at the door of the Project. She had tied her hair up in a scarf, like a war-time factory worker, and was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt under paint-stained dungarees.
âWatch yourself, pet,â she said by way of greeting as she stood aside to let Laura into the reception area which reeked of white spirit. Her smile was warm, though she looked tired.
âWeâve got most of the red paint off, but if you light a match the placeâll go up like a bomb,â she said.
âDonât give the tearaways ideas,â Laura said. âIs my grandmother here?â
âIn tâ back with Kevin,â Donna said. âHeâs brought some mate of his from London with him. A DJ? To talk to tâ kids?â Donna rolled her eyes to heaven in mock despair at the preoccupations of teenagers and waved Laura on into the building.
Laura made her way into the small kitchen where she found Joyce in animated conversation with Mower and Dizzy B, one white head and two dark ones, and, unexpectedly, three pairs of laughing eyes.
âDid you know your amazing grandmother saw Louis Armstrong in the 1950s?â Mower said, glancing up as Laura came in. âSatchmo himself and I didnât even know she was into jazz. The boss would be impressed.â
âThereâs lots of things I donât know about what Joyce got up to in her misspent youth,â Laura admitted with a grin.
âSheâs not old enough to have been a suffragette but you can bet your life sheâd have been chaining herself to railings if sheâd had the chance.â
âTried that at Greenham Common,â Joyce said tartly.
âShe told me she was on the first Aldermaston march too, and every one after that, and the riot in Grosvenor Square,â Laura said. âThough Iâm sure thatâs not for police consumption. I bet MI5 have still got her on their files.â
Mower put a finger to his lips and glanced at the door to where Donna could be heard belting out âLook for the Hero Inside Yourselfâ as she worked.
âWe donât know any coppers here, remember?â he said. âAnd certainly not any spooks.â
âThey came to interview me once, M15,â Joyce said unexpectedly, a wicked gleam in her eyes. âWhen George Blake escaped. You remember? The Russian spy? Thought I might know summat about it.â
âAnd did you?â Mower asked.
âWell if I did, I donât think Iâd tell you, even after all these years,â Joyce said primly. âWhat you youngsters forget, though, is that we won most of those battles in the end. Only the miners lost and Iâll never forgive some folk who should have known better for that.â
Mower grinned, and glanced at Dizzy B.
âThis is Laura,â he said. âA chip off the old block.â Mower looked happier behind his piratical black beard than she had seen him for months, Laura thought, and her own heart lifted slightly in response.
âIâve met the reporter lady,â the DJ said, a wary look in his eyes. âWas it you who put me on the front page of your rag this morning?â
Laura shook her head.
âThat was our enterprising crime reporter, Bob Baker,â she said. âNothing to do with me.â Dizzy B glanced at Mower uncertainly.
âYou can believe it,â Mower said. âBakerâs got someone at
the nick in his back pocket and the brass would dearly love to know who. Itâs been going on for a while.â
âI thought that sort of thing only happened in American crime novels,â Dizzy B said.
âWell, if you imagine the Gazetteâs paying anyone to leak stuff I should think again,â Laura said. âGetting your bus fare to the town hall paid by my boss is like getting blood out of a stone. I donât think even Bob Baker could persuade him to bribe coppers, not because of any moral scruples, you understand, but because heâs too damn
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