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‘The Centre’s new gallery opens week after next with a local arts and crafts exhibition. There’s a preview the Saturday before, lunchtime. Care to come?’
He said, ‘Are you going by choice or because you’re on the payroll?’
She said, ‘Does it matter? OK, it’s sort of semi-duty. Centre politics, you wouldn’t be interested.’
‘Try me till I yawn,’ he said.
‘OK. The Centre’s tri-partite, right? Heritage, Arts, Library. Library was easy, Percy Follows was Head of Library Services already, so he just slid into the new position. And it looked like Philomel Carcanet who ran the old municipal museum/art gallery on Shuttleworth Hill would likewise take over the new Heritage and Arts strands in the Centre. Except it’s all proving a bit much for her. You yawning yet?’
‘No, just breathing deeply with excitement.’
‘Fine. Dead things Philomel is really good with, living things in any quantity scare her stiff. She was delirious with excitement when the builders’ digging unearthed that mosaic pavement. Then they decided to incorporate it into this Roman Experience thing – you must have read about it, a Mid-Yorkshire marketplace at the height of the Roman occupation?’
Hat nodded, he hoped convincingly.
‘I believe you,’ she said, not bothering to sound convinced. ‘Anyway, that meant Phil had to start thinking about catering for live punters, live people again and it all got on top of her. So she’s on sick leave. Meanwhile, someone’s had to sort out the new gallery. Normally our Percy would run a mile rather than get involved with extra work, but there’s a new factor. Word is that the council, Stuffer Steel apart, are contemplating appointing an overall director of the Centre. And our Percy imagines he’s at the front of the queue for the job. But a trumpet sounds upstage left. Enter Ambrose Bird, the Last of the Actor – Managers.’
‘Who?’
‘Where do you live? Ambrose Bird, who ran the old municipal theatre till it was closed last month, mainly as a result of Councillor Steel’s opposition to the large grant needed to refurbish it up to health and safety standards. This has left the Last of the Actor – Managers (that’s his own preferred title) with nothing to act in or manage but the Centre’s much smaller studio theatre. That was definitely a yawn!’
‘No, it was the beginning of an interjection. I was going to guess that this Bird guy has decided he’d like to put in for the Centre Director’s job too.’
‘Have you ever thought of becoming a detective?’ asked Rye. ‘Spot on. So Bird and Follows are locked in deadly combat. It’s quite fun to watch them, actually. They don’t try very hard to conceal the way they feel about each other. Anything in the Centre they can lay claim to, the pair of them are there, like dogs after a bone. The Roman Experience is drama, says Ambrose, so he takes responsibility for sound effects and training the people playing the market stallholders. Poor old Perce is left with language and smells.’
‘Smells?’
‘Oh yes. The authentic smells of Roman Britain. Cross between a rugby changing room and an abattoir, as far as I can make out. Look, I’m beginning to yawn myself. The upshot of this is that Percy has countered by grabbing the lion’s share of the preview arrangements and, with typical sexist insensitivity, has volunteered all his female staff to run around with the chardonnay and nibbles. End of story. You did pretty well, unless like a horse you can sleep with your eyes open.’
‘So why is a bright, lively, independent, modern woman like yourself putting up with this crap?’ said Hat with what he hoped was convincing indignation.
She said defensively, ‘It’s no big deal. I’d have gone anyway. Dick will have a couple of paintings in. He’s a bit of an artist.’
She saw him toy with a crack, but was glad to see he was bright enough to drop the idea.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘and as I too am on the public payroll, why not? Dress casual, is it?’
‘Dress artistically,’ she murmured. ‘Which brings me to a very important question. What does the well-dressed twitcher wear in Stangdale, Hat?’
He studied her seriously to hide his delight at having guessed rightly that he was being offered a trade-off, then said, ‘Well, starting from the inside out, have you got any thermal underwear?’
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_ecb9c829-11a6-55a8-bfb5-59b9d3585c75)
Jax Ripley’s colleagues had noticed that she was in vacant or pensive mood all that Friday afternoon. Normally as she put together the items for her early evening show, she was incisive and openly impatient with anyone who wasn’t moving at her speed. But today she didn’t seem to be able to make up her mind about things. Out and About was usually made up of several pre-recorded pieces linked by Jax, concluding with a live studio piece on some topic of particular local interest. All that she had pencilled in for this today was short story comp trail?
‘Who are the guests?’ asked John Wingate, the station manager. He was a middling aged plump man with a lean and hungry face, as if his chronic anxiety about everything had done a deal with his body and drawn a demarcation line around his neck. Below this, the soft folds of pink flesh glowed with health, and, warmed by sun or sex, gave off an odour which reminded Jax of her childhood bed beneath which her provident mother laid out rows of apples to see them through the North Yorkshire winter. Screwing Wingate had been a pleasure as well as a career move.
‘No guests … Just me.’
‘So, couple of minutes,’ he said doubtfully. ‘That leaves us well short, Jax.’
‘No, I need the time.’
‘Why? How the hell can you spin something as boring as a short story competition trail out beyond ninety seconds?’
‘Trust me,’ she said.
‘You up to something, Jax?’ he said suspiciously. ‘I hate it when you say “trust me”.’
She finally made up her mind, reached out a hand to rest on his thigh and smiled.
‘It’ll be all right, John,’ she said.
In a life of bad career moves, John Wingate wasn’t certain where he placed screwing Jax Ripley. She’d been a journalist on the Gazette when they first met and the chance of a one-night stand after a media party which Moira, his wife, hadn’t attended because she was over in Belfast visiting her sick mother had seemed too good to pass by. And it had been good. He grew warm now just recalling it and the other encounters that followed, one in particular which had taken place in his office a couple of weeks later when she presented herself for interview. ‘I’ve come about the position,’ she said, climbing on to his desk and spreading herself before him. ‘How about this one for starters?’
And under the doubtless approving gaze of the members of Unthank College Old Boys’ rugby fifteen whose photo, holding the Mid-Yorkshire Cup which they’d won some years ago under his captaincy, hung on the wall behind his chair, he accepted the invitation, after which she accepted the job.
She’d learned quick and her rapid advancement was easily justifiable in terms of sheer talent, or so he reassured himself whenever, as now, he gave way to her wishes. There’d never been any hint of menace from Jax and she’d always behaved with the utmost discretion, but this didn’t stop him from feeling that he had less control over his life, both professional and personal, than before her arrival. At least, thank God, he knew he didn’t have to worry she was after his job. She had set her sights over the hills and faraway, in the greener pastures of Wood Lane, and if golden opinions from himself could speed her on her way, all the better.
Maybe that was the explanation of her distraction today.
He said, ‘Big day next Monday, then. Getting nervous? No need. You’ll piss it.’
She said, ‘What? Oh, the interview. No, I’ll wait till I’m on the train before I get nervous.’
He believed her. She was, he reckoned, that controlled. She might let herself get nervous as she drew near to her interview for the job with the national news service because taut nerves made you sharper, pitched you higher. But she’d know exactly how far to go.
Yet, though Wingate didn’t know it, he’d hit pretty close to the mark.
Jax Ripley had a decision to make. Wingate’s assurances that with her record and his recommendation she’d walk into the job were very comforting and she had no false modesty about her abilities. Sex she might use as a shortcut but only to get where she felt she deserved to be. Yet though she rated her talents high, she was not so arrogant as to rate them unique. It hadn’t been difficult to come to the fore in the small show ring of Mid-Yorkshire, but the provinces are full of thrusting talents and it would take something extra to stand out among the ranks of competing clones nationwide, all desperate to march on the Big Time.
And now she felt she might have the something extra.
But there were risks.
It would be burning boats, that’s for sure. She was sworn to secrecy. Her revelations would this time be tracked unrelentingly to their source, and such a public act of betrayal would ensure that no one in Mid-Yorkshire would ever again open their mouths to her, not even with the promise that she would open her legs to them.
Plus, if it all went wrong and just came out as a bit of journalistic scaremongering, then she could even end up being dumped by BBC MY.
On the other hand, it was a good story. A couple of phone calls would alert some friends in London. National air coverage over the weekend plus the Sunday tabloids descending on Mid-Yorkshire to dig up – or make up – something really sensational could raise a news tsunami to sweep her into her interview on Monday. Once she got that job, it didn’t matter what happened back here in Sleepy Hollow. In the real world down there, no one minded if today’s scoop was tomorrow’s poop. It happened all the time. It wasn’t the apologies and retractions that stayed in people’s minds, it was the banner headlines.
So why was she pussy-footing around? In this life you were either a player or a stayer. And I’m a player! she told herself as she headed into her office to make the necessary wake-up calls. No point jumping off a skyscraper unless you had the audience you wanted.
It was, viewers opined later, by Jax Ripley’s usual standards a rather slow show. In her intro and her link passages she seemed somewhat muted, a little lacking in her usual sparkle. Usually she almost came out of the screen at you. But not tonight. Tonight she clearly had something on her mind.
The last of the filmed items was an interview with Charley Penn about the new Harry Hacker series starting on television the following week. It was a good interview, with Jax at her seductive and Penn at his saturnine best. It ended with her asking him about the doppelgänger effect which he often used in his books, with Hacker finding himself being warned or otherwise aided by glimpses of a mysterious shadowy figure which seemed to bear a close resemblance to himself.
‘Charley, tell me, do you really think it’s possible for a person to be in two places at the same time, or are you going to surprise us one day by revealing that Harry’s got a twin?’
Penn smiled at her, then looked straight into the camera.
‘I don’t know about being in two places at the same time, but I have no problem with a character being in two times at the same place.’
She’d laughed at that. She was one of those few people whose mouth wide open in close-up was an on-turning rather than an off-putting experience.
‘Too deep for me, Charley. But I love the new book. And though I say it as shouldn’t, reading it’s much better than watching the telly.’
End of film. Cut to Jax live in the studio, no longer relaxing, bare legs folded beneath her, on the white leatherette sofa she shared with her interview guests, but sitting on a hard upright chair, knees locked tight together, fingers closely clasped, face set and serious, looking like a young schoolteacher about to administer a stern rebuke.
‘Doppelgängers apart,’ she said, ‘it’s usually agreed that truth is stranger than fiction, but I did not realize just how much stranger it could be until a little earlier this week.
‘The fiction in the case is contained in most of the entries submitted to the Gazette’s short story competition. Entries close tonight, so those of you still scribbling had better get your skates on. I hope to announce the short list and perhaps interview some of the hopeful authors on the show next week.
‘But there is one person submitting material who probably won’t be rushing forward to be interviewed, the person the police are calling the Wordman …’
As she went on, around the county most listeners carried on with what they were doing, only gradually increasing their focus on what she was saying as its import struck home. But some there were who at the first mention of the short story competition had raised their heads, or reached forward to turn up the volume, or risen out of their seats, and a couple there were who as she went on began to swear violently, and there was one who sat back and laughed aloud and gave thanks.
After she’d finished and the brass band had played the show out, Jax sat still for a moment. Then John Wingate came bursting in.
‘Jesus, Jax! What the hell was that all about? Is it true? It can’t be true! Where’d it come from? What evidence have you got? You should have cleared this with me first, you know that. Shit! What’s going to happen now?’
‘Let’s wait and see,’ she said, smiling, back to her old self now that the die was cast.
They didn’t have long to wait.
Even Jax was taken aback by the sheer weight of the reaction.
It came in a confusion of telephone calls, faxes, e-mails and personal visits, but it was divisible into four clear categories.
First came her employers, at levels stretching up from Wingate himself to top management in London and their legal oracles. As soon as these had pronounced, with all the usual caveats and qualifications, that there did not on the face of it seem to be anything actionable in what she had said, she passed rapidly from potential liability to embryonic star. This was a hot news scoop in the old style, something rarely seen on national let alone provincial television. Hence the interest from category two, the rest of the media.
Once she’d made up her mind to go ahead, Jax had seeded word of her intention in several potentially fruitful areas. Long hardened against hype, no one had fallen over with excitement, but now the smell of blood was in the air and jackals everywhere were raising their snouts and sniffing. If this turned out to be a story that ran, then it was crazy not to be in at the beginning and by the end of the evening Jax had signed up for a national radio spot, a TV chat show and a Sunday tabloid article, while a broadsheet had opened negotiations for a profile. Mary Agnew of the Gazette had rung too. A pragmatist, she didn’t waste time reproaching her former employee for scooping the story out of her lap.
‘Well done, dearie,’ she said. ‘You got a head start, but you’re going to need my help now.’
‘Why’s that, Mary?’
‘Because now you’ve done the dirty, your police source is going to dry up like a mummy’s crotch,’ said Mary. ‘And because it’s the Gazette that this nut – if there is a nut which I’m not yet convinced – is sending his material to. So when the next one comes …’
‘What makes you think there’ll be a next one, seeing you’re such a sceptic?’ interrupted Jax.
‘You do, dearie. You’ve practically guaranteed it. Even if it was a joke before, you’ve made sure every nut in the county will want to get in on the act, and God knows how far some of them will be willing to go. I’ll keep in touch. Sleep well.’
Bitch, thought Jax. Sick as a parrot and trying to get her own back by getting inside my skull. Do I need her? Probably not. On the other hand, pointless telling her to piss off till I’m sure.
But category three, calls from the public, made her think that maybe Agnew had called it right after all. Some were concerned, some abusive, some plain dotty, a couple positively threatening, but none obviously useful. All were recorded and copies of the tapes made ready for the police. One tape definitely wasn’t for the police, however. This was the call she had from Councillor Cyril Steel eager for any further ammunition she could supply him to aid his anti-cop crusade. Like Agnew, he was insignificant nationally but locally a big-hitter in his crusade against inefficiency and corruption. He’d given her a lot of good leads and what was more his omnivorous gut was the only appetite she was expected to satisfy in return. Now he was delighted at what he saw as a win-win situation. Either the police had failed in their duty by not telling the council about a possible serial killer in the town, or the ruling party had failed in theirs by keeping it to themselves. Minus her police ally, Jax was delighted to have whatever high-level support she could hang on to in Mid-Yorkshire and she let the halitotic councillor rabbit on for ten minutes or so before cutting him off with a promise to keep him up to speed.
Now she settled back to await the final category of calls.
This was the constabulary. The one she expected from her furious Deep-throat didn’t come, but an hour after the programme ended, Mid-Yorkshire’s press officer, a user-friendly inspector with a pleasant homely manner which disguised a very sharp mind, rang to wonder if the best interests of both the BBC and the Force might not be served by a bit of mutual co-operation. For example, if he promised to keep her in the picture, maybe she could tell him where she’d got her information? She’d laughed out loud and he’d laughed with her then said, ‘Please yourself, luv. But don’t be surprised if you hear a loud barking just now. It’ll be them upstairs coming round with the Rottweilers.’
In the event the Deputy Chief Constable who turned up was dogless, but did his best with his own teeth. He asked her to reveal her sources. She refused on the grounds of journalistic privilege. He spelt out the obligations the law placed upon anyone with information relevant to a crime, whether already or still to be committed. He then wished her all the best in her future career, hoped for her sake it would be in an area far removed from Mid-Yorkshire, smiled caninely, and left.
You’d better get this London job, girl, she told herself. I think things could get pretty uncomfortable for you round here.
But the pluses were too many for the negativisms of Mary Agnew and the DCC to depress her spirits for long and when she finally decided to call it a night, she was bubbling inside like a bottle of champagne about to pop. John Wingate was still around, looking slightly less anxious now that it seemed likely her revelations on air were going to attract plaudits rather than brickbats. Sex seemed a good way to uncork her energies and she said, ‘Fancy coming back with me for a celebratory drink, John?’
He looked at her, looked at his watch, all the anxiety back on his face. He’s recalling what it was like, she thought. He’s thinking that with a bit of luck I’ll be out of his hair and his life in a very short while, so why not one for the road? If I reached out and touched him and said, ‘Let’s do it here,’ he’d be on me like a flash. But she didn’t want a quickie on a dusty office floor.
She said, ‘You’re right, John. Family first, eh?’ kissed him lightly on the cheek and walked away, aware that the sway of her end in retreat was probably making him ache with regret. But she didn’t want a man who’d be thinking of going even as he was coming. Tonight was an all or nothing night, and as she ran through a list of possibles in her head, it began to seem more and more like nothing. No one seemed to fit the bill perfectly … except maybe … but no, she couldn’t ring him!
She let herself into her flat and kicked off the murderously high heels she wore to work. Despite or perhaps because of coming at people like Penthesilia on the charge, she was desperately self-conscious about her height, particularly on camera. Her clothes followed. She let them lie where they fell and slid her arms into her fine silk robe and her feet into a pair of unbecoming but supremely comfortable soft leather mules. Too wound up to think of sleep, she went to her computer and rattled off an e-mail to the one person she could talk to with (almost!) complete freedom: her sister, Angie, in America. It wasn’t sex, but it was a form of relief after a day spent weighing her words as closely as she’d been doing for the past several hours.
As she finished, the phone rang.
She picked it up and said, ‘Hi.’
A voice started speaking immediately.
She listened then said incredulously, ‘And you’ve actually got this third Dialogue with you?’
‘Yes. But it will have to be handed in tomorrow. If you want to see it …’
‘Of course I want to see it. Could you come round to my place?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Five minutes.’
The phone went dead.
She put down the receiver and punched the air, a gesture she’d always thought rather naff when she saw footballers and gameshow contestants using it. But now she knew what it was expressing.
‘Ripley,’ she said. ‘Someone up there really likes you.’
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_967816d7-d780-5a3d-a01b-57a7ab790d27)
the third dialogue (#ulink_967816d7-d780-5a3d-a01b-57a7ab790d27)
Ave!
Why not?
In the beginning was the Word, but what language was the Word in?
Spirits always speak in English at seances. Except probably in France. And Germany. And anywhere else.
