedestrian.

‘I mean, I wouldn’t be all questions and no answers,’ she explained. ‘Or at the very least I’d have a new set of questions.’

‘Makes sense,’ he conceded. ‘Where are we going, by the way?’

‘St Katharine’s Dock. Benitos. Flaxie’s meeting us there with the minicab driver.’

‘Any chance
he
could be what you’ve stumbled upon?’ Gino asked, as they descended into the labyrinthine tunnels of the underpass that would take them beneath the frantic intersection of five major roads to the relative calm of the river.

‘We won’t know until we talk to him. Interesting, though, that the order to back off came minutes after Flaxie’s call.’

‘You’re going way out there with that one,’ Gino
warned. ‘It presupposes a tap on your line to begin –’

‘I know,’ she interrupted, ‘and there’s a good chance I’m getting too Washington DC here, but I’ve got to tell you, Gino, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that there really is some kind of cover-up going on.’

‘If there is, you won’t be the only one who’s thought it,’ he warned.

‘Of course not. But who’s ahead in the game? We don’t know, but we can make a good guess. Elliot Russell’s cream-team will have had this inside out, upside down, laid out on a couch and tested for prints so many times by now that if there is another dimension he won’t only know it, he’ll have sold it.’

‘No. You’ve just gone from A to C there.’

‘B being?’

‘Between knowing and selling, has to come proving. And as we haven’t heard a single peep about another dimension, from anyone, we have to conclude that if there is some kind of cover-up then Elliot Russell, or whoever, is still working on it.’

‘Mm.’ She frowned thoughtfully and hitched her backpack higher. This deduction had enough merit to be transmitting some stimulating frissons of challenge through her brain.

They walked on in silence for a while, weaving through the fast-paced commuters and map-reading tourists, until finally they found themselves up close and almost personal with some pretty swanky yachts.

‘It’s impressive what they’ve done with this place, don’t you think?’ she remarked, looking
round at the expensively converted dockside apartments and arcades of lord and lady muck shops that hugged the marina.

‘Isn’t this where the Ashbys were supposed to be buying?’ Gino asked.

‘No. Their place was further along towards Wapping.’ She gazed up at a huge arched window and watched the reflection of a plane cutting silently through a clear blue sky. ‘Mirrors,’ she murmured. ‘Funny, isn’t it, how they make things appear as though they’re moving in one direction, when reality is totally reversed?’

‘Are we still on the Ashbys here?’ he asked. ‘Or are we taking some kind of philosophical side trip?’