probably pushing it-to get out of Llufwwadog as quickly as he could. The conventional exit routes for a growing hogyn of sport, art and education were closed to him. He was hopeless at rugby, couldn’t sing or act, and had very little academic ability. So it was either the army or journalism. He had gone for the latter on the grounds that you didn’t have to get up so early in the morning and there was less chance of being shot at.
It had been a happy choice. The disadvantages of a dreadful prose style and an excitable stutter were negated by a huge natural curiosity, a complete insensitivity to rebuff, and an acuity of eye, ear, and nose that took him places others did not care to tread.
After an apprenticeship on his local rag, he had moved to Cardiff, where he rapidly made a name for himself by pulling the lid off a little pot-pourri of financial and sexual improprieties in the Welsh Assembly. This it was that got him his move to London, where six years later he was established as one of the Daily Messenger’s famous team of investigative journalists, his particular remit remaining the political scene.
He was well paid but not well enough to be able to even dream about a pad in Marina Tower, one of the most exclusive developments on Canary Wharf. To do that you needed an editor’s screw, or, failing that, you needed to screw an editor. If she had a bit left over from an extremely profitable divorce, that didn’t do any harm either. This combination of qualities came together in the person of Beanie Sample, the driving spirit behind Bitch!, the glossy mag which for eighteen months now (a long time in magazine life) had contrived to win the hearts, titillate the senses, and open the wallets of readers of both sexes and all ages from eighteen to thirty-eight.
Beanie, known both eponymously and epithetically as the Bitch, had a reputation for devouring young journalists, then dumping them when she’d had enough. Gwyn Jones had no problem with this. As he told his friends, why would a virile youngster want a long-term relationship with a woman twenty years his senior? Nonetheless, since moving into her Docklands apartment, he’d come to the conclusion that maybe long term wasn’t so bad. A man could put up with a lot of this luxury. Also it was within a fit man’s strolling distance of Canary Tower, which housed the Messenger offices. Compared to this, his own flat above a dry-cleaners in Bromley seemed like a particularly remote and ascetic monk’s cell.
Somewhere his phone was ringing. He recognized the ring tone, the opening bars of ‘Cwm Rhondda’, chosen to remind him he need never listen to a male voice choir again.
The ringing stopped and Beanie came out of the bedroom. She had slipped a robe on. That was the difference between twenty-six and forty-seven, he told himself complacently. She was holding his phone.
‘Someone called Gareth,’ she said. ‘Says he’s your brother.’
‘Yeah. Then probably he is.’
He held out his hand for the phone.
‘You never said you had a brother,’ she said as if it were a major infidelity.
‘You never asked.’
She tossed the phone into his lap with some violence.
‘Ouch,’ he said.
That seemed to mollify her a little.
‘I’m going to run through the shower. Some coffee would be nice when I’m done.’
At least the command still came over lightly disguised as a request.
‘Gar, boy,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you be praising the Lord?’
Unlike himself, Gareth had been a lovely treble who’d broken into a fair tenor.
‘No, today I’m pursuing the ungodly and watching them in their ungodliness.’
‘What? You’re actually doing it? Great. Rung up for some advice, is that it?’
‘No, I’m managing very well, thank you, bro. But something’s come up I thought might interest you.’
‘OK, boyo, but make it quick. Me and Beanie are on our way to Tris’s party…yeah, Tris Shandy, eat your heart out. So shoot.’
Jones listened for a couple of minutes, hardly interrupting at all. Then he heard the shower stop.
He said, ‘OK, Gar. Thanks. No, I don’t know if it means anything…yeah, sure I’m grateful…How grateful? That depends…’
He listened again and said, ‘Jesus, Gar, if you’re going to be Sam Spade you need decent wheels! OK, I’ll sub you, but you hang on to the bill. Of course I think you’re trustworthy-about as much as I was your age!’
He saw Beanie come into the room, towelling down and concluded hastily, ‘Got to go, Gar. Any developments, keep me posted. Take care now.’
‘So where’s that coffee?’ said the Bitch.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Got to talking. Family stuff. Kid brothers can be a real drag, eh?’
‘Much younger than you, is he?’
‘Nearly eight years. He was an afterthought.’
‘And he does what?’
‘Wants to be a journalist. In fact, he’s in much the same job I started in.’
‘With his eyes on London eventually, no doubt. Maybe I can help him when he gets here.’
Help yourself to him, you mean, thought Jones. Publicly, his attitude to his brother was one of weary exasperation, but beneath it he was, and always had been, fiercely protective. No way he was going to let the Bitch get her claws into young Gareth till the boy had been properly schooled!
‘Doubt he’ll ever make it,’ he said dismissively. ‘One genius a family, that’s the ration.’
‘Oh, he’ll make it. I know you thrusting Welshmen.’
‘We like a good thrust, that’s true,’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘Man should have what he likes, darling,’ she said, misinterpreting. ‘And it will be another hour before Tristram’s party really warms up…’
She let the towel slide to the floor and slipped on to the sofa beside him. To her surprise he stood up.
‘Beanie,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve just remembered. Somewhere I’ve got to be, so I’ll have to give Tris a miss. Say I’m sorry, OK?’
She had learnt long ago never to let a man think he had the power to irritate her.
‘Don’t suppose anyone will notice, darling,’ she said indifferently.
She watched him leave the room. Nice tight bum, lots of other useful accessories. Made you wonder what the nineteen-year-old model might be like.
But while the sensual part of her being was toying with that interesting speculation, the journalistic part was wondering what was important enough to make Jones stand her up. He’d left the phone on the arm of the sofa. She picked it up, brought up the last call number and rang back.
‘Gar,’ she murmured in her most seductive voice. ‘Hi. This is Beanie. Beanie Sample. We spoke briefly earlier.’
She listened, grimaced, but didn’t allow any of the grimace to get into her voice as she said, ‘Yeah, that’s right, Gar. Gwyn’s girlfriend. And he’s told me all about you too. I’m really looking forward to meeting you when you get up to town. Listen, Gwyn was going to ring you back but he has to smarten himself up for this party we’re going to…yeah, Tris Shandy’s do, that’s right, Gwyn told you, did he? Anyway, we were talking about your call and there were a couple of things he wanted to check with you, make sure he got them right. So as we’re a bit pushed for time, he asked me to ring you back, OK?’
12.20-12.35
Apart from a little dampness and a few shards of crystal down the front of her dress, Gina Wolfe had taken no harm from the accident.
‘The sun will soon dry me off,’ she said in face of the Fat Man’s repeated offers to rub her dry.
The mess was quickly cleared up, the broken glass removed, and the table dried off. Almost immediately, a waiter appeared with their wine, opened the white, and asked Dalziel if he’d like to try it.
‘No,’ said the Fat Man. ‘That’s for the lady.’
She watched the waiter pour a taster, downed it all, nodded and drank half the refill.
‘You look like you needed that,’ said Dalziel, taking the red from the waiter’s hand and pouring his own.
‘It was a shock,’ she said.
