The Hack Read online

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Believe me, I know no more. Please, may I go now sir? I have to work.’

  Lee was sure the man would not arrive for his shift at the hotel today. He would probably drink himself stupid instead. He shrugged and called a constable to release the man. He yawned, his brain slow.

  Then he had a burst of inspiration.

  The concierge paused by the door, shoulders slumping as he turned at Lee’s barked question.

  ‘One last thing. The other customer. Who was it? Man or woman? Which room?’

  The concierge gave a little sigh of relief. ‘No room, sir. He was just a backpacker. He asked about prices, but our suites are expensive.’ He turned to go.

  ‘And he left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a moment of hesitation, pounced on by Lee. ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t see him leave... He headed for the door as I went into our office. I had paperwork to do. I remained there until I heard the boy come screaming through the foyer.’

  ‘Please, sit.’ Lee’s senses were alert, something inside telling him this was important. ‘I need a description of this man. And anything else you remember.’

  ***

  Kylie was revolted by the ridiculous sight of the old man’s hairy arse wobbling as he pumped away at her.

  Her knees were touching his armpits as he grunted and sweated profusely in his search for a moment of brief ecstasy between her legs. The balding grey head was tucked next to hers as she bit hard on his ear, all the while studying the reflected image on the mirrored ceiling above.

  She tried to feel nothing, as if she were having an out of body experience, an observer rather than a participant. It was how she coped.

  Wobble. Wobble. Wobble. Grunt.

  She grasped his flanks as he started to speed up, apparently excited at the ‘enthusiastic’ response from her. She dug her nails deep, raking his sides, studying the red wheals left by her fingers. He squealed.

  Just like the animal he was.

  She sighed then quickly smothered the noise with a gasp of false delight.

  Thus encouraged, he pummelled on, faster and faster. Wobble-wobble-moan. She joined him, groaning and writhing, all the while observing the sweaty tangle of bodies above. He arched a little and spurted inside her. She clung to him, dug her chin into his shoulder, crooning into his ear, encouraging him, calling him her stud, her lover.

  He shuddered to a stop with a final buttock tremble, rolled off her, and lay back. He closed his eyes and tucked his hands behind his head. He was totally relaxed now, off guard. She had often wondered why women ever killed men other than at this moment, in the vulnerable afterglow of sex.

  Men are so weak, she thought as she studied his face. No sign now of the stress he always wore like a mask when he arrived. He was totally content, a different person from twenty minutes ago. His paunched belly and flaccid muscles, normally hidden from view, disgusted her.

  He had told her he was quite famous, not that she had ever heard of him. Not a good moment for a photo-call. She sniggered at the thought, and quickly gave his penis a little tug to convince him it was his manhood that was the source of her joy. God forbid he should think she was laughing at him.

  Life had never been good to Kylie but she loved her luxurious apartment. She had been here several months and was determined to do whatever was necessary to keep it.

  I’m in good shape, the best I’ve been, she thought. Even as she lay there her mind’s eye compared how she had looked when he had first taken her in, brought her here. Scrawny, unkempt, dirty. His ‘urchin’ he had called her, fucking her there and then on that very bed, even before she had cleaned herself, the street grime and filth staining the sheets. He had not hurt her, he wasn’t a big man, a little less than average is what he told her.

  Not that it mattered.

  What did matter was this lovely flat, the food, the huge TV and the pills she popped each day, especially now the fat American would not let her have anything too heavy. No more needles for her.

  And the Bitch, her mother. She would puke if she could see Kylie now. Jealous cow was always trying to ruin things.

  Fuck her. She shoved the thoughts away and continued inspecting her body.

  Breasts. Not too big, almost fully rounded, though they had been like that for years. She experienced a brief twinge of worry as she wondered if they would find another girl, a younger girl, to replace her. Just like her predecessor, who had grown too big, too womanly.

  She brushed her hand over her crotch. No telltale there, not that she ever had much. She was very careful to keep it bald though, just how they liked it. A moment of doubt assailed her as she wondered if they would ever find out how old she really was, and whether that would be enough for them to dump her. She bundled the thought aside.

  The bed bounced as he got up.

  ‘I have to go, Kylie.’ He bent forward and pecked her forehead. ‘See you Friday. Be good.’

  He may have been gross but he was still the nicest. Some of the others did hurt her.

  The door closed softly as she switched on the TV, zapping the remote until she found a cartoon.

  She popped a pill and her mind switched back to neutral.

  Which for Kylie, who had never known true happiness, was about as good as it got.

  ***

  Her ‘lover’ was feeling rather less than neutral as he tramped along Oxford Street. He was raging at himself, judge and prosecutor battling inside his head.

  Not guilty your honour.

  Scurrying down the steps of Oxford Circus tube, he was simultaneously trying to keep his head squeezed into his shoulders, trilby tugged low over his eyes while scrutinising all passers-by, not wanting to be seen, recognised so close to his guilty secret.

  He found a seat at the far end of the platform, out of the way. He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs. Guilt tinged adrenalin his drug of choice.

  He just could not stop himself. He had never been able to stop himself.

  As he waited for the train the trial in his mind continued.

  Prosecutor: A pervert m’lud.

  Not guilty your honour.

  They feed her drugs.

  We feed her, full stop. She was starving. Already a junkie when I rescued her.

  You took advantage of a young and vulnerable girl.

  No. I helped her. She’d probably be dead without me.

  A child abuser. You’re sick. You’re sixty-four years old. She was just FIFTEEN when you took her.

  Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

  His mind thundered, drowning out the sound of the train arriving. He was oblivious, and sat, head in his hands, tears dripping through his fingers. Self-pity and self-disgust were his only companions as the platform emptied. The minutes passed and he managed to pull himself together enough to mount the next train.

  No one noticed him. A dozen people in the carriage and not a glance in his direction.

  Thank God for London.

  His face lost in anonymous crowds.

  A couple of dark skinned old ladies sat opposite him, chatting excitedly about the show they had seen, the latest musical spectacular. Life goes on, he thought, as he nodded politely to them. Not a flicker of recognition. Good.

  He picked up a discarded evening paper lying on the seat beside him, something to distract himself. To stop the guilt crowding back into his mind.

  As the train rattled him the few stops to his home station, Sir Jeremy Green QC, habitual child abuser, began to distance himself from his pathetic other self.

  The Prosecutor was silenced. Only the Judge remained.

  Sir Jeremy was back to himself.

  Nothing could harm him. He had managed to keep his dirty little secrets buried deep, where no one could dig them up. He had friends in high office.

  Christ, he thought, I am in high office.

  He had worked hard to get all he deserved. And after all, everyone has their l
ittle peccadilloes, their vices, their skeleton filled closets. Their dirty stinking linen, never to be washed in public.

  His little homilies continued, building his confidence and reassuring himself. It was always the same. The anticipation, the joy and the brief, brief moments of rapture. And then the guilt trip home.

  Normally, he would climb out at Victoria station. Normally, he would stroll the few hundred yards to his magnificent home. Normally, twice weekly, his Mr Hyde moments over, the respectable Dr Jekyll returned.

  But tonight things were different.

  So different that he almost missed his station.

  The two West Indian ladies had been jabbering, reliving scenes from the show they had just seen. The older of the two, stopped chatting mid-sentence, frowning with concern as she noticed Sir Jeremy’s expression.

  ‘Are you okay mister?’

  He was sweating badly and his face contorted with pain as his chest crushed him. Palsied hands vibrated the newspaper clutched in his lap as his eyes struggled to read the print.

  The business section.

  ‘Mister, you want an ambulance? You look like you’re having a heart attack.’ The two ladies stood and fussed over him.

  ‘Dolores, it’s our stop, let’s get him off here. See him okay.’

  It had taken just one paragraph of fifty words or so. And Sir Jeremy’s overwrought mind had begun to collapse as his life of lies started to unravel.

  ***

  At the very moment Sir Jeremy Green was squirting his passion into Kylie, Kate had been fretting that things would not go well.

  Optimism was her normal way, but this?

  It was her big break. An opportunity she had never expected. She did not have butterflies in her stomach. No, tonight she had a herd of rhino clomping around in her belly, she was that nervous. The imagery made her smile and she forced herself to relax.

  The black cab squealed to a halt, almost unseating her, her iPad sliding dangerously from her lap towards the floor. Kate fumbled, then caught it, swept her hand through her hair and let out a deep breath.

  ‘This is it, luv.’ The taxi driver reached an arm through his window and worked the catch on her door.

  Chivalry isn’t quite dead, she thought, shouldering the door open, computer hugged to her breast.

  The cooling breeze caressed her face, a few blonde strands floating in front of her eyes, unseen. She stood on the kerb, taking a moment to compose herself for the most important meeting of her life.

  Her chance had come.

  She had spent the day preparing for this meeting and managed to blag it this far. She fretted for a moment then reassured herself with the thought that Johnny would do his bit, would not let her down.

  A last check of her watch – the Gucci she had treated herself to when her first article had made it to the pages of the Guardian. And here she was, outside the offices of the biggest daily newspaper in the UK, clutching a genuine exclusive. A story she could run with, that would make her name and ensure a regular flow of work. Possibly even guarantee her that elusive staff job.

  Time to go. She had cut it fine, leaving herself just an hour or so. Newspaper deadlines wait for no man. Or woman.

  She strode through the hall to the reception desk, her steps echoing, and without waiting for the security guard to look up, told him, voice unwavering, ‘I have an appointment with the Editor.’

  ***

  Sir Jeremy sat alone in a small garden square, surrounded by elegant Victorian houses, the breeze fluttering the shrivelled leaves of the elms and shrubs that struggled to survive here in the heart of London.

  It was almost midnight and he would normally be indoors by now. The two old dears, Dolores and Charlene, had been really kind to him, helping the sick old man up the steps at the station.

  He had revived a little in the cool night air, and felt better now. The colour had returned to his puffy cheeks, his chest finally released from the crushing pressure.

  Dolores had wanted to call an ambulance but he had insisted he would be fine, and promised her he would visit his doctor tomorrow. They had left him and waved to him as they set off, chatting animatedly.

  It had been an exciting evening for Sir Jeremy too.

  Nerve-racking in fact.

  So just how bad was it?

  His old friend Simm was dead. A careful man, a suspicious man – like himself, in so many ways.

  No, surely George wouldn’t have left anything incriminating. Nothing that could lead to me, he thought.

  Sir Jeremy’s hands were clasped together, in constant motion, as if cleansing away some dreadful stain. Realising his body was betraying his innermost thoughts, he quietened the motion, straightened his back and took in the grandeur of the square, the red brick terraced houses, homes to the rich and famous.

  I belong here, and by God I’ll allow no man to take it from me.

  With that thought, he crammed his hat on his head and scurried across the road to his home.

  ***

  The Editor was barking, in full flow, ‘...and tell that twat I’ll rip him a new arsehole if he does this to me again!’

  He popped a chunk of doughnut in his mouth, and continued, ‘Joey, get Mark in here, now. I’m not happy with page two, and tell Gus I want more beef in the Man City roasting saga. And Joey...’ His assistant had one foot out the door already, looking back, ‘is that lass here yet?’

  ‘Been here about fifteen minutes, boss. You want her in now?’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Blonde, cute, nice legs, lovely bum, great smile, big brown – ’

  ‘For gawd’s sake, zip your flies man,’ Charles Tandy was laughing now, some stress gone. ‘She smart?’

  ‘Yup, as a box full of knives.’

  ‘Get her in now – and where the hell is Mark?’

  ***

  Johnny’s hands were quivering over his keyboard, his eyes on his mobile phone, frustration and impatience building by the minute.

  C’mon Kate, we’re cutting this real fine, he thought, just as the mobile phone jumped into life, vibrating and joggling on his desktop.

  He grabbed it, punched up the message, dropped it and let his fingers fly.

  ***

  Tandy had been through two minor heart attacks and a by-pass operation. He ignored the doctors who told him to change his lifestyle. For Gawd’s sake, he’d said, why would he change it? He loved it.

  He chucked a handful of tablets in his mouth, gulped his coffee, slopping a little on his shirt, unseen and unnoticed, and took a huge mouthful of doughnut.

  Kate walked into his office, pocketing her mobile, still hugging the iPad to her breast.

  The Editor looked her over, a frank appraisal, brushed sugar off his hands and clasped them behind his head, elbows out, and pushed himself back in his executive chair. He gave a very quiet wolf whistle and then said, ‘You must be Kate O’Sullivan. Joey told me you were a looker.’

  Not a beat, not a flicker of emotion. She seemed professional enough. Tandy had seen all types come and go over the years, including some real wimps. She clearly was not one.

  ‘I heard you were a sexist, Mr Tandy.’ She surprised him now, her tone was flat, neither cold nor angry. Her statement was delivered as a matter of common knowledge, indisputable, tinged with a slight American accent. ‘But I didn’t come here to blow anything but your mind.’

  Tandy watched, warming to her, as Kate placed her tablet on his desk. She punched up a screenview and spun the iPad round, sliding it across the desk for him to see. She sat without waiting for him to offer, hazel eyes locked on his, daring him to say another offensive word.

  Charles was intrigued. He loved a good story, knew that the unexpected could hit at any time. But a readymade exclusive, walking into his office just before they let their presses roll? That was a never before event for him.

  Joey had said she had been cagey on the phone that evening, but clear what she wanted. Adamant in fact. Occasionally they
had to deal with cranky calls, offers of the big story that turned out to be bullshit. But she had checked out, with numerous articles in the quality papers, even the hallowed FT.

  A hack writer, thought Tandy, definitely not an investigative journalist.

  ‘Slumming it a bit, aren’t we? Approaching a mere tabloid for your story? What, the Times not interested?’

  ‘Mr Tandy, we really don’t have time for this.’

  ‘Listen young lady, I decide when the presses roll and I – ’ He did not get to finish.

  ‘And I decide when your competitors get this story.’ The ice-maiden façade cracked as her cheeks signalled red, warning him to push no further.

  He laughed, a big sound, full of fun, of life. He gulped some coffee and said, ‘Wanna drink? Doughnut? Give me a minute.’ He tugged the slim computer over, and shut off the outside world as he read.

  When finished, he sat back and pondered the article.

  It was sensational and confirmed many rumours pointing to a story he had been sniffing around for years. But he refused to show how impressed he was.

  ‘It’s bullshit. Ah, just in time Mark, here, take a look.’ Tandy pushed the tablet across to the young lawyer and folded his hands across his belly, noticing for the first time the coffee stain there.

  The girl said nothing, just watched him with those unsettling eyes. Tandy noticed the little twitch of her mouth as she followed his gaze to the stain.

  He grinned at her and mentally did some quick calculations. His copy deadline was just forty-five minutes away, although at a push he could delay another forty-five, maybe more.

  The material she had was fantastic, but written for the Times, not his readers.

  ‘The rumours about Simm and his business have been around for as long as I can remember. Do you have anything to confirm these allegations? Some official documents? A credible source?’ Mark gave Kate a charming smile as he expressed his doubt.

  ‘If you knew where to look, you could find translations of the official Thai police report, along with the CIA’s own damning assessment.’

  ‘And you know where to look, Kate?’

  ‘Sure, and in another hour or so, so will everyone else.’ Cool as a cucumber.

  ‘Well for chrissake kid, let’s see it!’ Tandy’s enthusiasm got the better of him. He really hoped this would check out. He was up, pacing round the desk. He stopped in front of Kate, fists on his hips, but she remained impassive. She was confident enough, he gave her that. ‘Now would be good!’