said: "The announcement is
due at twelve-thirty. We're getting a holding piece meanwhile."
"Careful what you say. Our own parent company is one of the contenders,
in case you didn't know.
Remember that an oil well isn't instant riches--it means several years
of heavy investment first."
"Sure," Cole nodded.
The circulation manager turned to the chief sub.
"Let's have street placards on the violin story, and this fire in the
East End--"
The door opened noisily, and the circulation manager stopped speaking.
They all looked up to 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 crossexamination. "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?"
RON BIG GINS 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, long-haired, pot-smoking, unemployed fucking layabout--"
"What?" said Max Fitch.
Ron snapped back into the present. "Did I speak?" 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 itchy 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
due at twelve-thirty. We're getting a holding piece meanwhile."
"Careful what you say. Our own parent company is one of the contenders,
in case you didn't know.
Remember that an oil well isn't instant riches--it means several years
of heavy investment first."
"Sure," Cole nodded.
The circulation manager turned to the chief sub.
"Let's have street placards on the violin story, and this fire in the
East End--"
The door opened noisily, and the circulation manager stopped speaking.
They all looked up to 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 crossexamination. "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?"
RON BIG GINS 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, long-haired, pot-smoking, unemployed fucking layabout--"
"What?" said Max Fitch.
Ron snapped back into the present. "Did I speak?" 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 itchy 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
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