what it was all about. If it’s drunks, forget it. Joe, this fire in the
East End check with the Brigade. A burglary in Chelsea Phillip.
Look up the address in Kelly’s Directory in case anyone famous lives
there. Barney Police pursued and arrested an Irishman after calling at a
house in Queenstown Street, Camden.” Ring the Yard and ask them if it’s
anything to do with the
IRA.”
An internal phone beeped and he lifted it. “Arthur Cole.”
“What have you got for me, Arthur?”
Cole recognized the voice of the picture editor.
He said: “At the moment, it looks as though the splash will be last
night’s vote in the Commons.”
“But that was on the television yesterday!”
“Did you call to ask me things or tell me things?”
“I suppose I’d better have somebody at Downing Street for a today
picture of the Prime Minister. Anything else?”
“Nothing that isn’t in the morning papers.”
“Thank you, Arthur.”
Cole hung up. It was poor, to be leading on a yesterday story. He was
doing his best to update it-two reporters were ringing around for
reactions. They were getting back bench MPs to shoot off their mouths,
but no Ministers.
A middle-aged reporter with a pipe called out:
“Mrs. Poulson just rang. Cliff won’t be in today.
He’s got Delhi belly.”
Cole groaned. “How did he catch that in Olington?”
“Curry supper.”
“Okay.” That was clever, Cole thought. It looked like being the dullest
day for news in the month, and Poulson was off sick. With the assistant
news editor on holiday, Cole was on his own.
Kevin Hart approached the desk. “Nothing from the Yard,” he said.
“It’s been quiet all night.”
Cole looked up. Hart was about twenty-three and very tall, with curly
fair hair which he wore long. Cole suppressed a spasm of irritation.
“That is ridiculous,” he said. “Scotland Yard never has a completely
quiet night. What’s the matter with that Press Bureau?”
“We ought to do a story–London’s first crime-free night for a thousand
years,” Hart said with a grin.
His levity annoyed Cole. “Never be satisfied with that kind of reply
from the Yard,” he said coldly.
Hart flushed. It embarrassed him to be lectured like a cub reporter.
“I’ll ring them back, shall I?” “No,” said Cole, seeing that he had made
his point. “I want you to do a story. You know this new oil field in the
North Sea?”
Hart nodded. “It’s called Shield.”
“Yes. Later on the Energy Minister is going to announce who has got the
license to develop it.
Do a holding piece to run until we get the announcement. Background,
what the license will mean to the people who are bidding, how the
Minister makes up his mind. This afternoon we can sling your piece out
and leave a hole in the paper for the real news.”
“Okay.” Hart turned away and made for the library. He knew he was being
given a dumb job as a kind of punishment, but he took his medicine
gracefully, Cole thought. He stared at the boy’s back for a moment. He
got on Cole’s nerves, with his long hair and his suits. He had rather
too much self-confidence–but then, reporters needed a lot of cheek.
Cole stood up and went to the sub-editors’ table. The deputy chief sub
had in front of him the wire service story about the passing of the
Industry Bill and the new stuff Cole’s reporters had come up with. Cole
looked over his shoulder. On a scratch pad he had written:
REBEL Mps TOLD “JOIN THE LIBS”
The man scratched his beard and looked up.
“What do you think?”
“It looks like a story about Women’s Lib,” Cole said. “I hate it.”
“So do I.” The sub tore the sheet off the pad, crumpled it, and tossed
it in a metal bin. “What else is new?”
“Nothing. I’ve only just given out the tips.”
The bearded man nodded and glanced reflexively at the clock hanging from
the ceiling in front.
“Let’s hope we get something decent for the second.”
Cole leaned over him and wrote on the pad:
REBEL MPs TOLD “JOIN LIBERALS” He said: “It makes more sense, but it’s