Barry Gannon behind his boxes, George Greaves face down on his desk, Gaz from Sport talking shit.

No sign of Jack fucking Whitehead.

Thank Christ.

Shit, so where the fuck was he?

Paranoid:

I’m Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Corres pondent and it says so on every fucking Evening Post.

“How did it go?” Kathryn Taylor, fresh curls to her fringe and an ugly cream sweater, standing up behind her desk and then sitting straight back down.

“Like a dream.”

“Like a dream?”

“Yeah. Perfect.” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.

She was frowning. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” She looked utterly lost.

“It was cancelled. They’re still searching. Got nothing,” I said, emptying my pockets on to her desk.

“I meant the funeral.”

“Oh.” I picked up my cigarettes.

Telephones were ringing, typewriters clattering.

Kathryn was looking at my notebook on her desk. “So what do they think?”

I took off my jacket and picked up her coffee and lit a cigarette, all in one move. “She’s dead. Listen, is the boss in a meeting?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”

“I want him to get me an interview with George Oldman. Tomorrow morning, before the press conference.”

Kathryn picked up my notebook and began spinning it between her fingers. “You’ll be lucky.”

“Will you speak to Hadden. He likes you,” I said, taking the notebook from her.

“You’re joking?”

I needed facts, hard fucking facts.

“Barry!” I shouted over the telephones, the typewriters, and Kathryn’s head. “When you’ve got a minute, can I have a quick word?”

Barry Cannon from behind his fortress of files, “If I must.”

“Cheers.” I was suddenly aware of Kathryn’s eyes on me.

She looked angry. “She’s dead?”

“If it bleeds, it leads,” I said, walking over to Barry’s desk and hating myself.