The pair had left the Daily Echo offices forty-five minutes earlier, having spent a gruelling day putting the final touches to a political story they had been working on over the last three weeks. They had met the deadline for tomorrow’s edition by the skin of their teeth.
The story had started with an anonymous tip-off that implied a high-profile politician had accepted a lucrative bung to award a government contract when there had been better value bids from elsewhere. Through an unofficial contact at BT, the reporter, Terri Miller, easily identified the caller, who had been silly enough to use a mobile phone registered in her own name. Miller started scrutinising every aspect of Elizabeth Wilson’s life under a microscope, and quickly discovered that she was the former secretary to a recently appointed Junior Minister who was considered something of a flyer by the party hierarchy.
Miller lost no time in confronting Wilson, who tearfully confessed to calling the Echo in a moment of jealous rage, hoping to damage her ex-lover’s reputation by breaking a story he had tried so hard to keep buried. It was yet to be determined just how much truth there was in Wilson’s claims, but with the woman now willing to put her name to the accusation it was printable.
The article would deeply embarrass the government when it was published tomorrow. The Prime Minister would have no option but launch an immediate inquiry; guilty or not, the Party would drop the Junior Minister like the hot potato he had become.
They made a brief stop at an all-night bagel shop, and Miller braved a short dash through the heavy rain to buy freshly baked doughnuts.
A few minutes later, Julie drew up as close to the plate glass doors of the private apartment building as the topography would allow. The reporter waved goodbye to her friend, thanking her for the lift. Then, holding the collar of her Burberry up to protect her from the worst of the rain, she sprinted a few yards across the tarmac, splashing through puddles the size of small lakes and cursing as cold water flooded into shoes that were designed for summer use only.
“Damn this weather,” the reporter grumbled to herself as she reached the shelter of the overhead canopy.
Julie watched from the warmth of her car as Teresa Miller, illuminated by a flash of lightning, fumbled with her keys at the entrance. Like the friend she was, Julie waited until Terri was safely inside the foyer before driving off.
The reporter lived on the top floor of the twenty-story building. Her two-bedroom, two-bathroom flat, which overlooked the river, was a present from her industrialist father.
Brushing water from her hair, Terri crossed the lavish marble floor to a bank of elevators. She removed her coat and shook it out while she waited for the next elevator to arrive. Her stockinged feet squelched inside her shoes every time she shifted her weight.
She studied herself in the mirrored interior during the short ride up. Terri was thirty years old, a pretty brunette with large brown eyes. She felt that the main flaw in her appearance was a stubby little nose, which she’d always disliked, but which the men in her life seemed to find cute. Not that there were many of them at the moment. She just didn’t have the time or the energy!
Turning side on, she decided that her figure was acceptable. She wished that her bust was a bit bigger, but at least she had nice legs and a flat tummy, the result of swimming to county standard during her youth. She tensed her cheeks and prodded her rump, then gave a satisfied smile at the lack of wobble.
Terri moved closer to the mirror, examining her red-rimmed eyes critically. Her face was zombie pale, but given the ridiculous number of hours she was putting in at the moment that was hardly surprising. Seventy-hour weeks had become a regular occurrence for her, but that was the only way to get ahead in the dog eat dog business she had chosen as a profession.
Terri came from a privileged background, but she was determined to succeed on her own merit, and not just coast through life because of her parent’s wealth. The flat was her one concession to that rule, and it was the only indulgence she permitted herself.
The elevator door opened with a melodic ‘ping’, and she stepped out, turning left towards her apartment. The hall lights flickered briefly as a loud clap of thunder signalled that the storm was intensifying.
Terri’s concentration was focused on selecting the right key for her apartment, so she didn’t see the man coming the other way, running for the lift. They collided forcefully, and the impact spun her sideways, knocking her keys from her hand. She was too startled to say anything as the man ducked into the closing lift without looking back. “I’m fine, thank you,” she shouted angrily as the doors closed and the elevator began its descent.
She’d only caught a glimpse of him; he’d worn a long trench coat with the collar turned up, concealing the lower half of his face, and a fedora style hat that was pulled down to eye level, Humphrey Bogart style.
Who was that rude pig? His absolute lack of manners was astounding. He might have been in a rush but he could still have shouted an apology.
She picked up her keys and began rubbing her bruised shoulder. Perhaps he was staying with one of the neighbours. She would make a few discreet enquiries later, when people who lived regular lives were up and about.
As Terri walked along the hall, her body aching for rest, and her shoulder just aching, she noticed something on the floor outside her apartment. It was a large hat box tied with string. There was a letter pinned to the top. “Now what on earth can you be?” she asked the parcel as she bent to retrieve it. She held it up for examination,
