Cold Press - A Gripping British Mystery Thriller: Anna Burgin, #1

Prologue

Monday, July 6th, 1985

IT was too late to waste time forming first impressions. She accepted the handshake, made eye contact and confirmed her name. A chair was waiting on the far side of the table. She took it, and placed her bag on the floor. It was time for the show. It was time to change the world.

Her preparation was flawless. Her instincts alert. She could sense the cynicism, the stress, fatigue and fear. He opened a file containing her CV. She could see his confusion, giving way to dismay. She knew he would do everything to keep the interview short. To take the first opportunity to send her home. Exactly as she’d planned.

Stephen Robinson looked tired, jaded by long hours. He seemed like a decent man, she thought, an editor for whom the news mattered. For whom the local people mattered. But his job prospects were about as robust as a cobweb in a hurricane. Local evening newspapers, once the centrepiece of the community, were under pressure. The Evening Herald was suffering, under competition from the widespread availability of television news, local independent radio, and then the arrival of the free weeklies. Now there was a new threat. The Morning Gazette had extended its distribution to cover the former Herald stronghold, and readers were deserting. It was grim.

It was perfect.

If at first you don’t succeed, think laterally. Clare Woodbrook looked up at Robinson and the man alongside him, the Herald’s news editor Martin Goodyer, awaiting the first question. She knew that in terms of experience, her CV was weak. After leaving school she’d found shop work and signed up with a temping agency. But, two years ago, she’d come to understand where her true vocation lay. She enrolled on a journalism course and subsequently graduated with the highest marks of her intake. It hadn’t been easy, doing it with no family, no support. But she’d immersed herself in the work. She’d learned how to write, both news and features. She’d embraced the inverted pyramid, the structure of the classic news story. She’d learned how to investigate and communicate. And she’d mastered the art of influence and persuasion. It was time to make her case.

The other candidates didn’t stand a chance. The editor didn’t stand a chance. Not for the last time, she was in control.

Pleasantries over, Robinson spoke.

Everyone who walks through that door tells me the same. Everyone. You know what they say? ‘I’ve got unrivalled enthusiasm.’ Of course you have. So’s everyone else. Complete nonsense. Of course you’re enthusiastic or you wouldn’t be here in the first place. They say, ‘I’m the best writer. I’m tenacious. I’m full of passion. I’ll work through the night and every weekend. I’m so committed.’ I’m full of bollocks, if you pardon the subtext.

Clare smiled.

I’m looking at your CV and, not to overstate the issue, but it’s on the cusp of minimalist, not to say non-existent in terms of actual newspaper experience. He lit a cigarette, shaking out the match and snapping it into an overflowing ashtray. He offered the packet but she shook her head.

It’s... sparse. Agreed. But experience isn’t everything. I’m not here to waste your time...

You’ve done nothing, Goodyer interrupted. NCTJ diploma fine, shorthand fine, but everyone’s got those. What have you actually done? We’re not looking for a new starter that I’ve then got to handhold because they’ve never seen a courtroom before. I don’t have that luxury.

Clare looked into his eyes.

I understand that. And I understand that on the face of it I’m lucky you even agreed to see me. I probably shouldn’t even be here.

So why are you? Robinson again, speaking through smoke. Not wanting to be too abrupt, and I appreciate you coming in, but we get a hundred applicants for every position here. Probably more. We’re interviewing all day. And I’m not actually sure how you made the shortlist, if I’m brutally frank.

He turned to Goodyer, who took the opportunity to join in.

You’re what? Twenty-three? And you’ve never written a published story. Maybe you’d be better off going to work on a weekly to learn the trade, sharpen up your skills, learn what the business is all about. And then come to see us again in, I don’t know, a year or so, when you’re more the finished article.

To use a newspaper term, added Robinson, with something approaching a smile, split between encouragement and dismissal.

Clare looked at the men in front of her. Robinson would never see sixty again. He hadn’t aged well, with years of deadlines and nicotine chiselled on his face. Goodyer was younger, maybe mid-forties, but looked like a maths teacher in an ill-fitting jacket over a striped yellow shirt and loose-fitting tie. She was half-inclined to check his cuffs for chalk dust. She regarded them both, clasped her hands together and leaned forward so she could lower her voice but leave no doubt about her message.

What’s the problem? she said, with the cool, calm confidence of someone beyond her years. You know I can write. You can see that from the college work. And yes, you could give this to someone with more experience, but why? Isn’t this about the words that have yet to be written, rather than those that have gone before?

She paused to give them both a chance to acknowledge the point, but neither man spoke.

"You need something new, Stephen, if I can call you Stephen. And you, Martin. Likewise. Not somebody who has had their inspiration and fight removed by the drudgery of reporting on the local Women’s Institute and lollipop men celebrating thirty years of service. No disrespect to either.

I don’t need that sort of experience to work on the Herald. What I like is real news. Stories of local interest that really matter. Stories of national interest. International. Why stop? Real stories. Something with bite. Something to get this paper back on its feet again. With all due respect, the very fact I haven’t worked on a weekly paper is the main reason why you ought to give me this job.

Robinson looked at her. And then at Goodyer, who was nodding, despite himself.

Hmmm... he began, and then paused, trying to compose his thoughts. He looked past her to the car park outside, where a lorry was reversing its load of two giant reels of virgin newsprint toward the press hall. You know, I’ve been in this business since I left school. I deal in words, but I’m struggling to find any on nodding terms with appropriate just now.

His eyes flicked up, as though searching for a moment of clarity. As though trying to regain his trust in his instincts. After a moment he brought his focus back to the interview.

You make some valid points. It’s something to consider. I can say that I genuinely admire your passion. And yes, it does seem genuine. I think if you can keep that spirit intact then you can have a great future and you could go far. And I admire that, and I wish you well. But this can be a tough place.

He paused again, as if giving himself time to reach a final conclusion.

I’ll speak to Martin, and we’ll consider you, but I do worry that this is a step too far for you at this point in your career. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I think maybe we should keep in touch. Maybe you can come in occasionally. Some freelance shifts. Learn the ropes and work your way up, and when we get another opening perhaps in a year or two, you’d be perfect. I think we... well, I think we need time to think. If that’s not tautological.

Across the desk, Clare looked calm, eyes alive, still in control. She fought the urge to smile. Everything was going exactly as she’d rehearsed.

We’ve still got other people to see, Goodyer added. We’ve made a note of the points you’ve made, Miss Woodbrook, and we’ll be in touch.

Clare collected her bag, stood up and shook hands with both.

Thank you for the opportunity, she said. And thank you for making the time to see me. It’s been a good learning process if nothing else. She turned to leave, but then paused, and took a manila folder from her shoulder bag, passing it across the table.

What’s this? Robinson asked.

A report on the misuse of funds by the local authority housing department, she said, with the same cool, detached voice. It’s one hundred per cent accurate. All the quotes are verified. Dynamite, if I say so myself. Call it a present to remember me by.

She remained standing. Unmoving. Robinson took the folder and glanced at its contents. Goodyer took a page and started reading, transfixed. His chief reporter had been working on this story for two months and had yet to deliver a sentence.

Unless, of course, that changes things. Maybe now you believe I can do the job. Or would you rather I walked straight out of here and into the position I’ve been offered on the Morning Gazette?

She could see from his face that Robinson knew he was outplayed. Of course this changed things. He was not to know that the alternative job offer was as much a figment of her imagination as the story on the desk was hard truth. The decision was made for him. Putting down the folder, he gestured for her to retake her seat. He looked at Goodyer again, but his news editor was still engrossed.

All right, he said at last. You’re good. We’ll give it a go.

The men exchanged glances.

I just want you to promise me something, he said.

What’s that?

You’ve got to keep honest to yourself. You’ve got to be prepared to learn. You’re bright, no question. And if you work hard and you’re not afraid of seeking advice when it’s needed, I think you could have a very bright future. You can rise to the very top of this profession. You can go far if that’s what you choose to do. Just keep that passion. Keep that focus. Work hard and don’t waste your talent.

I promise, she said.

That’s not the promise, he continued. I’ve been around a long time, and I know I’m not going to be here forever. The greatest satisfaction for me now is recognising talent. Nurturing it. I can’t make you a great writer, but I can encourage you and help you if you’re open and willing to be helped.

I’m willing.

And I’m... well, I’m going to take a chance on you, but I think you’ve earned it. One day you may be on my side of the table and you’ll know how this feels. But please, for me, take the baton. And one day, maybe in many years to come, you’ll know when it’s time to hand it on. One day you’ll meet somebody you believe in and who you’ll have the power to help. They may need your encouragement, but give it to them and they’ll go on to equal greatness. Promise me that and the job is yours.

Is that it?

Yes.

Okay, I promise that as well.

The Evening Herald’s newest reporter stood up, shook her editor by the hand, and turned to leave. Exactly as she’d rehearsed.

1

Wednesday, February 10th, 1993

HER voice carried through the open doorway. Inside the office his heart skipped a beat, as it always did at this time of the morning. He didn’t know it would be for the very last time.

Two back-to-back oak desks dominated the room, battle-hardened through years of use. Behind them a reference library packed overflowing shelves. Clare’s large leather chair obscured a stack of newspapers and magazines. A French phrase book rested on top of the overnight bag, in turn packed ready for emergencies, still with the airline tag from the last time. Rain lashed against the window. The February sky was grey, menacing.

She breezed through the doorway, and the butterflies returned.

Hiya Danny. He loved the sound of her voice. She removed her long grey coat and rested her umbrella against the wall, dripping collected rain onto the corded floor. It’s freezing out there. She took her chair, swung round to face him, past her Atex terminal screen, and closed her eyes, head back as though exhausted. What have we got?

Until recently he would still have blushed. He couldn’t take his eyes off her slender fingers as they played with her Ceylon sapphire ring, twisting, turning. On some mornings he still found it hard to believe he was here, sharing her office, her trusted colleague, her chosen partner in uncovering crime. She was the perfect boss: fearlessly pursuing justice, upholding values of integrity and respect.

Outside their room, the main news floor of the Daily Echo was buzzing with the usual mid-morning intensity. Suspended TV screens relayed the latest breaking stories as reporters went to work, fuelled by nicotine and caffeine, against a constant hum of activity, searching for new angles, chasing leads, writing the next day’s headlines for Britain’s biggest-selling quality tabloid. But behind the smoked glass door of the Special Investigations Department there was a rare sense of relative calm. Those who knew better knew not to ask.

Danny took the pile of paper from his in-tray and started to go through it.

There’s nothing, really, he replied. Press releases, mainly, but I’ll pass those on. Two invitations to the same party next Thursday - one faxed, both from different agencies, so we’ll have to work out a way of going twice. There’s one from a magazine asking for permission to quote from the Ravenscroft exposé, but I’ll pass that on to syndication.

Good. She sounded tired. Anything else?

Well, talking of Ravenscroft, we’ve had another letter.

Clare groaned.

For heaven’s sake. What is wrong with the man? Accept when you’re beaten. Is it bad?

Just more of the usual.

Danny passed across an A4 sheet, with anonymous text from a dot matrix printer. Jimmy Ravenscroft was six months into a twelve-year sentence and seemingly not taking things well. His trade in fake pharmaceuticals had been uncovered by Clare when he took her into his confidence, mistaking her purely professional interest for something more. He’d lost his livelihood, his liberty, and his partner of seven years, Sophie Lambert, who’d wrongly been convinced that Clare had only got close to Ravenscroft by seducing him. In truth he’d have been more than amenable, but Clare didn’t operate like that. She didn’t do kiss and tell. Ravenscroft had a reputation for brutality second only to his callous disregard for morality and had vowed revenge. He was safely locked away but others previously on his payroll were still at large, still suffering financial pain, and apparently still seeking retribution on his behalf. And after the court case the anonymous threat letters had started to arrive. For Clare it was all just another manageable risk. She faced danger every day, but didn’t succumb to intimidation. Danny found it harder to conceal his concern.

Clare scanned the letter, and placed it in a filing tray to the right of her screen.

If they are from Jimmy, the man needs help, she said, rubbing both temples with outstretched fingers. Tell me that’s everything.

There’s just one more, Danny continued. It’s just a personal one - someone saying he admired the interview you gave on Carlton last week.

That’s nice, she said. Always good to be appreciated. Makes a bloody change. Not, however my finest hour.

Danny had learned not to question her occasional self-deprecation. For all the success, she had periods of extreme frustration and there seemed just the faintest hint of insecurity at her core. She divided opinion across the newspaper world. Respected by most. Feared by a few. And an irritant to others who didn’t share her opinion on the importance of integrity.

Danny continued to relay Clare’s messages.

That’s it on the post. Aside from that, a man called and asked for you. Said he wanted to meet you. Wouldn’t leave his name. He asked if you were around this afternoon but I said I didn’t know.

Clare looked puzzled.

God. Well, there’s nothing much on. We need to go through the latest on the Easter Bunny. But otherwise I’ll be here, quietly fuming. There’s no way I’m going back out in that rain unless I have to.

What’s up? You sound stressed.

Oh, nothing. Just editorial differences. What did the mystery caller sound like?

East London accent, mid-twenties maybe. Hard to tell. Possibly older. Quite roughly spoken. No message aside from that, just that he’d call back later.

What time was that?

Just after nine.

Well, we shall wait in anticipation. She groaned. Hopefully it’s a nice man from the Lottery.

You and me both. Oh, and Derek called from the subs. He wanted to thank you for his birthday card.

Clare smiled. It was always good practice to nurture relationships with sub-editors. They wrote the headlines and edited the text, bestowing the gift of column inches.

Nothing much then, all good. No nasty surprises. Pass me that letter about the Carlton interview then. I may as well read it. Who’s it from?

I’ll check. Er, Benjamin Serraillier. I think that’s how it’s pronounced. It’s on paper from the Mowbray Hall Hotel somewhere. Is that Streatham?

Let me see.

She reached out her hand for the letter. She skimmed it, then folded it up and tucked it away in her Filofax. Danny was surprised that she didn’t make any comment. As she moved to hide behind her screen he thought he saw a rare look of fear in her eyes.

Danny reached for Clare’s phone. It was part of their routine. She had two on her desk: a black one for incoming calls via the switchboard and a red one for personal callers who she trusted enough to give her private number. The black one was ringing but Clare immediately shook her head and mouthed I’m not here as Danny made excuses on her behalf.

She leaned back in her chair, looked up at the clock on the wall beside them, and reached for a Silk Cut from a packet she kept in her top drawer for emergencies. She threw the rest down on her desk, lit the cigarette and inhaled, blowing smoke into the room. Danny wished she wouldn’t smoke, but he stayed quiet.

Everything okay? he asked, after replacing the receiver. You look tired.

She paused for a moment to flick ash, giving herself time to answer.

Mmm. I’m fine. Just a few late nights catching up.

She looked away, reaching for a ring binder. Danny knew better than to ask what she’d been up to. But he was attuned to her moods and he could sense something wasn’t quite right.

She replaced the binder, picked up the black handset, and was just starting to dial a number when the office door flew open. Mike Walker, the Echo’s editor, didn’t need to knock.

Clare, darling, I need a word, he said, giving Danny little more than a cursory glance. Easter Bunny? Any progress?

Clare put down the phone and turned to her editor. Easter Bunny was the ironic code name given to their current five-month investigation into the extracurricular activities of a powerful, high-ranking member of the Metropolitan Police, DCI Graham March.

We were just discussing that, she said, nodding in Danny’s direction.

And? Walker continued, looking at Clare as though Danny didn’t exist. Danny, in turn, got up to shut the office door.

Well, we’re getting there. He’s a hard bastard to pin down.

Where are we?

We’ve been interviewing. We’ve got him on vice for definite. Evidence removal. Pretty sure about protection, but you can imagine what it’s like. Getting anyone to talk on record is proving a challenge.

Can you have it for conference tomorrow?

Tomorrow? God no. Sorry.

When then?

Next week? End of, probably.

Fuck. Really?

Sorry, Mike. But honestly, we’re on it.

Soon as you can, please. Keep me updated. Tomorrow would be better. He patted her shoulder, turned and left, closing the door with more vigour than seemed strictly courteous.

Christ. That’s all I need, said Clare as the sound of the slam subsided.

I’m doing what I can, said Danny.

I know you are. But tomorrow’s conference? Not happening. I’m not turning up till it’s ready. Dotted, crossed, everything. She closed her eyes, and let out a deep breath.

What’s up? he asked again. Are you sure you’re okay?

Yeah, she said eventually. I just... Oh I don’t know. I’m just worn out. It’s age. She sighed. I’m going to be thirty-one next month, for God’s sake. Halfway to sixty-two. So old! I think I need a holiday.

Danny laughed. I can imagine you at sixty-two. You’ll be the wise old lady of Fleet Street, commanding minions from a golden throne. Or the agony aunt. He winked. She rolled up a Post-it note and threw it at him. They both grinned. But it didn’t last long. A serious expression returned.

I don’t know. I just have a daydream. I’d just like to set my own deadlines. Not have to deal with people letting me down all the time, making life a misery. Not you, obviously, but everyone else. Go to work when I want to and say sod it when I don’t. Get two dogs and take them to the beach and shout at the sea without worrying about affording a mortgage and how to pay for two weeks away every year.

Start a family?

She just raised her eyebrows, shrugged and looked away without comment.

I thought you were happy here.

Oh, I am, it’s just... sometimes I feel like I want to work for myself, not some editor or publisher or the shareholders. And I could do without death threats from idiots. She nodded in the direction of the latest, started typing, logging in to her terminal, and then paused. Oh, just ignore me. I just need an early night. Or lots and lots of wine.

After a few minutes she returned to her theme.

You know what? Nothing lasts forever. You’ll be fine, though. My rising star. One day, all of this will be yours. She cast her arm around the room.

Danny couldn’t imagine life without her. In his own personal daydream they’d be together forever, but he knew that one day she’d get another job or maybe get married and move away. Clare rarely talked about the future, less still about her personal plans. Once, after a particularly lively evening, she’d confessed a secret desire to open a restaurant, but he’d put that down to the meal they’d just had, and its myriad shortcomings.

It was time to change the subject.

Oh, I nearly forgot, we had a call from... Danny began, but at that moment the red phone rang and Clare answered it before he’d had time to react. She took a pen from her desk tidy and scribbled notes in shorthand on the pad in front of her. She ended the call and swore. She tore the page from her notebook, and rose from her chair.

I’m going to have to go out for a while, she said as she reached for her coat. Despite the weather. Hold all my calls. Say I’m in the building if you like, but you don’t know where to find me.

Okay. But where are you going?

Don’t worry. It’s just something that’s come up. It’s nothing to worry about, but I’m needed urgently.

Anything I can help with?

No, not yet. She paused. Look, I can’t tell you yet. It’s a bit risky. Well, more than a bit - but I’m sure it’s fine. It’s just... It’s just something I’ve had a hunch about. What are you doing for lunch?

Nothing yet.

Then meet me. Say Brannigan’s, 1.30? I’ll tell you more then if I can. Hopefully we’ll all be sorted by then and we can look at it together. It could be the biggest story ever. I’ve just got a couple of loose ends. Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know.

Okay. Brannigan’s. But... He trailed off. They worked on everything together. They didn’t have secrets. "Are you sure you’re okay?"

Me? Yeah. She tried to give a reassuring smile. Look, don’t worry - it’s nothing too exciting. I’ll bring you up to speed over wine and pasta.

Well, just be careful anyway. I’ll book a table. Oh, before you go, we had a call from... But it was too late. The door was already closing behind her. It would have to wait. He sat back in his chair and sighed, lost in thought, trying to stem the gathering sense of unease.

2

BRANNIGAN’S was the sort of bistro favoured by media hacks and resting actors. Everything about it had just the right amount of pretension to attract a regular semi-celebrity clientele. Even on a Wednesday it would be packed at lunchtime and bookings were advised to guarantee a table.

As Danny looked for the number in his Rolodex, he reflected on the hasty exit of his boss. Normally she’d come to work at 10am, read the papers and catch up on events before starting anything new. She rarely made appointments before lunchtime except in an emergency, and never without telling him where she could be reached. But today it was different. Barely through the door and she was out again.

Was it the call? It must have been. But then she’d looked unsettled by the letter too, although that was just fan mail. Wasn’t it? He tried to remember its contents, but it just seemed harmless, even if perhaps a little unusual. She’d seemed okay until then though. Friendly enough. Maybe not quite her usual self, but then she’d had a couple of mornings like that recently. Actually, probably more than a couple. Thinking about it, she’d seemed vaguely out of sorts since Christmas. Not all the time, just occasionally. He hadn’t worried at first. He knew she didn’t like Christmas with no family of her own. And after that she’d complained of a winter cold. But there was the odd late morning with no real explanation. He didn’t like to ask.

Normally they’d work together on everything, but a couple of times now she’d mentioned a story without saying anything more, just that it could be huge but may come to nothing, and she didn’t want to say anything to anyone until she knew that it was worth following up. He never saw her make calls about it, and yet what were these appointments? He’d tried to probe but she told him not