Edward Dunford, Provincial Journalist.
Long shots kick de bucket.
I saw Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman’s face, I saw my editor’s face, and I saw a Chelsea flat with a beautiful Southern girl called Sophie or Anna closing the door.
I parked behind Millgarth Police Station as they were packing up the market, gutters full of cabbage leaves and rotten fruit, thinking play it safe or play it scoop?
I squeezed the steering wheel, offering up a prayer:
LET NO OTHER FUCKER ASK THE QUESTION.
I knew it for what it was, a prayer.
The engine dead, another prayer from the steering wheel:
DON’T FUCK UP.
Up the steps and through the double doors, back into Millgarth Police Station.
Muddy floors and yellow lights, drunken songs and short fuses.
I flashed my Press Card at the desk, the Sergeant flashed back a mustard smile:
“Cancelled. Press Office rang round.”
“You’re joking? Why?”
“No news. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” I grinned, thinking no questions asked.
The Sergeant winced.
I glanced around, opened my wallet. “What’s the SP?”
He took the wallet out of my hand, plucked out a fiver, and handed it back. “That’ll do nicely, sir.”
“So?”
“Nowt.”
“That was a fucking fiver.”
“So a fiver says she’s dead.”
“Hold the fucking Front Page,” I said, walking back out. “Give my best to Jack.”
“Fuck off.”
“Who loves you baby?”
Back in the office.
Barry Gannon behind his boxes, George Greaves face down on his desk, Gaz from Sport talking shit.
No sign of Jack fucking Whitehead.
Thank Christ.
Shit, so where the fuck was he?
Paranoid:
I’m Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Corres pondent and it says so on every fucking
“How did it go?” Kathryn Taylor, fresh curls to her fringe and an ugly cream sweater, standing up behind her desk and then sitting straight back down.
“Like a dream.”
“Like a dream?”
“Yeah. Perfect.” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.
She was frowning. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” She looked utterly lost.
“It was cancelled. They’re still searching. Got nothing,” I said, emptying my pockets on to her desk.
“I meant the funeral.”
“Oh.” I picked up my cigarettes.
Telephones were ringing, typewriters clattering.
Kathryn was looking at my notebook on her desk. “So what do they think?”
I took off my jacket and picked up her coffee and lit a cigarette, all in one move. “She’s dead. Listen, is the boss in a meeting?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”
“I want him to get me an interview with George Oldman. Tomorrow morning, before the press conference.”
Kathryn picked up my notebook and began spinning it between her fingers. “You’ll be lucky.”
“Will you speak to Hadden. He likes you,” I said, taking the notebook from her.
“You’re joking?”
I needed facts, hard fucking facts.
“Barry!” I shouted over the telephones, the typewriters, and Kathryn’s head. “When you’ve got a minute, can I have a quick word?”
Barry Cannon from behind his fortress of files, “If I must.”
“Cheers.” I was suddenly aware of Kathryn’s eyes on me.
She looked angry. “She’s dead?”
“If it bleeds, it leads,” I said, walking over to Barry’s desk and hating myself.
I turned back. “Please, Kath?”
She stood up and left the room.
Fuck.
Tip to tip, I lit another cigarette.
Barry Cannon, skinny, single, and obsessed, papers every where, covered in figures.
I crouched down beside his desk.
Barry Cannon was chewing his pen. “So?”
“Unsolved missing kids. One in Castleford and one in Roch dale? Maybe.”
“Yeah. Rochdale I’d have to check, but the one in Castleford was 1969. Moon landings. Jeanette Garland.”
Bells ringing. “And they never found her?”
“No.” Barry took the end of the pen from his mouth, staring at me.
“Police have anything at all?”
“Doubt it.”
“Cheers. I’d better get to it then.”
“Mention it,” he winked.
I stood up. “How’s Dawsongate?”
“Fuck knows.” Barry Cannon, not smiling, looking back down at the papers and the figures, chewing the end of his pen.
Fuck.
I took the hint. “Cheers, Barry.”
I was halfway back to my desk, Kathryn coming into the office hiding a smile, when Barry shouted, “You going to the Press Club later?”
“If I get through all this.”
“If I think of anything else, I’ll see you there.”
More surprised than grateful. “Cheers Barry. Appreciate it.”
Kathryn Taylor, no trace of a smile. “Mr Hadden will see his North of England Crime Correspondent at seven sharp.”
“And when do you want to see your North of England Crime Correspondent?”
