The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) (21 page)

Craig retook his seat. “Vera Patterson told us that Cahill had told Mercer, so who’s Bill Reynolds?”

“Mercer’s bitch.”

Maggie’s tone said to take the words seriously. Ray Mercer probably had a coterie of snitches and gofers but Bill Reynolds was obviously his number one.

“As soon as Rory told Reynolds he would have gone straight to Mercer. That’s probably where Vera got her wires crossed.” She frowned, confused. “So why didn’t Mercer dig further and print the story?”

Liam answered, surprised that she’d asked. “Because even Mercer knew it was a privileged conversation between a witness and a police officer and he’d be in deep doo-doos if he did.” He mock scowled at her. “You would never do that, would you, Maggie?” He answered his own question, shaking his head slowly as if he was speaking to a child. “No, of course you wouldn’t. You’re a good little reporter.”

Craig interrupted the lecture. “I think Mercer did the next best thing to printing it; he deliberately leaked it to a blogger.”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “Father Fred?”

“Yep. Who then put the word out on the Net. Mercer’s just waiting for enough people to ask questions in a public forum then he can investigate legitimately.”

She whistled just as Liam puckered his lips. He sniffed, put out. Women whistling, it wasn’t right; it went against the natural order of things. Maggie shook her head.

“My God, no matter how much I hate Mercer I have to admit that’s clever.”

“Clever and dangerous. He’s compromising an open case.” Craig stood up. “Is that his office next door?” He smiled coldly. “I want to surprise him.”

Maggie walked to the door. “I have to see this.”

“No. He’ll blame you for helping us.”

She shrugged. “He’ll blame me anyway. The whole newsroom saw me bringing you in here, so I might as well enjoy myself.”

Before he could object further she’d opened the door and was leading the way. As they headed next door Craig could have sworn he heard the sound level in the newsroom drop. Every reporter in the room watched as Maggie knocked on Ray Mercer’s door.

“Come.”

The voice sounded more authoritative than Craig remembered, but the weasel face that greeted them looked exactly the same. Mercer stared at Maggie in surprise; it morphed into a sneer when he saw Liam and Craig.

“Well, well, the Dibbles are in town.”

Craig ignored the jibe and took a seat, beckoning the others to do the same. If Mercer was flustered he covered it well, smiling coolly.

“Let me guess. You’re here to collect for the policeman’s ball?”

Liam quipped back. “We’ll always have more balls than you.”

For once Craig didn’t reprimand him; he was struggling too hard not to wring Mercer’s neck. His voice was as hard as steel.

“We know about Father Fred.”

Mercer grinned, revealing teeth that had seen better days. “Isn’t that a TV show?” When he got no response he shrugged. “Maybe not. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Enlighten me.”

Craig fixed his gaze. “You like to play games, don’t you? Well, how about this one. I lock you up for interfering with a police investigation and you try to get out. It should take you about four days with extra time on PACE.”

Craig didn’t blink and Liam could see that Mercer was trying not to as well; he was frantically thinking back through the past week to see if he could cover his tracks. Craig put him out of his misery by piling on more.

“Don’t waste your time trying to think up a lie. We know about Rory Cahill overhearing a privileged conversation and telling Bill Reynolds, who then told you. We know that you then leaked that information deliberately to a Derry based blogger called Father Fred, in the hope that they would whip up enough internet interest to justify you investigating and plastering the story all over The Chronicle’s front page. The blogger will confirm everything I’ve just said.”

He was confident that Father Fred would cough, if they ever found him that was. At the moment he was proving more elusive than a priest in Elizabethan England.

A small smile twitched at Mercer’s lips, piquing Craig’s curiosity. It couldn’t mean anything good. The smile didn’t last long and Craig watched with schadenfreude as Mercer squirmed in his hard backed chair. He had no sympathy for the man. Not only had Mercer tried to engineer internet coverage that could have alerted their perp to everything they knew, but he’d been prepared to do so using the kidnap of the man who’d probably given him his first job. Oliver Bwye had owned the paper for twenty-seven years. He played the hunch.

“Bwye gave you a chance and this is how you repay him?”

Mercer jumped to his feet. “Oliver Bwye was a bastard and I didn’t owe him any loyalty. He made me sweat for every penny I earned. How do you think these people get to be millionaires?”

Craig was unperturbed. He had the upper hand, although Mercer’s earlier smile troubled him. What had that been about?

“You’re talking about Mr Bwye in the past tense. Do you know something we don’t? Perhaps you had something to do with his kidnap?”

Mercer dropped to his seat like a stone, his eyes widening in panic. “I didn’t mean that…it was just a figure of speech…”

Craig let him babble for a moment then he leaned forward and fixed Mercer’s wild eyes with his completely calm ones.

“When this trick comes out you’re finished, Mercer. No amount of toadying to The Chronicle’s Board and shareholders will keep you safe. You’re a liability and big companies don’t like liabilities.” He watched for a moment, as Mercer’s breathing accelerated and he turned pale, then he rose to his feet and beckoned the others to do the same. “Pack your stuff, because when Lawton hears about this you’ll be out.”

They were out of the office before Mercer had recovered and at the lift before he’d found the breath to yell after them. “You’re bluffing, Craig. You can’t prove anything. I’ll make your life hell…”

His voice faded as they descended the two floors to the street. Craig shot Maggie an apologetic look.

“Sorry about that. Your life will be hell now.”

Maggie shrugged. “But everyone’s life will be better if Mr Lawton sacks him, and if Mercer did what you’re saying he did then he will. Lawton’s a good man.”

“I’ll phone him now. Will you be all right to go back to your office?”

She shook her head and gestured towards a shoulder bag that neither detective had noticed her carrying.

“I came prepared. I’m going into town shopping and then home. I’ll keep my head down until I hear from you on whether Mercer’s gone.” She looked sad for a moment. “It’s bastards like that who give journalists a bad name. I came into the press to report the truth responsibly, not to ruin people’s lives.” She stared at Craig meaningfully. “Oliver Bwye did some terrible things when he owned The Chronicle, he may even have made Mercer into the gutter reporter he became. Bwye’s motto was ‘anything for a story’; although I’m sure he never anticipated being the subject of one.”

She glanced across St Anne’s Square at The MAC café and smiled. “Coffee and cake first I think, and then a new pair of shoes.” She waved goodbye. “Let me know what Lawton says.”

As they watched her walk through the arts centre’s sliding doors, Liam made a face.

“Brave girl. But what if Lawton doesn’t sack the weasel? She’s really put her neck on the line.”

“He will.” Craig threw him the car keys. “You drive us to Docklands while I make the call.”

Five minutes later they were in the basement of the C.C.U. and Cameron Lawton was ranting down the line.

“That bastard Mercer will bring the whole paper down.”

“Can you do anything about it?”

Lawton sounded surprised. “Of course I can. I’m the editor-in-chief. I never wanted Mercer for news editor in the first place but I was overruled by the Board.”

Craig’s next words were tentative. “With all due respect, that’s what I meant. Will the Board let you sack him?”

Lawton calmed down slightly.

“Oh, I see. Yes, they will. I’m in charge operationally and the moment Mercer became a problem he became disposable. I’ll suspend him immediately and get the lawyers onto our liability for the leak, and the legalities of sacking him. Maggie Clarke will be interim news editor from tomorrow; she’s very good.” He paused for a moment and Craig knew what was coming next. “It would really assist if you could find this blogger. Help to make our case with the Board.”

“We’ve got someone on it. We already have the word of Rory Cahill that he told Bill Reynolds what he overheard…”

Lawton cut in. “And Reynolds told Mercer? I’ll have his guts for garters.”

“I think you’ll find that Mercer was intimidating everyone in your newsroom. Supplying him with information was probably the only way to survive working there.”

He knew Lawton was nodding at the other end of the line.

“Then it’s my fault for not noticing the atmosphere of fear that he’d created. I won’t bollock Reynolds but I’ll make him tell me the truth.”

Liam was already out of the car so Craig opened the passenger door, still talking. “Thanks for taking this seriously.”

The editor’s tone was solemn. “If the police stepped out of line we would be the first to report it, Superintendent, but we’re also on the side of helping you solve crime. You get on with finding the Bwyes and I’ll sort out the mess at this end.”

Craig hadn’t the heart to tell him they’d already found Diana Bwye, so he cut the call and joined Liam by the lift. A minute later they were through the squad-room’s doors and back on home turf. The first thing Craig noticed was how quiet it was. Nicky was watering her plants and Jake and Carmen were hunched over their desks reading, barely halfway through the tower of court files balanced against Jake’s desk. Without Davy’s computers whirring and Liam and Annette bickering it was as quiet as a church.

Liam soon put paid to that. He boomed across the floor like a sergeant major.

“Wake up you lazy buggers! The A-Team’s back in town.”

****

Rocksbury. 2 p.m.

Annette gazed at the Bwyes’ cook with curiosity and the woman glared back. It was tempting to picture a stereotype when asked what a wealthy family’s cook would look like, especially one where the family entertained frequently and the mistress of the house spent her time doing charity work. Female? Probably. Fifty to sixty-ish? Yes. Slightly on the overweight side, but of course; with well-padded hips and arms like a docker, bulked up from years of carving meat and carrying huge pots and pans. Rosy cheeked? Possibly, although perhaps only when in the kitchen; after all, complexion is uncontrollable and one can’t select employees on whether they look rosy or not. As for temperament; bossy but affable is the order of the day if one hopes to run a pleasant, Downton Abbey type kitchen.

The woman glaring at Annette couldn’t have resembled the stereotype any less if she’d set out to. Linda McCann was hard faced, lean bodied and sallow skinned, with thin lips and arms to match. The only thing that fitted was her age and probably the bossy part; any affability looked like it had fallen into the gravy many decades before. McCann looked as if she would spit in your soup as soon as stir it, and she had a chip on her shoulder big enough to drag a lesser woman to the ground.

Where Annette merely gazed at her curiously, Julia glared back at the cook. She’d lied to her when they’d met before, suggesting that Justin O’Hare’s family had fallen on hard times and he was a gold-digger out for Jane’s inheritance. Complete rubbish, but now they were well warned. Linda McCann had lied for a reason and they just had to find out what it was. Annette nodded Julia to begin; she’d been the one lied to so she deserved a second chance.

“You lied to us, Mrs McCann.”

McCann’s folded arms tightened and she squeezed out her answer in a Belfast twang. “Did not.”

“Yes, you did. You told us that Justin O’Hare was a gold-digger after Jane for her money.”

McCann sniffed. “Far too impressed with himself by half. She deserved better.”

Annette spotted two things immediately. Linda McCann’s Belfast accent and a small gleam of something she couldn’t name that had flashed in her eye. She scrutinised her face closely as Julia seized on the response.

“You knew they hadn’t dated for months, didn’t you?”

McCann stayed silent but the gleam grew brighter, and with it Annette’s certainty that she’d given them O’Hare’s name deliberately, to throw them off some track. Either that or she hated the rich; perhaps that’s what her chip was about.

“You also knew that Mr Bwye wouldn’t disapprove of Justin, didn’t you? You deliberately pointed us in the wrong direction. Why?”

McCann let her eyes roam angrily around the Bwye’s main room as if she resented every brick in the wall. Annette signalled to interrupt and Julia waved her on; if she could crack McCann then she’d buy her a drink. Annette’s tone was cool but understanding, like a prison psychiatrist’s; not liking their interviewee very much but understanding what had made them that way.

“If you hate the Bwyes so much then why work for them, Mrs McCann?”

They knew she was a Mrs; the indentations where her rings were worn outside the kitchen said so. She wasn’t cooking for the Bwyes this week but for the search team, and if Annette was right she would enjoy that much more. Making food for decent working folk, instead of for the so-called idle rich.