The TV Detective (2 page)

A traffic jam meant they didn't get back to the studios until a quarter to six. Dan jogged up the stairs to the edit suites and found Jenny, his favourite picture editor waiting. She grabbed the tape and spooled through it to get an idea of the shots and interviews. Her dark hair nodded as shequickly took notes.

Dan had written the script as Nigel drove. He sat with the camera on his lap, playing back the material they'd gathered, noting down the best pictures and which sections of interview to use, constructing the report around them. Experience taught you a range of tricks, and every second saved could be vital in beating a looming deadline.

How to put the story together presented an interesting dilemma. It was an axiom of TV news that you started a report with your best pictures. But in this case, they didn't have any meaningful images, just shots of the place where the latest attack had happened. Their best material by far was the interview with Rose.

Beginning a report with an interviewee was generally frowned upon, seen as more radio than television, the mark of an amateur TV reporter. But prostitutes didn't often speak out and her words had been compelling, so that was how it was going to be.

In addition, he thought,they might as well get their money's worth.

It must have been one of the strangest haggles in the history of commerce. It was patently obvious she wanted the money, but had no idea how much to ask. And he wanted the interview, but had equally little idea of what to offer. In the end he'd used the newly discovered benchmark of a hundred pounds for sex, argued that an interview couldn't possibly be as taxing, messy, or take as long, and so they'd settled on seventy-five pounds.

All was well. Now it was just a question of getting it through on an expenses claim. Rose had, unsurprisingly, not been able to provide a receipt.

‘I said– what quotes do you want to start with?' Jenny asked, for the second time.

‘Sorry, I was just thinking,' Dan replied. ‘It's been an interesting afternoon.'

He directed her to Rose's first answer, when she talked about Amanda, her youth, her friendliness and her hopes for escaping from the street. Then it was a few pictures of the area, while Dan wrote about the spate of attacks, followed by another clip of Rose.

‘We're living in fear,' she said. ‘We know what could happen to us, anytime. I know a lot of people'll think we're just old tarts, but we're people too, y'know. We don't deserve this. If anyone reckons they've seen this guy, or knows who he is, please tell the police.'

Next they added the Superintendent, speaking about how violent and degrading the attacks were, and the police's commitment to catching the man. Then it was a couple more shots of the area, with Dan giving the
Crimestoppers
number for anyone who had information to call.

The report was finished by twenty past six. Jenny checked it back, nodded approvingly.

‘Good piece. Simple, but powerful. You want to watch out.'

‘Why?'

‘They're talking about appointing a new Crime Correspondent. Since Mike left we've been missing lots of big stories. The ratings have gone down a fair bit. People like their crime. The word is the bosses are starting to reckon it was a false economy not replacing him.'

‘Thanks for the tip, but there're no worries on that score,' Dan replied breezily. ‘They've already asked and I said no way. I love environment and I'm sticking to it. Give me the coast and countryside, and ponies and otters over attacks on prostitutes any day.' He made for the door. ‘Speaking of which, I've got to sort out a story on Exmoor for later in the week and I reckon I might just wangle an overnight stay in a lovely little pub with it. An ideal treat for the run-up to Christmas.'

Dan walked out of the edit suite, straight into Lizzie. She was at battle stations, arms folded, thin lips pursed. She didn't say a word, just beckoned with a sharpened fingernail and headed off towards her office.

‘Care to explain yourself?'

Long experience of his editor had taught Dan the danger of the open-ended question. It was an invitation to blunder into a trap, to give yourself away, and he was having none of it.

‘I have no idea what you mean.'

They stared at each other across her desk. Dan hadn't even been asked to sit down, a bad sign. A firing squad was hardly known for making its victim comfortable before the dispatch.

‘I think you do.'

It was like a painful and unproductive dance. Dan held his editor's stare, then looked away at a single ribbon of red tinsel which had been stuck to the wall of Lizzie's stark office. As if sensing the atmosphere, it wasn't even bothering to sparkle.

‘Well, I'll say it again then. I don't.'

‘And I'll say it again then. I think you do.'

Another silence. The clock on the wall said twenty-five past six. Five minutes until the programme. That gave Dan an advantage. Lizzie always scrutinised each passing second of
Wessex Tonight
. Whatever she had to say would have to be quick.

She picked up a piece of paperand started reading from it. “I have to complain in the strongest possible terms about one of your reporters. He was seen, this very afternoon, paying a prostitute for an interview. I cannot believe an allegedly responsible news organisation such as yours could stoop so low. You have broken the law, and encouraged, aided and abetted immorality and illegality. I demand instant action, and unless punitive action is taken, will be putting my complaint to the police, the local councils, my MP, and your governing board.”

The temperature in the room rose.

A knock on the door broke the silence. It opened a crack, but a dismissive hand waved the unseen visitor quickly away before heor she could make any further progress.

Lizzie dropped the piece of paper on her desk. ‘It goes on, and at quite some length too, but that's the gist. So then, what have you got to say for yourself?'

‘I, err …'

‘Is it true?'

‘I, um …'

‘I'll take that as a yes, then. You paid company money to a prostitute for an interview.'

‘Well, I … I needed the interview, and that was the only way to get it.'

‘Sit down.'

Dan sat.

‘I was only doing my best you know,' he said. ‘We had to have that interview to make the story work.'

She scanned through the rest of the letter. There were a couple of pages, and the handwriting looked oddly familiar. Dan could see some of the words had been crafted in meaningful capitals.

“DISGRACEFUL … DISGUSTING … APPALLING … SCANDALOUS …”

The plastic chair suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

Lizzie looked up, said quietly. ‘Our complainant wants you sacked.'

‘Oh, come on. It's hardly a sacking offence. All I did was …'

‘Break the law. Sully our name. Drag us through the dirt. If this gets out, it'll be all over the papers.'

‘Come off it. I do what it takes. It's what I always do.'

‘You went too far. Far too far.'

‘Since when did you get all moral? What would you have done if I came back without the story?'

‘You went too far,' she repeated.

‘You were a reporter once. You'd have done the same.'

A stiletto heel grated into the carpet. ‘But you broke the golden rule. You got caught.'

‘All right then, discipline me. Tell me off in the strongest possible terms, as Mr Pompous Complainant wants. Write back that you've done it, and that's it, sorted.'

‘That's not going to be enough.'

Dan shifted in his chair, could feel a prickling sweat spreading across his back. ‘Not enough?'

Even to him, his voice sounded strangely thin.

‘Yes, not enough. I have to take real action. So I'm changing your job. You're off environment. You clearly need to learn more about the law, so in future you're doing crime.'

‘What? But I …'

‘You're on crime.'

Dan tried not to sound panickedbut wasn't at all sure he succeeded. ‘But I was trying to help! Make sure the story was good. Get the interview we needed. You'd have done the same. Any decent hack would. I was only …'

‘It's crime or nothing.'

Dan took a deep breath. ‘But I've been doing environment for years. I love it. I know all the stories, all the people. I'm on top of all the issues. I get all the exclusives. I've got a lovely load of stories all ready for the Christmas period. I'm not just giving it up.'

‘Someone else can do all that.'

‘But it's … it's what I do!'

Lizzie glanced at the clock.

6.29.

‘It's what you
did
. Now it's crime or nothing. You've got until we go on air to decide.'

‘And this is nothing to do with you needing a new Crime Correspondent, I suppose?'

She didn't reply, instead kept her face impassive.

Dan tried to ignore the spin of memories flying through his mind. The visions of sun-blessed days filming Dartmoor's rugged tors, soft autumn rains on pristine Cornish beaches, wading through crisp and crystal rivers on Bodmin Moor. Watching wintering birds peck their hungry way along the mudflats of the Exe Estuary, hiking the heights of the crumbling cliffs of the Dorset and Devon Jurassic Coast.

And now knife attacks on prostitutes. Run down streets in tumbledown city centres. And murder, rape and robbery. And who knew what else.

The great encyclopedia of human inhumanity. Gift-wrapped, and all his.

And as welcome as rain at a wedding.

The title music of
Wessex Tonight
boomed from the television. Dan picked up his satchel and headed for the door.

‘See you tomorrow then,' Lizzie called after him.

In reply, all Dan could manage was a sulky shrug, the like of which the most recalcitrant of teenagers would have been proud.

A long night was in prospect.

He would sit on the long blue sofa, flick through some television channels, watch a minute or two of a couple of programmes, turn the set off again. He'd pick up a book, read a page, then realise he hadn't taken in a word, reach for a newspaper, try the crossword, not manage to solve a single clue.

It was well after half past seven before Dan noticed he was hungry. He trudged into the kitchen, found some half stale bread and made beans on toast, ate one slice, then slipped the rest into Rutherford's bowl.

The Alsatian chomped his way through the unexpected treat, pawed the bowl around the floor to check there were no tasty remnants lying hidden anywhere, then padded back into the lounge.

‘Life's changed, dog,' Dan told him. ‘See what you get for trying to help? I should never have agreed to do that story, and I should never have paid that woman for the interview. I did what I thought was best for the programme and this is what happens.'

Dan got up from the sofa againand walked over to the pictures on the mantelpiece. They were the nearest he had to family photos. One was a shot of him, taken by another walker, standing on top of Dartmoor's Hay Tor, sweating, but grinning with the achievement of scaling the great granite rock. Another captured Dan and Rutherford at Land's End, the vast extent of the shimmering ocean behind them, the finale of one of their walking holidays. A smaller shot showed him and Nigel filming in a flood in the Cornish seaside town of Looe, Dan up to his waist in water as he told the camera about the havoc the spring tides were causing.

Each picture was a memory from his years as Environment Correspondent.

From what was now a previous life.

Dan stared, then gently laid them face down.

‘Life's changed,' he told Rutherford again.

He walked over to the bay windowand watched the clouds fleeing across the night sky. The rain had eased, just a misty drizzle now, the distant rooftops shining damp in the orange streetlights. The central heating in the flat grumbled as it switched itself back on. He stretched out a foot and traced patterns in the pile of the carpet.

Dan paced into the bathroom, gave the sink a wipe, thought about having a bath, ran the tap awhile, decided against it. He wandered into the spare bedroomand checked through the line of shirts on the clothes rack. Which was the style a crime correspondent should wear? Nothing fancy, just plain, sober and sombre, to match the stories he would be covering.

A series of knife attacks on prostitutes. What a lovely start. He wondered what the next delight would be.

In his bedroom, Dan picked up a discarded sock from the floor, smoothed the sheets, puffed up the duvet. Rutherford followed, looking puzzled. Dan gave him a brief, understanding smile. The dog had never before seen his master take such interest in domestic chores.

Back to the lounge, a check through the CD rack, nothing he fancied listening to. The time ticked on to eight o'clock. Dan flicked some dust from a bookcase, scanned the lines of jackets and blurbs. There was nothing he wanted to read. He sat back down on the sofa. Rutherford stretched out at his feet and yawned.

‘What shall we do, old friend?' Dan asked him. ‘I can't seem to settle on anything.'

The dog sat upand nuzzled into his master's arms. Dan ruffled his fur, thick for the weather of winter.

‘How about a walk?'

Rutherford let out a quick bark at the sacred word and Dan almost smiled, but the expression wouldn't quite form. He fumbled the leash from the hallway cupboard and they walked across the main Eggbuckland Road, quiet now, and into Hartley Park.

It was deserted, unsurprising for a damp, Monday evening. Most people were content to spend the night in, the achievement of having survived the start of the week sufficient for the day. Dan let Rutherford off his lead and the dog sprinted away, across the grass to the line of oak and lime trees which marked the park's boundaryand began sniffing his way along. In the distance, a police siren wailed.

‘I'll be with you in a minute,' Dan muttered to himself. ‘Don't solve whatever crime it is before I get there.'