Microsoft Teams took an age to load as usual and Darren Howe wondered, not for the first time, whether he could use that as an excuse to cancel his meeting with Sam. The last time he’d pulled that stunt though, the bastard had made him rent a room at a business centre and log on from there. At his own expense.
Eventually his image appeared on the screen, so he checked his background was blurred, took a breath and clicked ‘Join Meeting’.
‘DAZZA!’ Sam shouted as soon as they’d connected. ‘What a blinder you played on Saturday. I’ll be honest with you, I thought you’d bottle it. Then we’d be having a very different conversation.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘Cheer up mate. You’re the man of the moment. No other bugger had that snippet and no one would have had the gumption to ask the police – or should I say your missus – there and then. We’ve made bloody thousands on your copy and the reaction you got from your old lady. That pic is going to pay for my next cruise.’
‘I couldn’t be happier for you, but you do know it’s effectively wrecked my marriage.’ 107
‘Bloody hell, mate, if you’d been through wives like I have you’d know that’s just collateral damage. Anyway, she’ll get over it.’
Darren edged the cursor over the ‘Leave Meeting’ button but thought better of it. He needed to see this through if he was to keep his liberty. Or was he catastrophising, just like he always pulled Jo up for?
‘I can’t see that. I’m staying at my brother’s for the time being, it’s that bad.’
Sam guffawed. ‘Been there, got the divorce writs, mate. Listen, we need to keep up the heat. How are you getting on with that article? You must have shedloads by now what with the three murders and that copper getting bowled over.’
‘Bob’s a friend of mine,’ said Darren.
‘You need to separate work from leisure, mate. I make it my business never to have actual friends, just useful people to butter up. Listen, crack on with the piece and don’t forget the deadline.’
Darren’s phone buzzed on the desk beside him. Jo. He prayed this meeting was coming to an end. The last thing he wanted was for the call to ring out and Jo to think he was ghosting her.
‘Look, gotta go. Got the chairman on the other line. Ciao ciao.’
Before the screen blanked, Darren hit ‘accept’. ‘Hiya. Everything OK?’
‘Not really. We need to meet.’
The last time Jo had been at Devil’s Dyke was after Phil’s funeral. So much had happened in those short weeks and, at the time, she’d thought her world was coming to an end. Little did she know what was round the corner.
Sitting outside the pub, on a picnic bench, she mulled over how many times her life had been ripped apart. The first time was when her twelve-year-old sister, Caroline, was abused and that monster walked free.. She’d gone off the rails then, and now Jo beat herself up over what more she could have done to support her, to stop her spiralling into addiction, homelessness, the ravages of PTSD – ending in a lonely, squalid death. 108What were big sisters – who happened to be senior police officers – for if not protecting their nearest and dearest?
The one thing she had left that was sacred was the very thing she was certain she was about to lose – and that would kill her.
Eventually, Darren’s car appeared round the bend and he parked next to hers. As he got out he fiddled with his phone, looking up at the parking instructions as he did so.
‘You have to pay,’ said Jo as he approached.
‘That’s what I’m doing. Listen, before we start, can I just say I’m so, so sorry about the other night. I really had no choice.’
Jo looked up at him. Those eyes. ‘Get me an orange juice, then we’ll talk.’
He sloped off to the bar, returning a few minutes later with their drinks.
‘Start by telling me why you thought our marriage was worthless enough to burn.’
‘We’re not going to talk about this as adults then? I might as well go.’ He went to stand.
‘No, please wait. I’m sorry but I’m so angry. Do you realise how much trouble you’ve caused? It’s not just the shock of having your husband throw in a hand grenade like that. It’s the whispers, the gossip. I was specifically told not to reveal what you asked, then ten minutes later, out you come with it.’
‘You know I love you. I’d never have done that by choice.’ He reached his hand across the table but she drew hers away. ‘I swear I was forced. I wish I’d never picked the phone up but Sam’s got something on me, I’m certain of it.’
‘So you said.’
‘Look, you’ve heard of Operation Elvedon, right?’
‘Of course. The Met even arrested one of my sergeants for leaking stories to the press. Ended up doing six months. But you weren’t involved in that were you?’
‘Not knowingly, but Sam certainly was. We all suspected he was one 109of those who got away. Whether he bought his way out of it or was just too clever for them to catch, he built his reputation on how quickly he could get the inside track on anything they wanted. Police cock-ups, political scandals, exclusive stings on celebrities, the whole nine yards. I was working closely with him and all the others. I don’t know what I might have dirtied my hands on. He’s now using that to get at me.’
‘But surely he’ll reveal his own involvement if he digs anything up on you.’
‘He’ll have thought of that.’
Jo took a sip of her drink and watched a hang-glider take off from the hill opposite.
‘What sort of things did you do?’
‘Let’s get some lunch, then I’ll tell you. I can’t do this on an empty stomach.’
Jo’s 4G was patchy so she browsed the lunch options on a paper menu instead of the app. She wasn’t that hungry but if she wanted to get to the bottom of why Darren would so readily betray her in front of the world’s media, she’d have to humour him by picking at a sandwich.
She plumped for the jackfruit wrap while Darren chose the brisket ciabatta. She went into the pub to place the order. One of the staff, slightly older than her but immaculately presented in her white blouse and black pencil skirt, seemed to be staring. With her media profile over the last couple of years, Jo had this from time to time – but she couldn’t help feeling this recognition was due to Saturday’s debacle, or the ubiquitous photos that followed on just about every news app.
Jo slipped her credit card from her purse but the woman told her she could pay later, ‘in case you want a dessert or coffee’. No chance of that, thought Jo, but she nodded anyway.
When she rejoined Darren, she was pleased to see the adjacent table was still vacant.
Thankfully the food didn’t take long. The server, possibly a student given his pimply face and patchy stubble, took a long look at both Jo and 110Darren and she was certain she detected a smirk as he placed their plates down. Once he was safely back indoors, Jo said, ‘Go on then.’
Darren took a huge bite of his sandwich, then wiped stray juices from his chin with a napkin. ‘Do you remember when that newsreader Edward Stark was arrested for abusing his daughter and granddaughter?’
‘How could I forget?’ said Jo. It had been a national scandal with echoes of Jimmy Savile. Stark had been an icon, the fearless voice in the face of filibustering politicians and businessmen. Rolled out for any emerging crisis, he took the people’s side and had a knack of asking the unanswerable questions in laypersons’ language which left the interviewee with nowhere to go. When it emerged that he had fathered his own grandchild during decades of horrendous sexual abuse of his daughter, and his wife knew all about it but had been beaten into silence, the tables were turned. For Jo, it brought back bitter memories of her sister’s abuse.
‘Well, and I promise this is true, the first I knew was the rolling live news of the police crashing his door down and him being dragged out in his pyjamas.’
It was hardly that dramatic, thought Jo. As she remembered it, they tapped on the door and were let in. He came out twenty minutes later, unhandcuffed, with a detective on either side. But, being a journalist, it was in Darren’s DNA to sensationalise the truth.
She nodded.
‘Well, if you remember, there was an uproar from his wider family and those who thought he was innocent about why there were TV cameras there to capture his downfall. For a few weeks, until he was charged, there were headlines about a phase two of Op Elvedon and how the rot of police and press corruption was alive and kicking.’
‘I remember, but what’s that got to do with you? You’ve never worked in TV.’
‘I know and, if you remember, the executive producers of Days News were hauled up in front of the Parliamentary Digital, Culture, Media and Sport Committee to answer where they got their information from.’ 111
‘Along with the Met Police Commissioner, as I recall. Weren’t some of the investigators suspended for a while?’
‘That’s right, and two producers and the head of news were quietly let go.’
Jo bit into her wrap. She could easily become a vegan, she thought. ‘I’m still not with you.’
Darren took a breath. ‘Well, the night before, I was working in the newsroom. Sam was the duty subeditor but, as usual, he’d disappeared. Probably to the pub or to see some woman. Anyway, whenever he vanished he’d always leave strict instructions that if anyone called for him we were to take a message on paper, put it in an envelope and leave it on his desk.’
‘Why didn’t people call him on his mobile?’
‘He was paranoid. Ever since the phone-hacking scandal he thought everyone, the police, MI5, News International were bugging his every word.’
‘He was never that important.’
‘Exactly. Anyway, I was just finishing this piece on … I can’t even remember what it was, but I was up against a deadline. His desk phone rang and as I was nearest, I picked it up. Well, after the usual preambles of asking for Sam there, the caller got a bit tetchy.’
‘Was that unusual?’
Darren sipped his beer. ‘Not really. We all have our sources who give us tittle-tattle, and some think their world will implode if they’re caught talking to the press.’
‘They might be right.’
Darren ignored the jibe and continued. ‘This bloke asked me how quickly Sam would get any message. I told him he’d have to be back for when the paper went to bed so he told me to write down exactly what he said. I grabbed a pen and he dictated something about it being on for five-thirty tomorrow morning at the Queen Anne’s Road address. I had to add that it was exclusive so he could only tell the ones they agreed. I wrote it down word for word. He made me read it back then he put the phone 112down. I popped it in an envelope as usual and left it for Sam.’
‘Queen Anne’s Road? Ed Stark’s address?’
‘So it turned out, but I didn’t know that at the time.’
‘Did these sorts of calls come in often?’ Jo was wondering what kind of Pandora’s box Darren was opening on himself. Part of her wanted to tell him to say no more but she needed honesty, if only to save their marriage.
‘Not like that. Most were bollocks but this one stood out as something different. Anyway, half an hour later Sam wanders in, all flushed and sniffing, and asks if there had been any calls. I just said, “Yep, there’s a message on your desk.” He went over and to be honest, I was so wrapped up in what I was writing I didn’t even see him open it – but the next thing he’s bolting out of the door saying something like “Won’t be long”. He came back about ten minutes later and he was like a kiddie on their first trip to Disney but wouldn’t say why.’
‘Didn’t you suspect something was up?’
‘Not really, although being made to read the message back was a first. Some in the office called him Sam Turing as he was always creating enigmas about himself, so I didn’t give it another thought. I just assumed it was Sam being Sam.’
Jo was aware she was on the verge of treating this like a police interview rather than a marital share-all. ‘And then?’
‘As I say, the penny dropped when I switched on the TV the following morning and saw Stark being arrested. It was when they mentioned the road name that I put two and two together.’
‘How do you know the coverage was down to Sam? Whoever it was, and let’s assume it was a cop, could have told anyone.’
‘I don’t know if you remember but it was in early December.’
‘Not especially.’
‘Well you will remember that hamper that we found on the doorstep when we came back from IKEA.’
Jo nodded. A ‘Royal Standard’ luxury hamper, full of stuff she’d never even heard of, let alone tried. Who really eats ragu of wild boar and black 113winter truffles? And who would spend £840 on such stuff? No one she knew.
‘Anyway,’ Darren continued. ‘Even though we ended up chucking most of it, the wines and champagne were something else. I was desperate to find out who’d sent it but the shop wouldn’t tell me. I just put it down to some grateful benefactor. Frankly, I didn’t care.’
‘You told me it was from the newspaper owner,’ she said.
‘That was a lie.’
Jo bit her tongue.
‘I never mentioned it at work but when we were at the pub on Christmas Eve, Sam sidled up to me, wiggled his glass of wine and said, “It’s OK but not quite the Châteauneuf-du-Pape La Chasse you’ll be quaffing is it?” That was one of the bottles in the hamper.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Jo. ‘That’s hardly conclusive.’
‘Maybe not but I know him. He’d want me to know it was a thank you from him.’
‘Did he buy the hamper?’
‘Not personally. He’s too tight-fisted, but I’m certain that’s what Sam’s got over me.’
‘And if you don’t write the article the way they want it, he’ll go to the police about that?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
Jo pushed the wrap away, wondering whether she could have a Pinot Grigio instead of her orange juice. ‘The police aren’t stupid – they’ll find the link with Sam, even if you don’t mention it.’
‘They’re in his pocket. Even if he hasn’t covered his tracks, which he will have, they won’t go anywhere near him. It’s more than the Met’s worth. He’ll rain decades of shit and scandal on them and none of the top team will escape.’
Jo’s mind raced. This was either her career or his liberty if he was right. He certainly thought that’s what would happen but, really?
‘How about you give him an article. Not the article he wants but one 114that sets out the truth. One that shows that what we are doing here is saving sons, daughters, brothers and sisters. Real people. He won’t like it but what can he do?’
‘Deliver me to His Majesty’s Prison Belmarsh? Anyway, won’t that play to people who think you leak stuff to me?’
‘You’re overthinking. I’ll just tell you where to find all the material you need and trust me, no one is getting nicked. You might just need a new job.’
They spent the next fifteen minutes throwing around ideas for an article both knew the Daily Journal would never publish but that would set out, in one place, how society and not just the addicts, benefitted from progressive drugs policing.
Then the conversation moved to holiday plans and promises to make more time for each other. Jo could only hope they’d stick to them for once.
‘We better be off,’ said Jo. ‘I’ll just nip in and pay. Are you going to wait or are you off?’
‘I just need the loo.’
They both walked into the pub and Jo went to the bar while Darren headed for the gents.
‘We were table twelve outside,’ she said to the woman who’d taken her order, offering her credit card. The woman took it and Jo nonchalantly gazed out of the window to the rolling hills beyond. With all the pledges they’d just made to each other, Jo promised herself that she, Darren and the boys would come up here at least once a month and ramble their way across the stunning countryside they were always too busy to enjoy.
‘I’m sorry, it’s been declined,’ the woman said in barely above a whisper.
Jo snapped round. ‘Oh, are you sure?’
‘I’ll try it again.’ Jo watched this time. ‘No, I’m sorry. Have you got another card?’
Jo fumbled through her purse for her debit card and presented that, now feeling the spike of irritation.
‘I’m sorry, it’s not taking that either. Sometimes it’s these machines.’ Jo 115couldn’t decide whether the sympathetic look was feigned or not. ‘I could try another, unless you’ve got cash.’
Jo was about to argue when Darren emerged from the toilets. ‘Problem?’
‘Their machine is playing up. Have you got any cash on you?’
‘She’s always doing this,’ said Darren, winking at the server. ‘How much is it?’
‘£27.45,’ she replied, stony-faced.
Darren handed over three £10 notes and told the woman to keep the change, while Jo made straight for the door.