It was a good story, although not entirely accurate. Victoria Webster never intended the truth to get in the way of her ambition. Irish, she was, but it was middle-class suburbia and parents who were married. The orphanage after they had been killed in a car accident when she was eight years old, but it was not austere. University and the three jobs in part truthful, although the jobs were short-term. She was a brilliant student and many a student, and some lecturers, had succumbed to her charm and assisted in her financial viability, even sometimes with the reports and the papers she had to submit. The basement at the magazine, correct, but it was not all hard work. There was no doubt that she was brilliant at her job ‒ the circulation attested to that fact ‒ and her public persona was flawless, but the rise from the basement was in part due to competence and hard work, and in part due to her seducing whoever she needed to, invariably on the floor above. There were a few who, once seduced, found out that she had taken their job. She made sure that they were evicted from the building quickly, and with minimal fuss, with a generous redundancy package to ensure their silence. A few had tried to inform the owner of the magazine what she was, but he did not care as long as it was not illegal, and as long as she delivered the results.
‘Miss Webster.’ Farhan attempted to get a word in.
‘Mrs Webster.’
‘Mrs Webster, it is understood that you were willing to pay Charles Sutherland a substantial amount of money for information that he possessed, information you would print in your magazine. Is that correct?’
‘That is correct.’
‘I assume you are aware of the nature of this information.’
‘Your assumption is incorrect.’ She looked at her watch and glanced over at the man sitting next to her. She had not formally introduced him, other than to say that he was her legal adviser.
‘Why is that?’ Farhan asked.
‘Mrs Webster is answering your questions in a spirit of goodwill,’ Victoria Webster’s legal adviser said.
‘And you are?’ Farhan had not come to Victoria Webster’s office to be intimidated.
‘My name is William Montgomery. I am the senior legal adviser for the magazine.’
Montgomery had been sitting on the far side of the editor’s desk when Farhan had entered. Farhan thought it strange at the time that he had not risen to shake his hand. He then saw why. Montgomery was in a wheelchair.
‘Mr Montgomery, Mrs Webster, I would like to remind you that this is a murder enquiry. It is fully understood that you may both be very busy, but my questions take precedence.’
‘We realise that,’ Montgomery said.
‘Get on with it,’ Victoria Webster said. ‘I don’t have all day for you two to have a social chat.’ It was clear that Montgomery was in fear of his boss.
‘This information, Mrs Webster?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
‘You wouldn’t pay him until he had given it?’
‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
Farhan found her an incredibly rude woman ‒ nothing like her personal assistant who was sitting outside. He wondered how anyone could work for such a woman, but then with egregious abuse probably comes great reward for those who can handle the situation. Montgomery probably could, Farhan thought, even if he appeared to be a mild-mannered man, obviously under the controlling thumb of a difficult woman.
Farhan returned to the conversation. He chose to ignore the ‘Do you think I’m stupid’ comment. ‘He may have been killed for that information. It may place you at risk. Have you considered that possibility?’ It seemed to have the desired effect. Farhan hadn’t considered it before, but it seemed plausible. Temporarily quietened, Victoria Webster sat down and whispered in the ear of her legal adviser.
‘We would request a few minutes to discuss this, before Mrs Webster answers. Will that be acceptable?’ Montgomery said in a more agreeable tone.
‘Fine, I’ll wait outside. Call me when you are ready.’
***
Outside the personal assistant organised coffee for Farhan and a sandwich. He reflected on his wife. How is it that every woman I meet is exceedingly kind and generous to me, whereas she is hostile and unpleasant; everyone that is, apart from Victoria Webster? he thought.
He decided to give the editor the benefit of the doubt. She sat supreme in the publishing industry. She had taken a lame-duck of a publication devoted to knitting patterns and handicrafts and transformed it into the premier publication in the country devoted to celebrities and movies and music. Every corner store, every newsagent, every street vendor carried the magazine, prominently displayed. He realised that she had not got to where she was without being tough when she needed to be, gentle when needed. He assumed he was not going to see that side of her today.
Twenty minutes later, his sandwich finished, his chat with the PA not ended, he was invited back into the editor’s office. He noticed that this time it was an invitation, not a begrudging opening of the door.
Montgomery had moved to another part of the office, closer to some comfortable chairs.
‘Detective Inspector, we will sit here if that is okay with you.’ Farhan had been wrong. He was to see the gentle side of Victoria Webster.
‘Fine by me,’ Farhan responded. Two
