Tuesday 09:00
I ignore the stares from the other journalists and hurry back to my car. I’ve forgotten what it is like to stand in the cold for hours on end, and I regret not wearing more layers. Still, at least I look good. Better than Jack Harper at any rate. As soon as I’m inside the Mini, I turn on the engine and crank up the heating to try to warm myself. I want to make a phone call without the whole world listening in, so have asked Richard to grab a few extra shots.
It’s strange to imagine the One O’Clock News team all sitting in the newsroom without me, everything carrying on as normal, as though I were never there. I think I can persuade The Thin Controller to let me get on air with what I’ve already got. Then at least this won’t have been a complete waste of time. Best to go straight to the top for an answer, I think; today’s programme editor suffers from chronic indecision.
Finally, after listening to the phone ring for longer than it ever should when calling a network newsroom, someone answers.
‘One O’Clock News,’ she purrs.
The sound of Cat Jones’ velvety voice causes mine to malfunction.
I picture her sitting in what, only yesterday, was my chair. Answering my phone. Working with my team. I close my eyes and can see her red hair and white smile. The mental image doesn’t make me feel sick, it makes me feel thirsty. My fingers come to the rescue, and automatically start to search inside my bag for a miniature whisky. I open it, twisting the screw cap with my one free hand – I’ve had practice – and down the bottle.
‘Hello?’ says the voice on the other end, in a tone resembling the polite pre-empt people use before hanging up when nobody answers. My reply gets stuck in my throat, as though my mouth has forgotten how to form words.
‘It’s Anna,’ I manage, relieved that I can still remember my own name.
‘Anna…?’
‘Andrews.’
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognise your voice. Did you want to speak to—’
‘Yes. Please.’
‘Of course. Let me put you on hold and see if I can grab his attention.’
I hear a click before the familiar BBC News countdown music starts to play. I’ve always rather liked it, but right now it’s deeply irritating. I glance outside the window at the rest of the press still standing around. Some of the faces are familiar and everyone seemed genuinely happy to see me, which was nice. I remember that a few of them shook my hand, and reach inside my handbag again, this time in search of an antibacterial wipe for my fingers. I’m about to hang up – tired of being kept on hold – when the sound of shouting in the newsroom replaces the music.
‘Can someone else try answering the goddamn phones when they wing? It weally isn’t difficult, and probably won’t cause wepetitive stwain injury as none of you do it vewy often. Yes, who is it?’ The Thin Controller snaps in my ear.
Despite the job title and bluster, he is a man who is rarely in control of anything. Including his speech impediment. I have often suspected that the newsroom is allergic to his imagined authority, and the chorus of phones still ringing unanswered in the background reinforces the theory.
‘It’s Anna,’ I say.
‘Anna…?’
I resist the urge to scream; forgetting me is clearly contagious.
‘Andrews,’ I reply.
‘Anna! Apologies, it’s chaos here this morning. How can I help?’
It’s a good question. Yesterday I was presenting the programme, now it feels like I’m cold calling to beg to be on it for a minute or two.
‘I’m at this murder scene in Blackdown—’
‘Is it a murder? Hang on…’ His voice changes again, and I realise he is speaking to someone else. ‘I said no to a pwe-pubescent political weporter I’ve never heard of on the PM stowy, it’s the bloody lead. Well, tell the Westminster editor to pull her head out of Downing Street’s arse for five minutes… I don’t care what they are doing for other outlets, I want a gwown-up correspondent on my bulletin, so get me one. You were saying?’
It takes a moment to realise he is speaking to me again. I’m too busy imagining him in a physical, rather than verbal, fight with the five-foot-two Westminster editor. She would end him.
‘The murder you sent me to…’ I persevere.
‘I just thought you’d wather be there than here, given what happened this morning. I did glance at the wires after the police statement. But everything I wead just said it was an unexplained death…’
‘That’s all the police are saying at the moment, but I know there’s more to it than that.’
‘How do you know?’
It’s a difficult question to answer.
‘I just do,’ I say, and my reply sounds as weak as I feel.
‘Well, call me back when you’ve got something on the wecord, and I’ll see if we can squeeze you in.’
Squeeze me in?
‘It’s going to be a big story,’ I say, not ready to give up yet. ‘It would be good to get it on-air before anyone else does.’
‘I’m sowy, Anna. Trump’s latest tweet is causing a meltdown, and it’s already a weally busy news day. Sounds to me like this body in the woods might just be a local news story, and I don’t have woom. Call if that changes, OK? Got to go.’
‘It’s not a—’
I don’t bother to finish my sentence, because he has already hung up. I disappear inside my own darkest thoughts for a while. It’s like Halloween every day in this business – grown adults wearing scary masks, pretending to be something they’re not.
Someone knocks on my window and I jump. I look up, expecting to see Richard standing outside my car, but it’s Jack, and he’s wearing his best disgruntled detective face. He looks just as angry with me as he did the last time we saw each other. I step out to join him, and smile when Jack looks over his shoulder to check if anyone is watching us. He always was slightly paranoid. He’s standing so close that I can smell the stale smoke on his breath. I’m surprised because I thought he had given it up.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he asks.
‘My job. It’s nice to see you too.’
‘Since when does the BBC send a presenter to a story like this?’ I regularly tell myself that I don’t care what this man thinks of me, but I still don’t want to tell him that I no longer present the programme. I don’t want to tell anyone.
‘It’s complicated,’ I say.
‘Things always are with you. What do you know and why did you ask that last question after the presser?’
‘Why didn’t you answer it?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Anna. I’m not in the mood.’
‘You never were a morning person.’
‘I’m serious. Why did you ask that?’
‘Is it true then? Was there something inside the victim’s mouth?’
‘Tell me what you think you know.’
‘You know I can’t do that. I always protect my sources.’
He takes a step closer; a little too close.
‘If you do anything to jeopardise this investigation, I will treat you the same way as I would anyone else. This is a murder scene, not Downing Street or some red-carpet film premiere.’
‘So, it is murder.’
His cheeks turn red when he realises his own mistake.
‘A woman we both know has died, show some respect,’ he whispers.
‘A woman we both know?’
He stares at me as though he thought maybe I already knew. ‘Who?’ I ask.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Who?’ I ask again.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to cover this story.’
‘Why? You just said it was someone we both knew, so maybe you shouldn’t be investigating it.’
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Sure. Run away like you always do.’
He starts to leave, but then turns back and gets so close his face is right in front of mine.
‘You don’t have to behave like a bitch every time we see each other. It doesn’t suit you.’
The words sting a little. More than I would like to admit, even to myself.
He walks away and I fix a smile on my face until he is completely out of view. Then something strange and unexpected happens: I cry. I hate the way he can still get under my skin, and loathe myself for letting him.
The sound of the car parked next to mine being remotely unlocked startles me.
‘Sorry to interrupt.’
Richard opens the boot, carefully laying his camera inside. I wipe beneath my eyes with the back of my hand, and damp smears of mascara stain my fingers.
‘You OK?’ he asks. I nod and he successfully interprets my silence as a sign that I do not want to talk about it. ‘Do we need to package for lunchtime? If so, we should get on with—’
‘No, they don’t want anything unless the story develops,’ I say.
‘Right. Well, back to London then?’
‘Not yet. There’s more to this story, I just know it. There are some people in town I want to talk to, on my own; your camera will just scare them. I’ll take my car. There’s a nice pub down the road called The White Hart, they do a great all-day breakfast. Why don’t I meet you there a bit later?’
‘OK,’ he says slowly, as though buying time while still selecting his next words. ‘I know you said that you had met the detective before. Did something happen between you once upon a time?’
‘Why? Are you jealous?’
‘Am I right?’
‘Well, you’re not wrong. Jack is my ex-husband.’