The Child Who

Post. Daniel’s Photoshopped features projected outwards from the newspaper’s front page.

‘Mr Curtice? Is something wrong?’ Bobby was at Leo’s shoulder. Leo raised his finger and pointed.

‘You. Say it again. What you just said.’

The younger guard shied from Leo’s glare. ‘I… I’m sorry, Bobby. I was just… It was a joke. That’s all.’ He looked to his colleague, who looked conspicuously away.

‘What did you say? Mervyn? What did Mr Curtice hear you say?’

Leo stared at the newspaper. At the picture in the newspaper.

‘I just said… All I said was…’ Another look towards his friend. ‘That some people would… um… do anything. To, um. To get their picture in the paper.’ He said this last part in a rush. ‘It was a joke, Bobby. That’s all. I didn’t mean for anyone to hear.’ He glanced through his eyebrows at Leo.

Leo was shaking his head. ‘You said kill. You said, some people will kill to get their picture in the paper.’ He did not look at the guard as he spoke. He just stared at the Post’s front page.

25

It was shabbier than he had expected. Or as shabby, perhaps, as he should have expected, given the outfit that was operating inside. It was a four-floor box of bricks, devoid of architectural flourish and dating, probably, to some time between the wars. The windows on the bottom two levels were papered off, as though the rooms beyond were being used for storage. Indeed, the building as a whole had the look of one of those places people rented by the square foot to dump their junk. Only the sign – the Exeter Post’s red-on-white masthead, underscored with the name of its listed counterpart – confirmed to Leo that he had found the right place. The sign, and the clutch of hacks smoking in the doorway.

He was not among them. Leo got a good look at each of their faces because, after he had raggedly parked his car on the double yellow lines in front of the building, every one of them turned to study his. But the face for which he was looking was not there. Assuming Leo would recognise it. He would, though, surely. He had to.

He shoved his way through the group and towards the entrance, knocking someone’s arm and catching his on an outcrop of ash. He said sorry, did not turn, and pushed, pulled, until he found the right combination to open up a gap in the double glass doors.

Another security desk awaited him; another guard. This one seemed to have noticed the minor scuffle Leo had generated outside and rose, as Leo lurched across the lobby towards him, onto his size twelves.

‘Can I help you?’ He voiced the question as a challenge.

Leo was already looking over the guard’s sizeable polished head at the floor directory on the wall; and, beyond that, to the staircase and a treacherous-looking lift. There was no listing for the art department, if such a thing existed, but editorial was on the third floor. He aimed himself at the stairs.

‘Hey!’ The guard stepped and grabbed. Leo tried to dodge but found himself rooted.

‘Let go of me!’ Leo tugged at the man’s grip.

‘Do you have an appointment? Sir? You can’t just walk in here, you know.’

‘I’m not, I’m… I’m a solicitor! I’m here to see… to see…’

‘ To see who?’ The guard released his hold on Leo’s lapels but built himself into a wall across his path.

‘One of your journalists. Covering the Forbes story.’ It was the only thing he could think of to say. He barely had a face to go on, after all, let alone a name.

‘Oh yeah? Which one?’ The gorilla folded its arms.

And then it came to him. Not the name he needed but a name nonetheless. ‘Cummins,’ he said. ‘Tim Cummins.’ The name on the byline. A man he had encountered, once in a while, amid the press gang that haunted the local courts.

The guard frowned. His lips gave a twitch and his arms, reluctantly, loosened.

‘Is he here? Please tell him Leo Curtice is here to see him.’ Leo straightened his jacket, settled his shoulders and fixed the man looming over him with his best supercilious stare.

Tim Cummins emerged from the lift with a finger in his teeth. He was precisely as unshaven as he was the last time Leo had seen him – on the steps outside the police station the day following Daniel’s arrest – which made him think the man’s sloth might be affected; a provincial attempt at Fleet Street flair. But then he withdrew his finger, nibbled at whatever piece of breakfast he had dislodged and extended the same hand for Leo to shake.

‘Mr Curtice. Leo! What brings you to these parts?’

‘Tim. Thanks for seeing me.’ Leo swallowed his distaste. He glanced towards the security guard, who was loitering with malcontent.

Cummins seemed to notice too. ‘Relax, Tiny. Stand down. Mr Curtice here is a personal friend.’

From the snarl that bubbled on the guard’s lips, he appeared not to appreciate the nickname.

The journalist herded Leo away from the guard and towards the lift. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘listen, buddy. I am so sorry about this business with your daughter.’ He shook his head at the floor, worked a fingernail once more between his teeth. ‘But if there’s any way I can help. I mean, you’d be surprised how much traction an interview will get you. Have you thought about that? A one-to-one. Just me and you. We’d keep things tasteful, I promise. Tug a few heartstrings but all for a good cause.’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Actually,’ said Leo, ‘there is something you can do to help.’

‘Really? Great. Just say the word, buddy.’

‘I’m looking for a colleague of yours. A photographer.’

Cummins let his disappointment show.

‘He said he was freelance. He was young, ish, and wore a cap. It had a logo on it. A picture of a shark or something. It looked American. From a baseball team maybe.’

‘Football. The Miami Dolphins. But… er… I’m not sure who you mean. We have so many snappers, Leo – particularly the jobbing kind. It’s a big paper, buddy.’

It was not. It was a local rag with tabloid airs. And Cummins was lying.

‘Listen, Tim. This is important. It’s to do with my daughter. I’m asking for help. Please. I need your help.’

They reached the lift. Cummins jabbed a button, summoning his means of escape. ‘Sorry, Leo.’ He spoke to the lights above the doors. ‘Can’t help you. I’d love to, you know I would, but Tiny over there: he probably knows more of the faces that come and go here than I do. Why don’t you ask him?’

The guard was on the phone now, seated and angled towards the wall.

‘This photographer,’ said Leo to Cummins. ‘He followed us. Me and my family. To Dawlish. All we were doing was buying ice cream.’

Cummins glanced.

‘He said he was working for the Post,’ Leo said.

Cummins hit the call button again. He sniffed, gave his head a single shake. ‘I can only apologise, Leo. Darryl Blunt, our lifestyle editor: he thinks he’s running OK! I’ll have a word with Daz on your behalf. Tell him to keep a leash on his paparazzi.’ He studied the lights, tapped his foot.

‘It was you,’ Leo said. ‘Wasn’t it? You sent him. You’ve been sniffing for an angle on the Forbes story from day one.’ How does it feel: isn’t that what Cummins had asked him, that day outside the police station? How does your family feel about your involvement in this case?

The lift arrived. Cummins beamed.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is me. Good to see you, Leo. Thanks for stopping by.’ He seemed to consider holding out a hand but did not. ‘Best of luck with… er… everything.’ He darted into the empty compartment and started jabbing at one of the numbers.

‘Tim. Please! I just need his name. His address. Anything!’

Cummins gave a lazy salute. ‘Take care, buddy.’ The doors of the lift began to close.