Des.’
‘There’s not much to think.’
He wrinkled his nose, folding the press release and shoving it into the young man’s anorak pocket. ‘Don’t give me that. That’s the official line, but this is between you and me. You’re local , my son, you’ve got the edge on all of us.’ He nodded towards the scattering of journalists, none of whom was taking any notice of this conversation.
‘Who are you?’
‘I thought I told you, Des Beattie.’
‘Beattie?’
‘How long you been in this game, son?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The Ripper case, I covered it for the Telegraph . Freelance now, of course. I can pick and choose my crime stories. A certain magazine has asked me to see if there’s an angle in all this.’ He looked the young man up and down. ‘You might be in for half the byline. Could be your ticket out of here, chief. We all had to start somewhere.’
‘Stefan’s my name, Stefan Duniec.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Stefan.’ They shook hands. ‘What’s that, Russian is it?’
‘Polish.’
‘Well, I’m Des Beattie and I’m from Walthamstow. Only I live in Docklands now.’ He winked. ‘Handy for the newspaper offices. So what’ve you got?’
‘Well . . .’ Duniec looked around. ‘It’s not really my idea . . .’ Beattie shrugged this aside. There was no copyright on news. ‘But I’ve heard that someone’s got a name.’
‘For the sod they’re questioning?’ Duniec nodded. Beattie seemed thoughtful. ‘Maybe it’ll tie in with my own ideas. What’s the name, Stefan?’
‘Bernard Cooke.’
Beattie nodded slowly. ‘Bernie Cooke. The businessman, right?’
Now Duniec nodded. ‘Does it tie in?’
Beattie puckered his mouth. ‘Might well do. I need to check a few facts first.’
‘I could help.’ The kid was keen all right. He didn’t want to wear that anorak for ever. Beattie patted his shoulder.
‘Stick around here, Stefan. Keep your ears open. I’ll go make a couple of calls.’ Duniec glanced down at the large pockets of Beattie’s sheepskin. Beattie grinned. ‘We can’t all afford cell phones. Meantime . . .’ He nodded towards the other reporters. ‘You might try writing this up. You know, something wry about the long wait. Eight hundred words, who knows, there’s always a market for filler. The Sundays are nothing but filler these days.’
‘Eight hundred?’
Beattie nodded, then reconsidered. ‘Seven-fifty,’ he said, heading out of the car park.
A small engineering works on a purpose-built estate.
A helpful sign at the site entrance told him he was looking for Unit 32, Cooke Engineering Ltd. He drove his rented Fiesta slowly through the narrow winding roads, giving way to lorries and delivery vans. Half a dozen cars were parked outside Unit 32 in tightly marked bays. The building was grey corrugated steel, shared by two companies. Unit 31 manufactured frozen foods. Driving past it, he sized up Unit 32. There was a door which would lead to the reception area or offices, and a loading-bay door near it. Both were closed. Parked in the loading bay was a sporty Ford Sierra, one of the custom jobs. In the driver’s seat, a man was talking on a car phone. In the back seat were two more large pasty-faced men. They looked like reporters. Well, if a dolt like Duniec knew about Cooke, the professionals would know too. And though Cooke himself wasn’t here, though he was sweating and dog-tired in one of Castle Lane’s interview rooms, a team had been sent to stake the place out.
He gnawed at his bottom lip, and decided to take a calculated risk. He drove to the next lot of units, parked, and walked back towards Cooke Engineering. The door he was approaching, having ignored the carful of staring eyes, had OFFICE printed on it. He knocked and entered, closing the door behind him. He’d expected noise: after all, only a partition wall separated this part of the unit from the actual production line. But there was silence, punctuated by the slow
‘There’s not much to think.’
He wrinkled his nose, folding the press release and shoving it into the young man’s anorak pocket. ‘Don’t give me that. That’s the official line, but this is between you and me. You’re local , my son, you’ve got the edge on all of us.’ He nodded towards the scattering of journalists, none of whom was taking any notice of this conversation.
‘Who are you?’
‘I thought I told you, Des Beattie.’
‘Beattie?’
‘How long you been in this game, son?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The Ripper case, I covered it for the Telegraph . Freelance now, of course. I can pick and choose my crime stories. A certain magazine has asked me to see if there’s an angle in all this.’ He looked the young man up and down. ‘You might be in for half the byline. Could be your ticket out of here, chief. We all had to start somewhere.’
‘Stefan’s my name, Stefan Duniec.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Stefan.’ They shook hands. ‘What’s that, Russian is it?’
‘Polish.’
‘Well, I’m Des Beattie and I’m from Walthamstow. Only I live in Docklands now.’ He winked. ‘Handy for the newspaper offices. So what’ve you got?’
‘Well . . .’ Duniec looked around. ‘It’s not really my idea . . .’ Beattie shrugged this aside. There was no copyright on news. ‘But I’ve heard that someone’s got a name.’
‘For the sod they’re questioning?’ Duniec nodded. Beattie seemed thoughtful. ‘Maybe it’ll tie in with my own ideas. What’s the name, Stefan?’
‘Bernard Cooke.’
Beattie nodded slowly. ‘Bernie Cooke. The businessman, right?’
Now Duniec nodded. ‘Does it tie in?’
Beattie puckered his mouth. ‘Might well do. I need to check a few facts first.’
‘I could help.’ The kid was keen all right. He didn’t want to wear that anorak for ever. Beattie patted his shoulder.
‘Stick around here, Stefan. Keep your ears open. I’ll go make a couple of calls.’ Duniec glanced down at the large pockets of Beattie’s sheepskin. Beattie grinned. ‘We can’t all afford cell phones. Meantime . . .’ He nodded towards the other reporters. ‘You might try writing this up. You know, something wry about the long wait. Eight hundred words, who knows, there’s always a market for filler. The Sundays are nothing but filler these days.’
‘Eight hundred?’
Beattie nodded, then reconsidered. ‘Seven-fifty,’ he said, heading out of the car park.
A small engineering works on a purpose-built estate.
A helpful sign at the site entrance told him he was looking for Unit 32, Cooke Engineering Ltd. He drove his rented Fiesta slowly through the narrow winding roads, giving way to lorries and delivery vans. Half a dozen cars were parked outside Unit 32 in tightly marked bays. The building was grey corrugated steel, shared by two companies. Unit 31 manufactured frozen foods. Driving past it, he sized up Unit 32. There was a door which would lead to the reception area or offices, and a loading-bay door near it. Both were closed. Parked in the loading bay was a sporty Ford Sierra, one of the custom jobs. In the driver’s seat, a man was talking on a car phone. In the back seat were two more large pasty-faced men. They looked like reporters. Well, if a dolt like Duniec knew about Cooke, the professionals would know too. And though Cooke himself wasn’t here, though he was sweating and dog-tired in one of Castle Lane’s interview rooms, a team had been sent to stake the place out.
He gnawed at his bottom lip, and decided to take a calculated risk. He drove to the next lot of units, parked, and walked back towards Cooke Engineering. The door he was approaching, having ignored the carful of staring eyes, had OFFICE printed on it. He knocked and entered, closing the door behind him. He’d expected noise: after all, only a partition wall separated this part of the unit from the actual production line. But there was silence, punctuated by the slow
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