The Other Woman by Jill McGown Page A

description of me,’ Melissa pointed out.
    Sergeant Finch nodded. ‘That was after we had found her,’ he said. ‘We naturally assumed that it wasn’t you then, but we did have to make certain.’
    Melissa stared at him. ‘You thought that he’d done away with me, and got someone to say she was me on the phone?’ she asked.
    â€˜Stranger things have happened.’
    The newsroom had been buzzing with the murder when she had got there; the police, however, had been very cagey, and had so far only released her description and the fact that they were treating it as foul play. Melissa could see the reporters just waiting to pounce on Sergeant Finch when he had finished with her.
    They were in the editor’s office which Finch seemed to think afforded her some privacy. The glass walls simply had the opposite effect, with everyone looking towards the room, trying to guess what her involvement was.
    â€˜Can I ask where you were?’
    â€˜No, I don’t think you can,’ said Melissa. ‘I chose not to go home last night – that’s surely my business?’
    Finch smiled. ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘ But my boss might not see it like that.’
    â€˜Your boss has no more right to know what I was doing last night than I have to know what he was doing,’ she said.
    â€˜That kind of depends on circumstances, doesn’t it, Mrs Whitworth? I mean – if he had spent last night accepting bribes from criminals, you’d think it was your business then, wouldn’t you?’
    â€˜And did he?’ asked Melissa, only too aware that it was difficult for journalists to make stands on rights of privacy.
    Finch shrugged. ‘You can ask him yourself,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll be getting a visit from Chief Inspector Lloyd before too long.’
    â€˜Good. I look forward to putting him straight about the rights of the individual in this country. Well, if that’s all, I really do have to—’
    â€˜Just one other thing,’ he said. ‘Gil McDonald.’
    The name meant nothing to Melissa. She frowned. ‘Who?’ she asked coldly.
    â€˜I was told I might find him here.’
    Melissa shook her head. ‘ I’ve never heard of him.’
    â€˜He does a column for you, I believe.’
    â€˜Not for me,’ she said. ‘I’m the features editor – I know our columnists.’
    â€˜No – sports.’
    â€˜Mac!’ she said, startled to realise that she didn’t even know his real name. My God, did they have video cameras in hotel bedrooms these days? ‘Yes, yes – that’s right. I only know him as Mac. Sorry.’
    â€˜That’s all right. I wondered if you could tell me anything about him, but obviously not. Who would be able to?’
    â€˜Barry Houghton,’ she said, pointing through the glass, and then saw everyone swoop on him as Mac himself walked into the room. She frowned. ‘That’s Mac,’ she said, pointing to the figure in the middle of the small crowd.
    Finch sat up a little and craned his neck to see over the filing cabinets. ‘Oh, of course,’ he said. ‘Something of a scoop, isn’t it, to have one of your very own columnists find the body?’
    Melissa went very cold.
    â€˜Perhaps you’d ask Mr Houghton to come in and have a word with me?’
    Jake had tried to contact Lionel Evans, without success. Whitworth had told him that he was in Birmingham all day; Jake remembered now that he had said something about that last night. He rubbed his eyes, making himself wince as he disturbed the bruised skin. It only took an hour to get to Birmingham – Evans would presumably be back some time. He would try again this afternoon. He’d keep trying. He would camp out on the bloody man’s doorstep if he had to.
    He hadn’t expected an early morning visit from the police; he had told them all they needed to