“Well, we have to live with it until we start to make a profit again.”
The editor picked up the list of news stories Cole had put on his desk.
“There’s nothing here to start a circulation boom, Arthur.”
“Its a quiet morning. With luck we’ll have a Cabinet crisis by midday.”
“And they’re two-a-penny, with this bloody government.” The editor
continued to read the list. “I like this Stradivarius story.”
Cole ran down the list, speaking briefly about each item. When he had
finished, the editor said:
“And not a splash among ‘. I don’t like to lead all day on politics.
We’re supposed to cover every facet of the Londoner’s day,” to quote our
own advertising. I don’t suppose we can make Strad a million-pound
violin?”
“It’s a nice idea,” Cole said. “But I don’t sup pose it’s worth that
much. Still, we’ll try it on
The chief sub said: “if it won’t work in Sterling try the million-dollar
violin. Better still, the million dollar fiddle.” “Good thinking,” the
editor said. “Let’s have a library picture of a similar fiddle, and
interviews with three top violinists about how they would feel if they
lost their favorite instrument.” He paused. “I want to go big on the oil
field license, too. People are interested in this North Sea oil–it’s
supposed to be our economic salvation.” Cole said: “The announcement is
due at twelve-thirty. We’re getting a holding piece meanwhile.”
“Careful what you say. Our own parent company is one of the contenders,
in case you didn’t know.
Remember that an oil well isn’t instant riches–it means several years
of heavy investment first.”
“Sure,” Cole nodded.
The circulation manager turned to the chief sub.
“Let’s have street placards on the violin story, and this fire in the
East End–”
The door opened noisily, and the circulation manager stopped speaking.
They all looked up to see Kevin Hart standing in the doorway, looking
flushed and excited. Cole groaned inwardly.
Hart said: “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think this is the big one.”
“What is it?” the editor said mildly.
“I just took a phone call from Timothy Fitzpeterson, a Junior Minister
in the–” “I know who he is,” the editor said. “What did he say?”
“He claims he’s being blackmailed by two people called Laski and Cox.
He sounded pretty far gone. He–”
The editor interrupted again. “Do you know his voice?”
The young reporter looked flustered. He had obviously been expecting
instant panic, not a crossexamination. “I’ve never spoken to
Fitzpeterson before,” he said.
Cole put in: “I had a fairly nasty anonymous tip about him this morning.
I checked it out–he denied it.” The editor grimaced. “It stinks,” he
said. The chief sub nodded agreement. Hart looked crestfallen.
Cole said: “All right, Kevin, we’ll discuss it when I come out.”
Hart went out and closed the door.
“Excitable fellow,” the editor commented.
Cole said: “He’s not stupid, but he’s got a lot to learn.”
“So teach him,” the editor said. “Now, what’s lined up on the picture
desk?”
RON BIG GINS was thinking about his daughter. In this, he was at fault:
he should have been thinking about the van he was driving, and its cargo
of several hundred thousand pounds’ worth of paper money-soiled, torn,
folded, scribbled-on, and fit only for the Bank of England’s destruction
plant in Loughton, Essex. But perhaps his distraction was forgivable:
for a man’s daughter is more important than paper money; and when she is
his only daughter, she is a queen; and when she is his only child, well,
she just about fills his life.
After all, Ron thought, a man spends his life bringing her up, in the
hope that when she comes of age he can hand her over to a steady,
reliable type who will look after her the way her father did. Not some
drunken, dirty, long-haired, pot-smoking, unemployed fucking layabout–”
“What?” said Max Fitch.
Ron snapped back into the present. “Did I speak?” were muttering,” Max
told him. “You got something on your mind?”
“I just might have, son,” Ron said. I just might have murder on my mind,
he thought, but he knew he did not mean it. He accelerated slightly to