“Sorry?”
The voice breathed out deeply, like this was a huge effort.
“Do you pay for your stories?”
Cathal had leaned back in his chair.
“Not usually… In certain circumstances…”
“This one you’ll want, trust me.”
“Okay… How much do you want?
“How much do you have?”
Cathal had laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“That’s an odd question to ask.”
“You’ll want this story boy, oh believe me.”
Narrowing his eyes, Cathal took another glance at his editor, who had slowed down on the typing, her chin resting on her hands as her eyes strode from left to right, reading her screen.
“I don’t know how much I can offer… I’ll have to ask my editor. It depends on the story, I sup-“
“Well meet me tonight. Bring half then, before I tell you the story, and then give me the rest when you think you know how much it’s worth. No less than fifteen hundred, though.”
Cathal’s mouth fell open, about to haggle with the mystery caller, but the line went dead. Hanging up, he knocked on Jodie’s door and he explained the situation.
“Sounds like a waste of time,” she returned her attention to her screen.
“I think it sounds legit… You didn’t hear him. He sounded… Worried… Weird…”
“Probably a bunch of scumbags trying to chance their arm. Are you really going to meet him?”
“I want to.”
Jodie raised an eyebrow and blew a raspberry.
“I wouldn’t.”
“How much can we give out?”
“For a non-story? For you to be mugged? Absolutely fuck all, to be honest, Cathal. The newspaper industry isn’t what it used to be, y’know?”
“Well, on average, if you were contacted like this?”
Sighing, as if he were an inconvenience to her, Jodie stood up and marched to the filing cabinet. Opening the bottom drawer, she took out the Londonderry Letter’s cheque book.
“I’ll put £1,000 on this, for now.”
“He said he wants fifteen hundred.”
“Well, if it’s as good as you feel it is then he can get the other 500 after. And don’t you be giving this out willy-nilly. If the story is shite or made up, refuse payment. Check your facts. I’m counting on you.”
And now here he is, isolated at a table towards the back of the room in the Icon bar and restaurant, where he’d met so many sources before. But something about this feels odd. He isn’t in control, like he is in every other interview. He has no idea how tonight is going to go. A flash of red coming in through the door makes him look up. It’s him. He looks around before spotting Cathal seated with his notepad and Dictaphone resting on the table. Slouching over, he pushes his cap back and removes his sunglasses.
“Get rid of those,” he hisses as he takes a seat, nodding towards Cathal’s instruments.
Pocketing them, Cathal observes him. He wouldn’t be close to 50 yet, with deep rings under his eyes and a sickly skin tone. Something has happened. Something bad, but what? He guesses he’s going to find out.
“You brought the money?”
Cathal fishes out the cheque.
“I wanted cash!”
“Well this is the best I can do for you; I’ll need your name if it’s going to be any use.”
“I’ll write it in later.”
“I don’t think that’s going to w-“
“Do you want the story or not?” he spits.
Leaning back, Cathal nods for him to proceed.
“I’m to remain anonymous in all this, alright?”
“I don’t know your name anyway.”
“Aye… But your lot… You can dig anything up.”
Cathal thinks for a moment, before nodding.
“The missing politician, Aaron Parker… I know where he is.”
Cathal stops juvenilely swinging on his chair and sits forward, shock etched across his face. He doesn’t know what he was expecting… But not this.
“I’m listening…”
Chapter Thirteen:
2016
_____
Voices from downstairs carried up through the floorboards pull him from his dreams. Moaning, sickness swirling in his stomach, Chris rolls over and expects to be met with the coldness of his wall. But his arm hangs limply off the bed. Opening one eye precariously, he’s confused to find himself in Danielle’s bedroom. How the hell did he find himself back here? Especially after that corker of an argument. Guilt batters against his chest as he remembers calling her an attention seeker and even pointing at her in distain as he sang the ‘jealousy’ lyrics when him and the lads drunkenly belted out Mr Brightside in the wee hours of the morning.
Sitting up and scratching his head, he wonders who is downstairs. The voices sound urgent. He can just about make out Danielle’s mum’s quivering tremor before it’s replaced with a hardened monotone. Searching the room for his discarded clothes, he pulls them on, hoping the company won’t be disgusted with the wrinkles, and trots downstairs, thoughts of a bacon bap at the forefront of his mind. As he reaches the doorway through to the kitchen, he’s instantly enveloped in a sea of brown hair and pink fluffy pyjamas. His chest gets soaked right through his shirt as Danielle presses her face into him. Whatever has happened, it has taken precedence over the silly argument last night. Looking up, he sees Danielle’s mum at the island, a hand over her face, with Michelle propped beside her, biting her lip. Across from them sit two men, one dressed in an itchy-looking woollen jumper and cords, another in a suit and tie.
“This is Danielle’s boyfriend, Chris,” Nuala nods towards him, “Chris, this is Detective… Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Detective Inspector Joe Quigley,” the man in the suit stoops off the stool and offers his hand, which Chris accepts after untangling his own hand from Danielle’s hair, “and this is DC Dermott Curry.”
Chris nods his head in the direction of the older officer, who smiles at him concerned. What’s going on? Police? Could this be because of what happened last night? Danielle accusing him of attacking her. This is over the top, even for her. But surely if it was, she wouldn’t have just greeted him like that. And Nuala wouldn’t have been so friendly… No, something else is up. But what?
“We’re actually wondering if
