The digital clock on the wall twenty feet away read 4 a.m. It came as no surprise. For Sarah Truman this was well beyond the longest day of her life.
She sat in a makeshift cubicle; the closest thing the network had given her to an office. It was cramped when she was in here alone. With Jack Maguire wedged in with her it was practically inhumane.
The space was little more than a well-equipped desk surrounded by three partitions that acted as walls. Anyone over five foot eight could easily peer over the screens, making privacy impossible. This bothered Sarah. Privacy was exactly what she and Maguire needed.
‘So what do we know about Lawrence so far?’ Maguire asked.
Sarah knew she was being tested. She needed to be in full command of the facts for what was ahead.
‘Well, we know he’s doing well for himself.’
Sarah replied in hushed tones; 4 a.m. it might be, but the twenty-four-hour newsroom bustled with activity. They risked losing the story if anyone overheard.
‘He’s been involved in a lot of high-profile cases. Controversial stuff, mainly. It’s not about the money with him as he doesn’t really need it; plenty of family money to go around. He lives in a big place in Surrey, near the Wentworth Estate. He has a wife and one son, aged ten. He is thirty-seven years old, qualified for fifteen years and for the past eleven he has run his own firm.’
Maguire nodded. So far Sarah had hit every mark. She continued.
‘He comes from a long line of lawyers. Father’s a top barrister. So were both his grandfathers. He does one case at a time and dedicates himself to it like you wouldn’t believe. He really believes in his clients.’
Sarah stopped speaking. Her summary was over. She was confident that she had everything right, but she was still grateful to have that confirmed by Maguire’s smile.
‘So he seems principled,’ Maguire finally offered. ‘And maybe he’s got good instincts. Like when it comes to picking out the innocent?’
‘Then why is he representing McGale?’ Sarah asked, her tone derisive. ‘It’s not like anyone could say he didn’t do it!’
Maguire did not seem to have an answer. Sarah’s point was solid. Instead he changed the subject.
‘What about the political angle?’
‘Dammit.’
Sarah made no attempt to hide her annoyance. She had left a key slice of the story out of her summary. Now reminded, she sped through what remained.
‘Daniel Lawrence’s godfather is Tony Haversume himself. Which was important even before tonight’s press conference.’
‘Why?’ Maguire asked. ‘Why is that important?’
‘Because having Anthony Haversume’s godson on the case removes any suggestion of an establishment cover-up.’
‘Exactly.’
Maguire seemed pleased with what he was hearing. And Sarah was just as happy to be meeting his standards. She was not just remembering the facts. She was applying them like an investigator. Just as Maguire had taught her.
Maguire continued.
‘By selecting a lawyer close to the one man who’d want everything out in the open, the government kills any suggestion that they’re keeping things hidden.’
Sarah smiled at Maguire’s agreement. She knew that the much more experienced cameraman was guiding her. Educating her in the story that would make her career. Sarah could not be more grateful for his help, or more proud that she was learning her lessons well.
It was a short-lived moment of triumph.
A small plasma screen lurked in the corner of Sarah’s cluttered desk. Neither she nor Maguire had glanced towards it as they worked through the information they had collected. That changed as its previous multi-screen news stream was replaced by a single live image: the exterior of Paddington Green police station. Ahead of the building, perhaps twenty yards from its front steps, stood CNN correspondent John Crane.
Crane’s close-up dominated the HD image.
Maguire noticed the change before Sarah. He reached out and cancelled the ‘mute’ button on the screen’s bottom console. Sarah’s tiny cubicle was immediately filled with Crane’s East Coast American tones: ‘The body of Eamon McGale was found by the custody sergeant during a routine cell inspection at 3.10 this morning. Little has been disclosed at this time but there seems no doubt that he took his own life. How this was done remains a matter of speculation as we await an official statement.
‘What we do know is that McGale’s death leaves many questions. Since his identity was made public yesterday evening, a complicated picture has emerged of this fifty-six-year-old university don. A Protestant but a political neutral, McGale spent the last twenty-five years as a lecturer at Queen’s University, Belfast. This ended tragically, in November of last year, when he lost his wife and two sons to a terrorist attack in the resurgent Troubles. From then on he became increasingly detached from his own life until disappearing altogether just under a month ago. It now seems that in that time his sanity slipped enough to lead to the horrors of yesterday. But exactly how that happened we are now unlikely to ever know.
‘More information is expected soon, and we will keep you informed throughout the night. But for now we can summarise the most recent development in this tragic story. Eamon McGale, the man responsible for the death of Sir Neil Matthewson and for the attempted murder of former President Howard Thompson, has committed suicide while in police custody. He died before speaking to a lawyer and before being questioned by police, and so he leaves countless questions unasked and now probably unanswerable. Reporting for CNN from central London, I’m John Crane.’
Crane’s image stayed in the centre of the screen for just a moment, until replaced by CNN’s unflappable early morning European anchorman Roger Waites. Waites began to speak, his delivery smooth and unflustered; the consummate professional. But Maguire had heard enough. Reaching out, he pressed the screen’s mute button. The cubicle was silent once again.
Sarah stared at Maguire as he moved his arm away from the screen. Waiting to catch his eye. When she did she saw a concern that matched her own.
‘What the hell just happened, Jack?’
‘I don’t have a bloody clue,’ Maguire replied, shaking his head. ‘What do they mean “No chance to see a lawyer”? I thought you checked up on that? I thought you said Lawrence had to be there to see him?’
‘Lawrence was there to see him. He had to have been; there was no one else in custody. There was no other reason for him to be there. Plus that police sergeant told me that McGale’s lawyer was on the way. Jack, this is all wrong.’
Maguire nodded but his confusion was obvious. He was as shocked as Sarah. Not just by the news of McGale’s suicide, but by the suggestion that the man had died before speaking about his actions and his motives.
‘Then that leaves two options, doesn’t it?’ Maguire finally said. ‘Either someone is making a hell of mistake, or there is a lot more to this than meets the eye.’
Sarah had already considered the possibilities. Now she had moved on to their meaning. Her mind was working even faster than Maguire’s.
‘Jack, if they’re trying to hide that McGale saw a lawyer – that he did speak to someone – then they must be trying to keep something under wraps . . .’
‘. . . and if they want to keep something covered up,’ Maguire picked up where Sarah had stopped, ‘then we can’t just accept that McGale killed himself.’
Both were now speaking in a whisper. They were reaching the same conclusions, and clearly struggling with what those conclusions had to mean.
They sat in silence for a few moments as Sarah allowed their joint reasoning to sink in. She knew that the first option was more likely. That John Crane – or someone briefing John Crane – had made a mistake that would soon be corrected, with the world being told that McGale had seen a lawyer after all.
But until that happened option two was still a possibility. And so it was worth considering the questions that scenario raised. What information did McGale have that was worth killing to conceal? How had he died, if not suicide? And if it had been murder, who the hell could get to him within the secure confines of Paddington Green police station, and how did they make it look like suicide? Who could hide the fact that McGale had seen a lawyer, and may have already told that lawyer everything? All of these questions hung in the air.
‘We know Daniel Lawrence saw McGale,’ Sarah finally said. ‘But the official story says that he didn’t. So does that mean he’s in on it? Lawrence, I mean?’
Her tone was confused. Even disbelieving. What Sarah was asking did not sit with Daniel Lawrence’s image as an idealistic, crusading lawyer.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ replied Maguire. ‘We don’t know we’re in cover-up territory just yet. It could be a mistake. The official statement might tell us that he did see a lawyer, so this could be a red herring.’
‘Could be,’ Sarah conceded. ‘But what if it isn’t? What if they say that McGale died before speaking to anyone? If they stick with that, then we know there is something going on. No one else knows Lawrence was there, Jack. No one else knows that this might be a goddamn cover-up.’
Sarah could hear the over-excitement in her own voice. She was speaking in breathless whispers, which exaggerated the effect. It did not worry her. Even Maguire, for all of his experience, seemed less than grounded.
‘This is Watergate,’ Sarah continued. ‘This is Woodward and Bernstein. No one else has a clue about any of it. So how about we assume away until we find out we’re wrong, huh? How about we say we’re in cover-up territory until they prove that we’re not? Because we both know that there’s no damn story in option one.’
Maguire smiled. A smile of pride. Sarah hardly noticed. She was on a roll.
‘So what do we do now?’ Maguire asked.
‘I say we doorstep Lawrence early morning. See if he can give us some answers when he’s not expecting the questions.’
‘You want to wait until morning?’
Maguire’s tone betrayed him; he was now mocking Sarah’s enthusiasm.
‘You don’t want to head out now? It’s not like we need to sleep or anything!’
‘Don’t try pressing my buttons, Jack,’ Sarah laughed. She knew her colleague too well to fall for – or to be offended by – his words. ‘The morning’s good enough. No one else even knows Lawrence was there, so it’s not a race. Plus, I need some sleep. It’s been a hell of a day.’