Leanne pulled up in front of a rusted gate that barred further progress. Unlike Claudia’s little palace, there was no high-tech security system to grant access to Leanne’s home, just an old-fashioned padlock that had a habit of freezing in winter.
Leaving the car with the engine running, she hurried across a track pitted with potholes to unlock the gate. It was almost seven o’clock and the sky had turned a sapphire blue, with purple cloud that absorbed the last of the sun’s warmth. At least it hadn’t rained today and there were no puddles to dodge.
Leanne searched for the right key from a set attached to a large cork ball hanging from a rope. It had been a present from her best friend; a moving-in gift when Leanne had arrived at Raven Brook Marina four years ago in a car filled with all her worldly goods and a vague plan of how to get her life back on track.
‘What’s this for?’ she had asked when her friend gave her the odd-looking key ring that was the size of a clementine.
‘The cork stops your keys from sinking if you drop them in the water. I was hoping they did bigger ones in case we fall in the canal on our way home from the pub, which is exactly what we’ll be doing tonight. Going to the pub that is, not the bit about falling in.’
‘Mum thinks we should wear life jackets permanently.’
‘I’ll keep you safe,’ Lois said. ‘Promise.’
It had never occurred to Leanne to say it back. From the moment they had met during Freshers’ Week, Lois Granger had made it her mission to take care of those around her. She was the go-to friend whenever there was trouble, and it was natural that Leanne had gone to her when her life had taken a nosedive. It was Lois’s idea for Leanne to buy a boat with the money she had made from her flat in Leeds, and it went without saying that Lois would become her lodger.
They had visions of travelling up and down the country and had gone as far as to plan a boat trip to the Peak District and another along the Llangollen Canal and over the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct. The only journey Leanne had plotted recently was a marathon trek to London, for when she landed that scoop and was flooded with job offers from the national press. Technically, she could go anywhere she wanted, if she wanted.
The gate shuddered as Leanne opened it wide enough for the car to get through, then she did everything in reverse until the gate was locked again. It was easier if there were two people, but Leanne was getting used to being on her own and, as she went through the motions, her thoughts moved seamlessly from Lois, to the Empress, to Claudia Rothwell.
Two days had passed since the interview, but Leanne was yet to write a single word for Saturday’s issue. The headline, however, had written itself.
‘Secret Agony of a Very Public Tragedy’.
Mal didn’t know that particular angle yet, but he was going to love it. Who wouldn’t? Claudia’s actions deserved to be acknowledged, and yet Leanne prevaricated. It wasn’t so much that Claudia had a link to Phillipa Montgomery. Or maybe it was, just a teeny bit. What bothered her most was that she would be drawing sympathy to someone who lived an otherwise privileged existence. It wasn’t as if Claudia wanted a pity-piece either, but sympathy was coming her way whether it was sought or not.
Driving past the timber-clad clubhouse, Leanne followed the track that hugged the edges of the marina. Raven Brook had what appeared to be an incomprehensible maze of jetties, but the design provided moorings for at least two hundred boats of varying shapes and sizes. Each mooring had its own electric hook-up and access to water, which meant Leanne had no reason to move the boat. Car parking spaces were at a premium during peak season, but not in the colder months. Leanne was one of only a handful who lived on board all year round and she had no problem finding a space close to home.
The Soleil Anne was a forty-foot narrowboat, painted marine blue and decorated with the requisite roses and castles. Inside, it had a well-proportioned galley and saloon that provided enough living space for a futon that doubled up as a bed. There were two more berths in the bunk room towards the bow, and in the middle, a bathroom complete with shower. The previous owner had lovingly fitted it out from a shell, but two months before he was due to marry his childhood sweetheart, he had discovered his fiancé was having an affair with his best man. With his dream in tatters, he had sold the boat to Leanne at a knock-down price. He had hoped she and Lois would have better luck in their new home. He would be disappointed.
Grabbing bags of shopping from the boot of her car, Leanne was halfway down the jetty when her phone rang. It was zipped up in her jacket pocket and she didn’t dare fumble for it. She had dropped a phone into the canal only a month after moving aboard and had learnt her lesson.
Leanne wasn’t expecting any calls, but it was impossible not to raise her hopes. It had taken some perseverance, but she had managed to obtain Karin Gallagher’s mobile number from a contact who had worked with her at the Bridgewater Inn. The pub was close to the centre of Sedgefield and, although it wasn’t quite within staggering distance, Leanne and Lois had been regulars. She didn’t recall ever seeing Karin in there and, now that Declan’s sister had resigned as assistant manager, she never would. Speaking to her at all was proving to be another impossibility. Karin had so far ignored all five of Leanne’s voicemails, but there was always a chance the reporter had worn her down.
Unzipping the awning that covered the stern, Leanne climbed aboard, but she didn’t unlock the hatch straight away. She took out her phone and, as it lit up the darkened ante space, Mal’s name glowered at her. She had sent him updates throughout the day, including a report on a crash that had caused a five-mile tailback along the bypass, but she doubted he was phoning to thank her.
‘Where’s the piece on Claudia Rothwell? It was due two hours ago.’
‘I’ve been out all day. It’s only Wednesday, there’s still time.’
‘I don’t pay you to choose your own deadlines. I want it on my desk by ten at the latest tomorrow morning. If you have plans tonight, cancel them.’
Leanne never had plans, that wasn’t the problem. ‘Fine, you’ll get it.’
‘Look, if you’re not up to this, say now and I’ll assign it to someone else. You can always work on our advertisement features.’
Leanne couldn’t tell from his tone if this was tough love from her mentor, or a real threat. She didn’t want to risk finding out.
‘It’s not that hard, Leanne. I’ve seen the press release Claudia sent through. She’s practically written it for you.’
‘There’s a bit more to the story than the plans for the memorial,’ Leanne said. She couldn’t avoid telling him any longer. ‘It turns out there was a victim of the Empress fire that no one knows about.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Mal. There was an edge to his voice. He was good at sniffing out a story and had picked up the scent.
‘Claudia was pregnant. She stayed by the exit to make sure people got out OK, but she suffered the effects of smoke inhalation and it led to a miscarriage.’
Mal didn’t respond immediately, and Leanne used the time to unlock the hatch and open the cabin doors. She left her shopping on the steel footplate, so she had one hand free to steady herself as she climbed down a short set of wooden steps into the living space.
‘We need to get this story published,’ Mal said at last.
Leanne reached for the shopping that was now at eye level, and transferred it into the boat. ‘And I said I’ll do it. I was thinking I could separate the two articles; give you the one outlining the memorial service for this Saturday’s edition, and save the personal stuff for the anniversary issue.’ They had another three weeks until the anniversary. She was prevaricating again.
‘No, we need to get this published quickly.’
Gritting her teeth, Leanne closed the cabin doors to reveal two golden carp on the inside panels. Each scale of the fish on the left-hand door had been painted in exquisite detail and its body shimmered. The one on the right had more of a skeletal form, a work in progress that would never be completed.
‘We have to be the ones to break the story, or someone else will,’ Mal persisted.
‘Yeah, it is a shame about the baby, isn’t it?’ Leanne said, feeling good that she could prick her editor’s conscience even though she had reacted in a similar way.
‘Fuck off, Leanne,’ Mal said, but his humour was improving. ‘This is one hell of a story. You should have told me about it sooner.’
‘Claudia wants the focus to be on other people, not her.’
‘Tough, sometimes the news writes itself. And it’s not as if it’s going to be detrimental to her cause.’
‘We can’t ignore that she was part of the fundraising machine for the restoration project. And she was only there that night at Phillipa’s behest, checking up on staff to make sure they were doing their jobs properly. That won’t go down well with some.’
‘Claudia has been open about the extent of her involvement, and she was pretty low down in the pecking order from what I’ve heard,’ Mal replied. ‘And I know I sound like a broken record, but Phillipa hasn’t been accused of anything specific. It’s a non-issue as far as Claudia Rothwell’s concerned, and I expect your article to reflect that.’
‘Is that it?’ Leanne asked, switching on the uplights that warmed the honey tones of the marine pine lining the walls.
Her living space had all the essentials within easy reach. There were bookshelves full of biographies on the world’s most notorious serial killers, a widescreen TV for watching documentaries on the same theme, storage space under the futon for her files when she worked from home, and a log burner that was more reliable than the boat’s central heating. Unlike Claudia’s apartment, there was also plenty of clutter that meant she never had to worry about something being out of place. The boat had a cottage feel that continued into the galley, which had all the mod cons, including a gas hob, a fridge-freezer, and running hot and cold water. There was no excuse for the breakfast dishes piled up in the sink, but Leanne would leave any self-admonishment until Mal had finished giving her an earful.
‘I’m thinking how we can do this,’ he said. Leanne could hear him scratching the stubble on his chin. ‘Instead of doing one anniversary issue, we could stagger it over the next three weekends, with a special edition the following Saturday after the anniversary. We should have enough material. Frankie has a couple of stories on the bereaved families ready to go, there’s your piece on Claudia, and the one about Amelia Parker.’
‘Amelia who?’ asked Leanne before she had the good sense to bite her tongue.
‘For God’s sake! The girl who doesn’t know who dug her out of the rubble. Haven’t you set up the interview yet?’ he ranted. ‘I promised the parents you’d be in touch days ago, and I’ve given you the contact details for that bloke who carried her out. His name’s Rex Russell. Christ, Leanne, I’ve done half the job for you.’
‘OK, OK. But you definitely said you didn’t need that one until next week.’
‘To give you more time to investigate. It’s your job to find out who our mystery hero is, and I want a name before the anniversary. If necessary, we could run an appeal for information this weekend. That should help you track her down.’
‘You’re not asking for much, are you?’
‘Then you’d better get to it,’ Mal said, sounding brighter than he had at the beginning of their conversation. ‘No distractions, Leanne. Drop whatever else you’re doing.’
When Leanne ended the call, she scrolled through her call log. She considered giving Karin Gallagher one more try, but Mal was right. She had a job to do and couldn’t allow herself to become distracted. There wasn’t time. It was probably a good thing.