atmosphere of order and coolheadedness. His news editor, Cliff Poulson, had a different approach. Poulson, with his froglike green eyes and Yorkshire accent, liked to say: 'Don't take your coat off, lad.' His delight in snap decisions, his perpetual hurry, and his brittle air of bonhomie created a frenetic atmosphere. Poulson was a speed freak. Cole did not reckon a story had ever missed an edition because someone took a minute out to think about it.
Kevin Hart had been here for five minutes now. He was reading the Mirror, with one hip perched on the edge of a desk, the trousers of his striped suit falling gracefully. Cole called out to him. 'Give the Yard a ring, please, Kevin.' The young man picked up a telephone.
The Bertie Chieseman tips were on his desk: a thick wad of copy. Cole looked around. Most of the reporters were in. It was time to get them working. He sorted through the tips, impaling some on a sharp metal spike, handing others to reporters with brief instructions. 'Anna, a PC got into trouble in the Holloway Road-ring the nearest nick and find out what it was all about. If it's drunks, forget it. Joe, this fire in the East End-check with the Brigade. A burglary in Chelsea, Phillip. Look up the address in Kelly's Directory in case anyone famous lives there. Barney-'Police pursued and arrested an Irishman after calling at a house in Queenstown Street, Cam-den. ' Ring the Yard and ask them if it's anything to do with the IRA.'
An internal phone beeped and he lifted it. 'Arthur Cole.'
'What have you got for me, Arthur?'
Cole recognized the voice of the picture editor. He said: 'At the moment, it looks as though the splash will be last night's vote in the Commons.'
'But that was on the television yesterday!'
'Did you call to ask me things or tell me things?'
'I suppose I'd better have somebody at Downing Street for a today picture of the Prime Minister. Anything else?'
'Nothing that isn't in the morning papers.'
'Thank you, Arthur.'
Cole hung up. It was poor, to be leading on a yesterday story. He was doing his best to update it-two reporters were ringing around for reactions. They were getting backbench MPs to shoot off their mouths, but no Ministers.
A middle-aged reporter with a pipe called out: 'Mrs. Poulson just rang. Cliff won't be in today. He's got Delhi belly.'
Cole groaned. 'How did he catch that in Orpington?'
'Curry supper.'
'Okay.' That was clever, Cole thought. It looked like being the dullest day for news in the month, and Poulson was off sick. With the assistant news editor on holiday, Cole was on his own.
Kevin Hart approached the desk. 'Nothing from the Yard,' he said. 'It's been quiet all night.'
Cole looked up. Hart was about twenty-three and very tall, with curly fair hair, which he wore long. Cole suppressed a spasm of irritation. 'That is ridiculous,' he said. 'Scotland Yard never has a completely quiet night. What's the matter with that Press Bureau?'
'We ought to do a story-'London's first crime-free night for a thousand years,' ' Hart said with a grin.
His levity annoyed Cole. 'Never be satisfied with that kind of reply from the Yard,' he said coldly.
Hart flushed. It embarrassed him to be lectured like a cub reporter. 'I'll ring them back, shall I?'
'No,' said Cole, seeing that he had made his point. 'I want you to do a story. You know this new oil field in the North Sea?'
Hart nodded. 'It's called Shield.'
'Yes. Later on the Energy Minister is going to announce who has got the license to develop it. Do a holding piece to run until we get the announcement. Background, what the license will mean to the people who are bidding, how the Minister makes up his mind. This afternoon we can sling your piece out and leave a hole in the paper for the real news.'
'Okay.' Hart turned away and made for the library. He knew he was being given a dumb job as a kind of punishment, but he took his medicine gracefully, Cole thought. He stared at the boy's back for a moment. He got on Cole's nerves, with his long hair and his suits. He had rather too much self-confidence-but then, reporters needed a lot of cheek.
Cole stood up and went to the subeditors' table. The deputy chief sub had in front of him the wire service story about the passing of the Industry Bill and the new stuff Cole's reporters had come up with. Cole looked over his shoulder. On a scratch pad he had written:
REBEL MPs TOLD 'JOIN THE LIBS'
The man scratched his beard and looked up. 'What do you think?'
'It looks like a story about Women's Lib,' Cole said. 'I hate it.'
'So do I.' The sub tore the sheet off the pad, crumpled it, and tossed it in a metal bin. 'What else is new?'
'Nothing. I've only just given out the tips.'
The bearded man nodded and glanced reflexively at the clock hanging from the ceiling in front. 'Let's hope we get something decent for the second.'
Cole leaned over him and wrote on the pad:
REBEL MPs TOLD 'JOIN LIBERALS'
He said: 'It makes more sense, but it's the same count.'
The sub grinned. 'Want a job?'
Cole went back to his desk. Annela Sims came up and said: 'The Holloway Road incident came to nothing. A bunch of rowdies, no arrests.'
Cole said: 'Okay.'
Joe Barnard put down the phone and called: 'There's not a lot to this fire, Arthur. Nobody hurt.'
'How many people living there?' Cole said automatically.
'Two adults, three children.'
'So, it's a family of five escaped death. Write it.'
Phillip Jones said: 'The burgled flat seems to belong to Nicholas Crost, quite a well-known violinist.'
'Good,' Cole said. 'Ring Chelsea nick and find out what was taken.'
'I did already,' Phillip grinned. 'There's a Stradivarius missing.'
Cole smiled. 'Good boy. Write it, then get down there and see if you can interview the heartbroken maestro.'
The phone rang, and Cole picked it up.
Although he would not have admitted it, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
NINE A.M.
Tim Fitzpeterson was dry of tears, but the weeping had not helped. He lay on the bed, his face buried in the damp pillow. To move was agony. He tried not to think at all, his mind turning away thoughts like an innkeeper with a full house. At one point his brain switched off completely, and he dozed for a few moments, but the escape from pain and despair was brief, and he woke up again. He did not rise from the bed because there was nothing he wanted to do, nowhere he could go, nobody he felt he could face. All he could do was think about the promise of joy that had been so false. Cox had been right when he said so coarsely, 'It was the best night's nooky you'll ever have.' Tim could not quite banish the flashing memories of her slim, writhing body; but now they had a dreadfully bitter taste. She had shown him Paradise, then slammed the door. She, of course, had been faking ecstasy; but there had been nothing simulated about Tim's own pleasure. A few hours ago he had been contemplating a new life, enhanced by the kind of sexual love he had forgotten existed. Now it was hard to see any point at all in tomorrow.
