see Kevin Hart standing in the doorway, looking flushed and excited. Cole groaned inwardly.
Hart said: “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think this is the big one.”
“What is it?” the editor said mildly.
“I just took a phone call from Timothy Fitzpeterson, a Junior Minister in the—”
“I know who he is,” the editor said. “What did he say?”
“He claims he’s being blackmailed by two people called Laski and Cox. He sounded pretty far gone. He—”
The editor interrupted again. “Do you know his voice?”
The young reporter looked flustered. He had obviously been expecting instant panic, not a cross-examination. “I’ve never spoken to Fitzpeterson before,” he said.
Cole put in: “I had a fairly nasty anonymous tip about him this morning. I checked it out—he denied it.”
The editor grimaced. “It stinks,” he said. The chief sub nodded agreement. Hart looked crestfallen.
Cole said: “All right, Kevin, we’ll discuss it when I come out.”
Hart went out and closed the door.
“Excitable fellow,” the editor commented.
Cole said: “He’s not stupid, but he’s got a lot to learn.”
“So teach him,” the editor said. “Now, what’s lined up on the picture desk?”
14
Ron Biggins was thinking about his daughter. In this, he was at fault: he should have been thinking about the van he was driving, and its cargo of several hundred thousand pounds’ worth of paper money—soiled, torn, folded, scribbled-on, and fit only for the Bank of England’s destruction plant in Loughton, Essex. But perhaps his distraction was forgivable: for a man’s daughter is more important than paper money; and when she is his only daughter, she is a queen; and when she is his only child, well, she just about fills his life.
After all, Ron thought, a man spends his life bringing her up, in the hope that when she comes of age he can hand her over to a steady, reliable type who will look after her the way her father did. Not some drunken, dirty, longhaired, pot-smoking, unemployed fucking layabout—
“What?” said Max Fitch.
Ron snapped back into the present. “Did I speak?”
“You were muttering,” Max told him. “You got something on your mind?”
“I just might have, son,” Ron said. I just might have murder on my mind, he thought, but he knew he did not mean it. He accelerated slightly to keep the regulation distance between the van and the motorcyclists. He had nearly taken the young swine by the throat, though, when he had said, “Me and Judy thought we might live together, like, for a while—see how it goes, see?” It had been as casual as if he were proposing to take her to a matinee. The man was twenty-two years of age, five years older than Judy—thank God she was still a minor, obliged to obey her father. The boyfriend—his name was Lou—had sat in the parlor, looking nervous, in a nondescript shirt, grubby jeans held up with an elaborate leather belt like some medieval instrument of torture, and open sandals which showed his filthy dirty feet. When Ron asked what he did for a living, he said he was an unemployed poet, and Ron suspected the lad was taking the mickey.
After the remark about living together, Ron threw him out. The rows had been going on ever since. First, he had explained to Judy that she must not live with Lou because she ought to save herself for her husband; whereupon she laughed in his face and said she had already slept with him at least a dozen times, when she was supposed to be spending the night with a girlfriend in Finchley. He said he supposed she was going to say she was in the pudding club; and she said he should not be so stupid—she had been on the pill since her sixteenth birthday, when her mother had taken her up to the family planning clinic. That was when Ron came near to hitting his wife for the first time in twenty years of marriage.
Ron got a pal in the police force to check out Louis Thurley, aged twenty-two, unemployed, of Barracks
Hart said: “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think this is the big one.”
“What is it?” the editor said mildly.
“I just took a phone call from Timothy Fitzpeterson, a Junior Minister in the—”
“I know who he is,” the editor said. “What did he say?”
“He claims he’s being blackmailed by two people called Laski and Cox. He sounded pretty far gone. He—”
The editor interrupted again. “Do you know his voice?”
The young reporter looked flustered. He had obviously been expecting instant panic, not a cross-examination. “I’ve never spoken to Fitzpeterson before,” he said.
Cole put in: “I had a fairly nasty anonymous tip about him this morning. I checked it out—he denied it.”
The editor grimaced. “It stinks,” he said. The chief sub nodded agreement. Hart looked crestfallen.
Cole said: “All right, Kevin, we’ll discuss it when I come out.”
Hart went out and closed the door.
“Excitable fellow,” the editor commented.
Cole said: “He’s not stupid, but he’s got a lot to learn.”
“So teach him,” the editor said. “Now, what’s lined up on the picture desk?”
14
Ron Biggins was thinking about his daughter. In this, he was at fault: he should have been thinking about the van he was driving, and its cargo of several hundred thousand pounds’ worth of paper money—soiled, torn, folded, scribbled-on, and fit only for the Bank of England’s destruction plant in Loughton, Essex. But perhaps his distraction was forgivable: for a man’s daughter is more important than paper money; and when she is his only daughter, she is a queen; and when she is his only child, well, she just about fills his life.
After all, Ron thought, a man spends his life bringing her up, in the hope that when she comes of age he can hand her over to a steady, reliable type who will look after her the way her father did. Not some drunken, dirty, longhaired, pot-smoking, unemployed fucking layabout—
“What?” said Max Fitch.
Ron snapped back into the present. “Did I speak?”
“You were muttering,” Max told him. “You got something on your mind?”
“I just might have, son,” Ron said. I just might have murder on my mind, he thought, but he knew he did not mean it. He accelerated slightly to keep the regulation distance between the van and the motorcyclists. He had nearly taken the young swine by the throat, though, when he had said, “Me and Judy thought we might live together, like, for a while—see how it goes, see?” It had been as casual as if he were proposing to take her to a matinee. The man was twenty-two years of age, five years older than Judy—thank God she was still a minor, obliged to obey her father. The boyfriend—his name was Lou—had sat in the parlor, looking nervous, in a nondescript shirt, grubby jeans held up with an elaborate leather belt like some medieval instrument of torture, and open sandals which showed his filthy dirty feet. When Ron asked what he did for a living, he said he was an unemployed poet, and Ron suspected the lad was taking the mickey.
After the remark about living together, Ron threw him out. The rows had been going on ever since. First, he had explained to Judy that she must not live with Lou because she ought to save herself for her husband; whereupon she laughed in his face and said she had already slept with him at least a dozen times, when she was supposed to be spending the night with a girlfriend in Finchley. He said he supposed she was going to say she was in the pudding club; and she said he should not be so stupid—she had been on the pill since her sixteenth birthday, when her mother had taken her up to the family planning clinic. That was when Ron came near to hitting his wife for the first time in twenty years of marriage.
Ron got a pal in the police force to check out Louis Thurley, aged twenty-two, unemployed, of Barracks
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