—IT’S ON THE NEWS!
The message on the Highgate Ladies’ Book Club WhatsApp group pops up less than a minute after Slade’s article goes live. There is the briefest of pauses where people see the message, google the story, read it, then the phones of Highgate start buzzing and skittering across the granite and marble worktops once again.
—She was killed by a knife!
—We just had the police at our door. They asked us about Mike.
—We’ve had them too. LOTS of questions about Mike. They definitely think it’s him.
—Would Mike really kill Kate? And with a knife!!? I can’t believe it.
—The article says knife crime is moving off the streets. Maybe it was some mad druggie.
—Makes you feel unsafe in your own home.
—IKR. George has already been on the phone to ADT.
—OMG, so has Richard. He wants to get cameras installed.
—The Millers had cameras, and a swanky alarm. Didn’t help poor Kate tho.
—That’s what makes me think Mike must have done it. Who else could have got past that security?
—OMG it’s on LBC right now.
A battalion of retro-looking radios and Alexas are activated and tuned to the local London radio station, where an earnest newsreader is halfway through a report on the knife murder of a woman in her own Highgate home.
Brian Slade listens too, smiling as he runs along Kensington High Street, his phone streaming the radio station to the Bluetooth earphones jammed in his ears. He used to get mad when other news outlets jumped on his stories, but now he sees it as an endorsement. “Let them follow, as long as you’re the lead,” an old editor had told him once, an old-school Fleet Street wreck, sixty-a-day, long pub lunches, dead at fifty-six, but someone who had certainly known his way around a story. “If it bleeds, it leads” was another of his pearls, and boy, was that one ever still true.
Slade slows to a jog and enters the central, soaring atrium of the Daily building. He swipes his identity card to get through security and glances over at the large display screens behind reception. The central screen is permanently set to The Daily website and he smiles again when he sees his story sitting pretty at the top of the scroll. Let the others follow if they want, he knows he can stay in front of them all because he’s the only one with the inside line.
He takes the stairs to the second floor, using it as a cooldown after his run, and checks his phone to see if he’s had any more emails from justice72@yahoo.com.
Nothing.
No matter, the story has its own momentum now, like a big dirty snowball rolling downhill, getting bigger and picking up all kinds of shit as it rumbles along. Right now it’s still just about small enough to steer, and he’s the one who’ll decide which way it goes. The police are clearly not going to give him anything, not officially at least, but as long as the killer is at large their ongoing failure to catch him will be a story in itself and give him plenty of opportunity to rerun his exclusive crime scene photographs. Then there’s the fascination with the victim too, all that blondness and good looks, the handsome husband who ends up killing her, all that money! The more he can build them up to be the perfect couple living everybody’s dream, the more tragic their story will feel. Build ’em up, then knock ’em down.
And what about that house? There’s a whole feature right there, find the estate agent who last sold it and get exclusives on all the photographs and any other media they have, hopefully even a virtual tour they can tie up with an exclusive and stick on the website—Take a tour round murder mansion. Who’s not going to click on that, then share it with all their bored friends?
So many angles. So much to do.
He enters the newsroom and strides toward his desk, aware of all the glances from the other hacks as he passes by but ignoring them all. Suck it up, you bunch of losers. He never has been much of a team player. Never seen the point. Running’s not a team sport either, and when he runs he gets farther and faster on his own, without other people slowing him down and stealing his oxygen.
He grabs his water bottle from his desk and takes a long drink while staring at his new assistant Shakila, who looks up at him, eager and expectant, waiting for him to tell her what he needs. He continues to drink and winks at her; she smiles back because what else can she do, roll her eyes and call him a dick? That’s not how the power balance shakes out in the newsroom, and the smart ones realize it. Jury’s still out on which one Shakila will turn out to be. Slade stops drinking and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I need you to do some digging and get hold of a few people for me.”
Shakila picks up her notebook and a pen. Old school. He likes that about her. No mimsy voice memos or tippy-tappy notes on her phone. Maybe she’ll be old-school Asian too, walk a few steps behind him and treat him like a king. He might take her out to dinner later and find out. He flips open his own notebook and scans the notes he scribbled earlier when speaking to his police contact.
“OK, first find out anything you can about Michael James Miller, age forty-eight, and his wife Katherine Miller, thirty-nine, of number three, Swain’s Lane, Highgate. Don’t bother googling them because nothing comes up. You’re going to have to be creative, check through the black files and run their photos through Clearview, see if that throws up any IDs or aliases.”
The phone on Shakila’s desk starts ringing.
“I also want biographies, photos, names, and contact details of any relatives or significant business associates. We’re looking for anyone who knew the Millers and can give us either the human angle or some useful background info, preferably both. Also try and find anyone who currently works for them—they’re loaded, so we’re talking driver, nanny, gardener, that kind of thing. There’s definitely a cleaner because she found the body.” Slade checks his notes and Shakila takes the opportunity to pick up her ringing phone to silence it.
“Cleaner’s name is Celia Barnes,” Slade says. “Start with her.”
He looks back up and clocks the serious expression on Shakila’s face. “What?” he says.
“Police,” she says. “They’re downstairs and they want to see you right now.”