‘I met him on Saturday night!’ I finally blurted out.
Katrina raised an eyebrow, the first sign she was giving a shit about anything I said.
‘I didn’t know who he was,’ I admitted. The scene at the bar rushed back to me: all those girls pointing and staring at him; the scrap of paper that of course was not a phone number but an autograph; the expensive hotel room. He must have thought I was a complete idiot. ‘He told me he was a musician, but he looked kind of poor.’
Katrina gave a bark of what could have been laughter, if she had ever actually laughed before in her life.
‘We kind of hooked up,’ I went on. ‘He didn’t seem like someone who was in trouble with the law—’
‘Hold up, hold up.’ Katrina put one hand on my desk as if to support herself. ‘You’re telling me you—Sarah Burrowes—screwed Chris Ford?’
‘Well, not quite. I freaked out and pulled the pin. But then—’
Katrina slapped her thigh. ‘You rejected him? You are gold, woman!’
‘Listen to me, this is important!’ I shouted in exasperation, and was surprised when she actually shut her mouth and waited. ‘We were talking and he seemed totally relaxed, but then he got a call on his mobile and panicked. He didn’t say what was wrong, but he took off pretty quickly. I thought he was pissed off with me, but now it makes sense.’
‘Good, good.’ Katrina had regained her usual brisk manner now we had moved onto business. ‘Make sure you tell that to the journo, along with this.’
She placed another photo in front of me. This one showed a man I didn’t recognise. The photo was of his upper body and he was lying on his back, arms askew. His shirt was bloodied beneath his ribs around what appeared to be a knife wound, and his eyes stared unseeing at some distant point to the right of the camera. His face had the bluish pallor of death. The image shocked me more than I wanted to admit and I barely noticed Katrina had already dismissed my story.
‘Simon said the source emailed this photo to Interpol. It’s Angus Bright, if the photo is legit, but his body hasn’t been found. He wasn’t on the Australian tour and the photo is date-stamped with the day before the band left Scotland. Customs records show that Ford got on a flight to Barcelona early Sunday morning right after Interpol received the email. I want a journo in here for a debrief asap. Get to it.’
She was gone before I had time to protest. The photo of Chris stared up at me from the desk. I could hardly believe this was the same man I’d almost slept with two nights ago. The lines of his face were smoother, his hair was more artfully styled, his expression more blue steel than jovial, but there was no doubt it was him. How could that down-to-earth, scruffy-looking guy be a famous musician? And, more to the point, how could he possibly be a suspect in the disappearance—the possible murder—of his own band member? He had acted pretty cagey when I’d asked him about the band. He could’ve just been pissed off that I hadn’t realised who he was, but with his sudden exit, followed by his flight to Barcelona only hours later, it wasn’t a good sign.
On top of everything, a serious story, which I had unwittingly witnessed a part of, had fallen into my lap. I couldn’t let this opportunity go. Katrina wasn’t just going to give me the story, so I’d have to convince her I was the right person for the job. Even if I had to do so by devious means.
I glanced across the room to her office. She caught me looking and tapped her watch with one crimson fingernail, so I quickly clutched at the Rolodex on my desk and started flicking through it. I picked up my phone and dialled a random number, then killed the call before launching into a loud conversation with the dial tone. ‘Hello, this is Sarah Burrowes from Women’s Choice. Just wondering whether any of your reporters would be free to follow up on a story for us this week? Oh, I see. No, we’d rather discuss the brief directly with the journalist. No problem. Thanks for your time.’
The temptation to check whether Katrina had heard was overwhelming. This was my opportunity to demonstrate my assiduity, my unswerving dedication to the magazine. All bullshit, but I had to play the game if I was going to get what I wanted. I punched in another number.
‘She’s not available? Can you recommend anyone else for the job? Yes, it is a busy time with the election coming up. Thanks anyway. Bye.’
I spent the next hour pretending to find a journo, which gave me plenty of time to fabricate my argument. But my stomach still churned as I approached Katrina’s office. If she caught me out in the lie, I’d lose more than just the story.
‘Who’d you get?’ she demanded before I could say anything.
I hesitated.
‘Well?’
‘None of the mags will release any of their journos without knowing what it’s about,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to risk them nicking the story so I couldn’t push it any harder.’
‘Opportunistic scum,’ Katrina spat in a stunning show of hypocrisy. ‘What about the freelancers?’
‘No one’s available. They’re all busy digging up stories about the premier accepting kickbacks from property developers.’
‘Fuck,’ Katrina said. ‘Fuck!’
I assumed a confidence I didn’t feel. ‘Give me the story, Katrina. I spoke to Chris for a while before we… parted. We had a rapport. I can work on that, get him to talk to me.’
She stared at me until I felt like shrinking into the carpet. ‘I told you how big this story is.
