The Turning Tide (32 page)

‘What I’m saying is, Diana, you are clearly the source.
You are
.’ Heather pointed across the table. ‘The manhunt for the real identity is a set-up, because the whole thing is a set-up. You are Media Mouse, and you’re manipulating stories to make sure your station gets the best ratings,’ she said. ‘You’ve had it in for me – for the SLU – from the start. It’s a vendetta, and it’s time you were stopped.’

Diana’s mouth dropped open but, ever the professional, she recovered quickly. ‘Wow! I’ve been accused of many things over the years, but this has to be the first time anybody mistook someone else for me.’ Diana started to laugh.

‘It’s funny to you, is it?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Diana said, waving her hands. ‘I don’t mean to make light of this. You have to admit, it’s certainly an odd thing to be accused of. We’re just having, I don’t know, maybe silly season came early this year. Don’t worry about those callers, I’m sure they’ll be on to the next Twitter outrage in no time.’ She shuffled a few papers on the table in front of her nervously. ‘In the last few minutes you’ve been accused of a lot of frankly unbelievable things.’

‘Right.’ Heather nodded. ‘But for the sake of argument – and your audience loves an argument, don’t they? Let’s say it was true. What would you do, Diana Stuebner?’

Diana looked to the production room where Jonathan was grinning and holding two thumbs up. She bared her teeth slightly, but he ignored her subtle indication that maybe the ratings spike they were having right now was secondary to her misgivings about the way the interview was going. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Ring the police, most likely.’

‘Sure.’ Heather nodded. ‘Ring the police. Meanwhile you’re locked in a room with someone you think very well could be a violent murderer.’

‘Well, I haven’t seen any evidence to indicate that, and so far . . .’

Heather waved her hand. ‘I haven’t seen, blah blah, blah whatever. So for the sake of argument you
are
Media Mouse.’

‘I’m not, but for the sake of argument, let’s say I am.’

‘And let’s say the supposed murderer in the room with you does . . . something rash.’ Heather’s steady voice hardly changed, but something in her face had. It looked more pointed, somehow. Feral. ‘What would you do?’

Diana swirled coffee around the bottom of her mug. ‘I suppose it would depend on what that something rash was.’ She tipped the mug up to her mouth and swallowed.

Heather smirked and watched Diana. ‘Let’s say she’d put something in your coffee during the break,’ she said. ‘Let’s say you were drinking it right now. For the sake of argument.’

Diana spat out the mouthful of coffee and stared at her mug. She brought her fingers to her mouth, to try to induce vomiting but Heather leaped over the oval table and grabbed her hand. Diana ripped off her headphones and backed into the corner of the studio, with Heather close behind, brandishing the heavy base of her guest microphone in one hand like a club.

Jonathan ran to the door separating the production staff from the studio, only to find that Heather had locked it from the inside. He pounded at the door, then ran back to the mixing board. The lights were off the charts now, flashing as hundreds of callers all tried to reach the station at once.

Kerry slipped out and ran back to the office where Erykah was hiding. Her eyes were wide, her breathing rapid. ‘What the fuck just happened out there?’

‘The poison,’ Erykah said.

‘What poison?’ Kerry said.

‘I’ll explain later.’ She should have seen this coming, after the Major and the bottle of water he drank from Schofield’s office. Of course Heather would try it again. ‘We have to get you out of here
now
.’ She looked across at the studio. Heather and Diana were still inside. Jonathan was on the phone while the rest of the production staff cowered behind the mixing boards. Erykah and Kerry started towards the stairwell.

Kerry looked to the door, then back at Erykah. ‘I don’t understand. They were talking, right, and then Heather just . . . snapped. What the fuck?’ she repeated.

‘I don’t know,’ Erykah said. Heather had always come across as controlled, smooth. In front of the cameras anyway. There had to be more to the story than Erykah knew, something truly personal in it for Heather. Otherwise, why flip out like this?

A voice erupted on a loudhailer from three floors down. ‘This is the police,’ a deep voice boomed outside. ‘Heather Matthews, release your hostages and come out with your hands raised.’

Heather’s head whipped round towards the source of the noise. She lunged for the door to the production room and fumbled the lock. Jonathan threw his body across to try to keep her from getting out. ‘Go on, go on, get out!’ he shouted to anyone who would listen. ‘Take the stairs!’ About a dozen people ran out of the production booth and back offices, heading for the fire exit.

Suddenly, the lights went out. Someone screamed. The police must have cut the power to the building. Then a flicker as the emergency generators kicked in, bringing the studio back to life. The office lights were dim, but the studio and production room lit up again. The red On Air lights and stairwell Exit signs that came back to life glowed in the half dark, guiding everyone to the stairs.

Erykah and Kerry lingered at the back of the rush. ‘Come on, there’s no time!’ someone shouted. Erykah turned her head back towards the studio for a glimpse of what was going on, but it was hard to see. As far as she could tell Diana was now crouched under the table in the studio, the station still on the air.

Police downstairs. Heather up here. Erykah felt a pinch of pain in her chest as if her lungs were being squeezed. She slowed her breath and tried to hold it for a count of three, feeling the flush of blood rising to her skin. Whatever she decided, it had to be done right now.

Her palms were sweaty. She wiped them on her thighs and reached in her bag for the Major’s pistol. She tucked it in the front of her jeans waistband and Kerry’s eyes went wide.

‘Is that real?’ Kerry squeaked. The heavy footsteps of the rest of her colleagues disappearing down the stairs started to fade away.

Erykah shook her head. ‘No, it’s not real.’

‘It bloody looks real.’

‘Well, it’s real, but it doesn’t work.’ Erykah thrust her bag, with the sheaf of papers and notebooks at the girl. ‘Take this.’ Kerry wrapped her skinny arms around it like a kid holding a school bag. ‘Guard it with your – um, just guard it. Make sure no one takes it off you until you see me again. And call an ambulance. If I’m right about what this is, Diana has about ten minutes. Fifteen at most.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Wait for me in the lobby.’ Erykah pulled her jumper down to hide the bulge of the pistol stock sticking up from her jeans. ‘I’ll be close behind you.’

: 32 :

Erykah shut the door and turned to face the studio. Jonathan was alone in the production booth. He had dragged a heavy chair to the door between his room and the studio. On the other side, Heather had gone back to brandishing the microphone in Diana’s direction.

The red On Air light was still on.

Erykah walked over to the production room and planted her hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. He turned, panic in his eyes. Did he recognise her? Did it matter right now? ‘Get this off the air,’ she said. ‘Now! Put a recording on – go to public service announcements.
Do it
.’

Jonathan looked as guilty as a child caught with a hand in the biscuit tin. Like most angry little men she had met in her life, all it took was a matronly air of authority to defuse him. Was that what had attracted him to Morag Munro? ‘What if something happens?’ he said. It was a baby’s whine, a plea. ‘What if she does something, and we miss it?’

Erykah was gobsmacked. How could he be thinking about broadcasting at a time like this? ‘Do you really want to be the person responsible for broadcasting the assault and possible murder of your star presenter?’ Erykah asked. Jonathan blinked and didn’t answer. Jesus, he had to think what the right answer was? ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she said. ‘Get this off the air.’

‘But what if the safest thing is to leave the mics—’

‘Do it!’ she said.

‘Hold on, hold on.’ Jonathan’s fingers hovered over the mixing board, but he touched nothing. He chewed his thin lower lip. He seemed to be waiting for something else to happen first.

‘Do it,’ Erykah growled. ‘Now. Or else.’ She lifted the hem of her jumper and showed him the pistol sticking out from her jeans.

‘Fine!’ He slowly brought up the volume on a recording of station promos that looped through announcements of upcoming shows and brought the studio mics down. The red On Air sign flicked off. Erykah crouched behind the mixing board, just high enough so she could still look through to the studio. Heather was ranting and raving, facing away from the glass, and hadn’t seen her. Jonathan got down to Erykah’s level. ‘Now what?’ he said.

‘Get her attention,’ Erykah said. ‘She doesn’t know I’m here. Don’t tell her.’

Jonathan looked over his shoulder. ‘Why aren’t the police up here yet?’ he said.

‘I don’t know,’ Erykah said. ‘They’re probably waiting to see what she does. Don’t want to risk her hurting someone.’

Jonathan nodded. He stood up and started pounding again on the glass. ‘Heather!’ he yelled. ‘The office is evacuated and you’re off the air.’

Heather turned and looked at him. She came around the studio table, slowly, like a cat on the prowl. She stopped with her nose just inches from the glass and started to push against the door. Jonathan managed to brace himself and the chair, but was struggling. ‘Turn it back on,’ she said. She backed up a few paces, lowered her shoulder and pushed against the door again.

‘Heather, be reasonable, the police are outside,’ he said. ‘They have the building surrounded.’

She backed up again a few feet further. ‘Turn it back on.’ The microphone stand swung from her arm like a club.

Jonathan ducked to one side. Suddenly there was a giant crash and he was bathed in a shower of broken glass as the microphone shattered the door. She climbed through the hole in the glass and over the chair. Jagged shards tore at her clothes and skin. Heather held the steel bottomed mic in one hand.

Jonathan cringed, his hands raised in front of his face. Tiny, grain-sized specks of blood started to appear where the tiny pieces of glass had hit his face and neck. ‘Put it back on!’ Heather shouted, but he only cowered in fright.

Erykah slid the pistol out of her waistband and wrapped one hand around the stock. She crawled towards them as quietly as she could. A piece of broken glass crunched under one of her knees. Heather looked around to see where the noise came from. Her crazed eyes were bright, the pupils pinpoints. They trained on Erykah.

Erykah stood and brushed the glass from her knees. She raised the pistol to her eye line, her arms out in front of her. Her breath was fast and shallow. She backed away from Jonathan and the mixing console, putting herself between them and the production room door. ‘Leave it off, Jonathan,’ she said.

Heather snarled at Erykah. ‘You’re supposed to be dead!’

‘That what they told you, was it?’ Erykah said. ‘Sorry to disappoint. Looks like you need better hired help.’

‘I told them to humiliate you,’ Heather sneered. ‘Did they blow the head off that stupid husband of yours? Did you watch his useless brains spatter all over the walls?’

‘Fuck you,’ Erykah said. She hadn’t seen what they did to Rab and didn’t want to imagine it. Not now, not while she was trying to hold herself together. She pulled back the slide of the small pistol. It clicked in what she hoped was a convincing way.

Heather broke into a hyena’s laugh. ‘Oh, that’s rich,’ she hooted. ‘The trash is going to take me out. No offence, honey, but you haven’t the balls.’

‘Trash with enough on you to put you in jail, Heather Matthews.’ Erykah’s tongue darted in the corner of her mouth and tasted a drop of sweat there. ‘Or should I say, Heather Castano-Perez?’

‘Get you, girlfriend,’ Heather mocked, swinging her head in an exaggerated motion. ‘So you know how to use the Internet. It’s not a secret. Go on then. Do your worst.’

‘My worst,’ Erykah said. She thought she heard a click and droning buzz from Jonathan’s direction, but dared not turn her head for a second. Maybe she could get over to where he was, switch the board off again. No: better to keep Heather engaged, keep her talking. ‘How about your money laundering plan for starters. The fake political party. The fraudulent lottery. The threats, not to mention the killings . . .’

Heather cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. Her damp, sweaty hair stuck to one side of her face. ‘Killings? Dear me, I thought you of all people would know better than to believe everything you see online.’

At the edge of her vision Erykah spotted Jonathan’s hand retreating from the mixing board. The On Air light was back on. She looked away quickly. ‘I guess the ball’s in your court now,’ she said.

‘Aren’t you clever?’ Heather said. ‘Only you’re too late to do anything.’ Heather’s face was streaked with make-up and sweat, the knuckles of her hands scraped raw from the glass and starting to drip blood. ‘Story of your life, though, isn’t it?’

‘All this time I was looking for who was really behind the
SLU
,’ Erykah said. ‘With only your name and the Major’s on any of the paperwork. It didn’t make sense at all. I thought you were fronting for someone else. But you were right there all along, hiding in plain sight.’

‘It’s a little thing I like to call subtlety,’ Heather said. She tossed her head, and a flash of that public schoolgirl, hockey captain control showed through for a moment. ‘You might want to try it sometime.’

Erykah grimaced. The broken glass crunched under their feet. She felt the sticky sensation of blood seeping through from her cut knees to her jeans. ‘In which case, nicely done,’ Erykah said. ‘This certainly is subtle.’

‘Are you here for a social call or was there something you wanted to talk about?’ Heather asked. ‘Because if you don’t mind, I have a very busy day planned.’

Erykah gulped. ‘I’m here because of Damian Schofield. You’re the one responsible for his murder.’

Heather shrugged. ‘So? That’s it? You came here to tell me something I already know?’ She stepped forward, towards Erykah and the door out of the production room. ‘Now get out of my way.’

Erykah stood her ground. ‘That’s not all.’ Heather stopped a few feet from the gun and sighed. ‘When he was going to break the silence on the fracking report, you disguised yourself as a journalist to find out what he knew. Only you couldn’t finish the job. So you got someone else to knock him off and dump the body.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’ Heather’s laughter rang through the room, loud. There was the slightest amount of feedback over the station monitor, but she didn’t seem to have noticed. ‘The fracking report?’ she said, and took a step towards Erykah. ‘You think this is about a
fracking
report?’

‘Isn’t it?’ Erykah said. The notes and papers in Schofield’s office. Apart from the harassment allegation, he seemed as straight as they come. What else could there have been to find?

‘My God, woman, you really don’t know?’ Heather said. ‘I’ve known –
knew
– Damian Schofield for a very long time.’

‘This isn’t about the oil?’

‘Oh, it’s about oil, but not in the way you think.’ Heather flicked the dry, reptilian end of her tongue over her lips. Her glassy eyes seemed to be looking somewhere else. Out the window, maybe. ‘He might not have remembered me, but I never forgot about him.’

The stock of the pistol slipped in Erykah’s sweaty hands. She gripped the gun tighter. The longer she could keep Heather talking, the better. Maybe she could convince her not to do anything dangerous. Or maybe it would be long enough for the police to find a safe way in and get Jonathan and Diana out. At least with the radio on, they could hear what was happening. Jonathan was in the studio now, propping Diana up, slapping her pale cheeks so she stayed awake. But if the Major’s death was any indication, Erykah knew she didn’t have much longer. ‘So tell me how you knew him,’ she said.

‘Do I have to do everything for you? In Argentina. The oil was denationalised in the ’90s. My great-grandfather had managed to hold off the government when they forced control of the entire industry in the ’20s. He buried the surveys that put million of tonnes under our property. We waited. We knew we were sitting on money and the political situation would change eventually.’

She paused. Erykah was entranced. The words had a strange, rehearsed quality; like a tale of lost pirate gold told to a little girl at the family dinner table and never questioned. ‘When the
YPF
collapsed, that should have been when we made our move. But Schofield didn’t cooperate. He said the old surveys were wrong, that the land, at least in terms of energy, was next to worthless. Father knew he must have been taking money from someone to skew the results.
Must
have. There was no other explanation. He sealed his fate when he put his name to the seabed surveys and wiped our family out overnight,’ Heather said. ‘He deserved it, you know. Signed his own death warrant.’

Erykah nodded slowly. Heather’s picture of Schofield didn’t accord at all with what little she knew of him. But she had to keep her talking. She clearly hadn’t seen Jonathan’s hand or realised the mic was back on.

‘My father had offshore rights secured. He put the family fortune on it. All Schofield needed to do was make sure the fields landed in our area.’ Heather swept her arm wide, the microphone stand in her hand like a baton, or a hammer. ‘One kilometre east and we would have been billionaires. But he didn’t. He ruined us, ruined my father. He deserved to die, and you know what?’ Her pin dot pupils held Erykah’s gaze, unblinking. ‘I enjoyed it.’

The longer she talked, the more Erykah noticed how odd her accent was. She had thought Heather was just English, but she sounded Scottish when talking about Scotland, and different still when talking about her childhood. The product of having been moved around a lot when young, perhaps. Or of something else. ‘And then what?’ Erykah said. ‘Once the police open a murder investigation they’re not going to walk away.’

‘They have nothing,’ Heather smiled. Her arm kept going like a pendulum, weighted by the heavy microphone. ‘No confession, no fingerprints, no real proof.’

‘What about Media Mouse?’

‘What about Media Mouse?’ Heather said. ‘What about the anonymous tweets planted by the media to try to libel me. Or at least, that’s how the courts will see it.’ Her white-knuckled hand kept swinging. ‘There’s no evidence. There are no witnesses.’

‘Apart from those men you hired to kill me,’ Erykah said.

‘Sorry, what men?’ Heather laughed. ‘Try again.’

‘The post-mortem, then.’

‘Right, Harriet Hitchin,’ Heather said. ‘The least credible pathologist in Britain, and that’s saying something. She should have been lost her license years ago.’

‘They’ll get a second pathologist, now that it’s a murder. You won’t be so lucky twice.’ Erykah’s arms started to shake. Her mind rattled through all kinds of possibilities, but there was not one that wasn’t a disaster. If the cops came in, they might neutralise Heather, but they would also nail Erykah for the gun, and probably for the Major as well. And money laundering. She would have to face the horror of trial by media again. And if Heather got away? Nowhere would be safe.

‘Aww, thinking about what to do now are we?’ Heather taunted. ‘Go on then, have-a-go-heroine. What are you going to do? Kill me?’ Heather opened her arms wide, challenging. ‘No, I think not. The tabloids would eat you for breakfast. Put the gun down like a good girl.’

‘You won’t hurt me,’ Erykah said. Her voice was shaking, but she had to believe what she said was true. ‘You’re crazy, Heather, but you couldn’t put the finishing touches on Damian and you’re not going to kill me.’

‘Oh really?’ Heather started to laugh again. Her arms kept swinging, back and forth, further and further. The microphone, now dangling from her fingertips, passed under a monitor speaker mounted between the production room door and the outside hallway. The interference caused a sudden loud squawking sound, like a tuba being crushed.

Heather froze and looked up. She spotted the red On Air light, glowing in the dim room. The microphone in her hand was picking up everything.

She froze, and her manic grin reformed into a horrified rictus. She looked from Erykah to Jonathan and back again.

‘How long has that been on,’ she said.

‘Long enough.’ Erykah edged around Heather, putting herself and the gun between Heather and the studio. ‘Put the microphone down and come downstairs with us. The police are waiting.’

Heather pulled the microphone, hard. Another loud screech as the audio lines disconnected. She backed out of the room and into the hallway. ‘Calm down, no one has to get hurt,’ Erykah said. She looked over her shoulder and nodded her head at Jonathan, who was propping up Diana’s pale and weak form. He pulled her step by shaky step to the safety of the stairwell. ‘That’s it, now put your hands up and sit on the floor,’ Erykah said to Heather.