worried, mummy, it isn’t something I ever meant to discuss.”
To ensure that was the end of it she gazed past her parents and out of the floor-length windows of the dining-room. Beyond the trim privet that boxed in the long garden sparkling with sunlight and last night’s rain, an early golfer in a buggy chugged to the top of a knoll and trundled down the far side with all the leisure of a pensioner. Patricia was enjoying the resemblance to a wind-up toy when Valerie said with determined neutrality “Dudley Smith is the young thriller writer, Gordon. You’ve heard us mention him. Trish has to turn in her copy by Monday for the printer.”
“I think I’ve covered nearly everything we need. Except I tracked down where his old English teacher works, but he was off sick till next week.”
“We’re supposed to be introducing Dudley Smith to our readers. I wouldn’t like to include things he doesn’t want us to,” Valerie said as the phone rang in the hall.
“Speak of the devil, do you think? Maybe he wants to get together with Trish,” Gordon said, throwing Patricia a more than apologetic smile that instantly reversed itself in case it needed to and vanished. A few lanky strides took him down the hall. “Martingale,” he said, and then “Well, good morning. Which of the creative partnership would you like to speak to? The senior first. She’s on her way.”
Patricia watched a golf ball dwindle to a speck of chalk in the bright air towards the sea until her father rejoined her. “That’s me proved wrong, then. You journos have to be up and about at least as early as an old bank manager,” he said, and looked ready to revive his earlier concern when Valerie called “Trish.”
Patricia hurried down the wide pale hall that was decorated with flowers she’d collected on childhood picnics and pressed under glass. She couldn’t tell how much of Valerie’s troubled expression related to the phone call. “It’s Walt,” Valerie said.
“Walt,” Patricia said as her mother left her alone with him. “Patricia.”
“Hey.” After a pause she could have done without he said “I’m sorry to have to tell you we’ve lost Shell Garridge.”
“You mean we’ll have that space to fill.”
“Not lost that way. She was killed last night or early this morning.”
“Oh gosh.” Patricia was shocked but tried to sound upset as well. “How?”
“They aren’t saying much on your local news station yet. A guy walking his dog found her in her car on the beach. All I can get from the police so far is she must have driven into the river somehow. I guess we did see how she liked to drink.”
“That’s awful. What a waste.” Patricia lingered over a silence she hoped would imply sadness before she said “So you want me to . . .”
“How soon do you think you can deliver a tribute to her?”
Patricia felt a little guilty for not having anticipated the request, but disconcerted by it too. “How long?” she said.
“Much more than two thousand words could be a problem.”
“Would less?”
“I should think you might have trouble keeping it that short. That’ll give us four pages with some photos and subheads. The printer needs it first thing Monday morning. You can email it direct, right? Valerie can edit it before you send it if she has to, and you could let me have a preview too.”
Patricia might have admitted that she didn’t know much about Shell, but that would reflect on her mother’s choice of a journalist. “Get all the quotes you can from people who knew her,” Walt was saying. “Maybe you can find a tape of her to listen to. Okay, don’t let me keep you from it, but before you pass me back to Valerie—”
“Phone, mum,” Patricia called and felt absurdly as though she was appealing for help.
“Before you do, has your Dudley Smith piece gone to the printer yet?”
“I was going to give it a bit of a polish this morning.”
“So long as it gets there first thing Monday also.
To ensure that was the end of it she gazed past her parents and out of the floor-length windows of the dining-room. Beyond the trim privet that boxed in the long garden sparkling with sunlight and last night’s rain, an early golfer in a buggy chugged to the top of a knoll and trundled down the far side with all the leisure of a pensioner. Patricia was enjoying the resemblance to a wind-up toy when Valerie said with determined neutrality “Dudley Smith is the young thriller writer, Gordon. You’ve heard us mention him. Trish has to turn in her copy by Monday for the printer.”
“I think I’ve covered nearly everything we need. Except I tracked down where his old English teacher works, but he was off sick till next week.”
“We’re supposed to be introducing Dudley Smith to our readers. I wouldn’t like to include things he doesn’t want us to,” Valerie said as the phone rang in the hall.
“Speak of the devil, do you think? Maybe he wants to get together with Trish,” Gordon said, throwing Patricia a more than apologetic smile that instantly reversed itself in case it needed to and vanished. A few lanky strides took him down the hall. “Martingale,” he said, and then “Well, good morning. Which of the creative partnership would you like to speak to? The senior first. She’s on her way.”
Patricia watched a golf ball dwindle to a speck of chalk in the bright air towards the sea until her father rejoined her. “That’s me proved wrong, then. You journos have to be up and about at least as early as an old bank manager,” he said, and looked ready to revive his earlier concern when Valerie called “Trish.”
Patricia hurried down the wide pale hall that was decorated with flowers she’d collected on childhood picnics and pressed under glass. She couldn’t tell how much of Valerie’s troubled expression related to the phone call. “It’s Walt,” Valerie said.
“Walt,” Patricia said as her mother left her alone with him. “Patricia.”
“Hey.” After a pause she could have done without he said “I’m sorry to have to tell you we’ve lost Shell Garridge.”
“You mean we’ll have that space to fill.”
“Not lost that way. She was killed last night or early this morning.”
“Oh gosh.” Patricia was shocked but tried to sound upset as well. “How?”
“They aren’t saying much on your local news station yet. A guy walking his dog found her in her car on the beach. All I can get from the police so far is she must have driven into the river somehow. I guess we did see how she liked to drink.”
“That’s awful. What a waste.” Patricia lingered over a silence she hoped would imply sadness before she said “So you want me to . . .”
“How soon do you think you can deliver a tribute to her?”
Patricia felt a little guilty for not having anticipated the request, but disconcerted by it too. “How long?” she said.
“Much more than two thousand words could be a problem.”
“Would less?”
“I should think you might have trouble keeping it that short. That’ll give us four pages with some photos and subheads. The printer needs it first thing Monday morning. You can email it direct, right? Valerie can edit it before you send it if she has to, and you could let me have a preview too.”
Patricia might have admitted that she didn’t know much about Shell, but that would reflect on her mother’s choice of a journalist. “Get all the quotes you can from people who knew her,” Walt was saying. “Maybe you can find a tape of her to listen to. Okay, don’t let me keep you from it, but before you pass me back to Valerie—”
“Phone, mum,” Patricia called and felt absurdly as though she was appealing for help.
“Before you do, has your Dudley Smith piece gone to the printer yet?”
“I was going to give it a bit of a polish this morning.”
“So long as it gets there first thing Monday also.
Similar Books
