Never Tell (2 page)

A deep sigh into the machine. ‘There’s only so long you can avoid me. I need you. And,’ the voice dropped into a caress, ‘you know you need me, darling.’

My hand hovered indecisively above the phone as I watched an image on the small TV in the corner – an image that I couldn’t quite compute. The breakfast news: a man I hadn’t seen for years, since university. He stepped down from a private jet, smiling for the cameras. Those pale glacial eyes. Escorted to Number 10, shaking hands with the Prime Minister. Easy to see he’d once been the most powerful man in Britain.

I forgot all about the phone and turned up the volume quickly, but it was too late to catch the full story.

A man I’d hoped desperately I’d never see again. Dalziel’s father.

I dropped Alicia at school, Effie and Fred at nursery and then wandered absently round the supermarket. Amidst jars of apple purée and mountains of bright and shiny baby stuff, my mobile rang for the third time. Finally, I relented.

‘What?’ I muttered.

‘Charming.’

‘I’m really very busy, you know.’

‘Very busy doing what? Comparing nappy brands?’

I looked at a stack of shiny green Pampers.

‘No.’ I turned my back on the nappies. ‘I’m just going into a very important meeting,
actually.’

Joyfully the Tannoy announced a large spillage in Aisle 4.

‘Really?’ Xavier sniggered. ‘About what? Which tea-shop to hold the local mothers’ meeting in?’

I smiled despite myself.

‘No, Xavier. About …’ I caught sight of Helen Kelsey studying nail polish in the beauty section. She really did look like a fox. Sleek, but a fox none the less. ‘About – about the local fox hunt.’ I slunk back round the corner of the Pampers before she spotted me.

‘I thought chasing foxes had been banned?’ Xavier drawled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re riding with those hounds.’

‘It’s still a point of serious debate in the countryside, actually.’ I tried to sound convinced. ‘There’s a lot of tension still between hunt and saboteurs.’

Xavier yawned loudly. ‘Oh, don’t be so dreary, dearie. Come back to me. You’re the best newshound I know,’ he persisted. ‘It’s such a waste.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ I sighed. ‘But I can’t. The children, Xav. I’m not doing that whole nanny thing. And the team really need me here. I can’t just up and—’

‘Oh, please,’ Xavier yawned again. ‘It’s hardly the
Wall Street
bloody
Journal.’

‘Stop yawning.’ I chucked some baby-wipes in the trolley. ‘It’s so rude. The
Burford Chronicle
is a quality paper, I’ll have you know.’

There was a long pause. We both dissolved into giggles.

‘You silly cow,’ he said fondly. ‘Stop popping babies out and writing about giant marrows—’

‘Er, I’m not sure I like that analogy, thanks, Xav.’

‘- and cover this al-Qaeda story for me.’

I stopped laughing.

‘What story?’

‘New neighbour of yours.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘Hadi Kattan.’

‘The art dealer?’ Hadi Kattan was a regular face in the international media, from the
Financial Times
and the
Wall Street Journal
to
Hello!
magazine; patriarch of a beautiful glamorous family; contemporary of Al-Fayed, but shadowy and enigmatic where his peer preferred the spotlight.

‘That’s the one. Moved into a mansion in your neck of the woods.’

‘Kattan is al-Qaeda? Pull the other one. It’s Middle England, Xav, not Helmand Province.’

‘So cynical. He was VEVAK for a while too apparently.’

‘VEVAK as in Iranian Secret Service? They’re nothing to do with al-Qaeda, surely?’

‘Whatever. He’s purportedly been involved with a smaller organisation, a branch of the tree. Al-Muhen, I think. Some Saudi Arabian mullah runs it from a
madrasah
somewhere outside Peshawar.’

‘Everyone north of the equator’s apparently got a link these days. Who’s your source?’

‘Guy in the Yard’s anti-terrorism unit.’

‘So well-connected, dear Xav.’

‘Let’s just say we share a sauna, darling.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I debated some sugar-free gingerbread men.
‘That
kind of source. And he’s straight up, is he?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say straight, necessarily.’

‘Hilarious! You know what I mean.’

‘Check it out and see.’

‘I can’t.’ Resolute, I picked up some over-priced organic crisps. The kids would prefer a lurid Wotsit any day. ‘I’ve retired. For now.’

‘It’s time to come out of retirement. Christ, Rose, most people would be biting my hand off.’

‘I appreciate it. I’m tempted. But it’s not fair on the kids. You know that.’

‘Rose, you had some babies, you didn’t become Mother fucking Teresa.’

‘She only had spiritual babies, I think you’ll find.’ I wheeled myself round to the Wotsits. ‘Look, I’ll consider it, OK?’

‘Which means you won’t,’ he sighed.

‘I will. I’m flattered, Xav. Thank you.’ For a moment I caught a glimpse of the old me. It was strangely reassuring that someone else occasionally did too.

‘It’s a bloody waste, you rotting out there in the cow-shit. You were the best, Rose.’

‘Thank you. Actually, talking about retirement,’ I said carefully, ‘I’m sure I just saw Lord Higham on the news.’

‘So?’

‘I thought he’d gone somewhere like Venezuela.’

‘He may well have done, darling. I’m not his travel agent.’ Xavier was snappy. ‘Word is he’s back on the political warpath. Officially he’s come in some advisor role to the PM.’

My stomach clenched uncomfortably.

‘Why the interest? Got a scoop?’

‘I just – he’s someone—’ I was getting tongue-tied. I took a deep breath. ‘Someone from the past,’ I finished lamely.

‘My dear! I’ve always liked an older man myself,’ Xavier purred.

‘Not like that. I knew his son, Dalziel.’

‘The one who killed himself?’

The years rolled back like the tide.

‘Rose?’

‘Yes,’ I mumbled. ‘Yes, that one.’

‘You have depths, my dear Rose, I’ve not yet plumbed.’

I jumped half a foot as a voice spoke in my ear.

‘Rose!’

Helen Kelsey. I forced a smile. ‘I’ll call you back, Xav.’

‘Before it’s too late,’ he drawled, and rang off.

Too late.

I summoned a smile for Helen; I wished my heart would stop beating so very fast.

Chapter Two

I arrived at the paper at eleven, which meant they’d all be on a fag-break out the back. I needed to busy myself: to stay in the present. Making myself a cup of strong tea, I checked the boards in the faint hope there might be a half-decent story for once.

‘Edna Brown’s prize-winning vegetables sabotaged.’ Next to this someone had scrawled ‘Watch out for her melons’ in green marker.

‘High School Musical comes to Cheltenham.’

‘Five sheep savaged near Ostley Woods – return of the Burford Beast?’

The only story that looked remotely exciting was apparent police interest in a local MP and an allegation of bribery. I vaguely remembered him from Alicia’s school fête, a sweaty, corpulent man more interested in the refreshment stall than the children.

Tina banged through the doors. Ex-Fleet Street herself, but sick of the horrendous hours and the in-fighting, she was happy and efficient running this little paper.

‘Hello, stranger.’ She slammed a pile of files down on her immaculate desk. ‘How’s tricks?’

‘Tricks are OK, thanks, Tina.’

‘How’s the gorgeous husband?’

Everyone always loved James. The life and soul. ‘Good, thanks. Pretty busy with the relaunch of the club.’ I pointed to the board. ‘What’s Johnson being investigated for?’

‘Not sure exactly,’ she shrugged. ‘Something to do with taking some kind of bung, I think.’

‘Really?’ I perked up.

‘The by-election’s coming up. All sorts are stirring.’

‘Shall I take a look?’ I said carefully. I didn’t want to admit to myself how much I needed some kind of spur.

‘I think Richard’s on it, thanks, love.’ She booted her old computer up. It made a sound like it was dying inside. ‘Why don’t you take a look at Edna Brown’s lovely vegetables?’

‘Oh, right.’ I suppressed the sudden urge to scream. ‘Yes, of course.’

Richard Sawton rushed through the door and scooped his car keys off the desk.

‘Hey Rosie,’ he winked, his long face almost excited, ‘fancy a spot of doorstepping?’

‘I was going to talk to Edna Brown about her—’

‘Fuck Edna Brown.’

‘I’d really rather not,’ I grinned.

‘Come on. The word is Johnson’s going to get picked up again today.’ He was almost out the door by now. ‘I could do with a second opinion.’

I glanced at Tina; she waved us onwards with her trusty green Pentel. Grabbing my bag I followed Richard, feeling something I hadn’t for the longest time. Adrenalin.

The Johnson story turned out to be a damp squib. Richard and I spent a chilly hour supposedly hiding outside his house, drinking stewed tea in polystyrene cups from the Copper Kettle, only for the wife to arrive at our window and bang on it with a cross be-ringed hand.

‘This is private property, I’ll thank you.’ Her front tooth was tipped with fuchsia lipstick.

‘It’s not you know, love, it’s a public highway, actually,’ Richard pointed out affably. ‘Have you got any comment on your husband’s recent arrest?’

‘He was not arrested.’ Her soft chin quivered as she drew her camel coat tighter around her. ‘He was merely ‘elping the police with enquiries.’ She’d got very grand, apparently, since her husband won his seat four years ago. A stone squirrel gazed at us from the pillar behind her, concrete nut held forever between his paws.

‘Rightio. And why was that, then?’

She drew herself up to her inconsiderable height. ‘I wouldn’t know. You’d have to ask him. But, I might add,’ she fixed us with steely little eyes, ‘he won’t tell you.’

‘Rightio,’ Richard repeated. ‘Well, thanks for your help.’

I leaned across him, offered her my hand. ‘Hi, Mrs Johnson. Rose Miller.’ She refused my hand and glared at me instead. ‘We will find out, you know, Mrs Johnson. It’ll be in the public domain before long, so you’d be doing yourself a big favour by telling us your side of things now.’

‘I have no interest in speaking with you,’ she said stiffly. ‘None whatsoever.’

‘This is your chance to put your side of the story across. We could offer you an exclusive.’

‘No comment,’ she sniffed. The little boy statue peeing into the lily pond looked on languidly as she slammed the garden gate behind her and sailed towards her house.

Richard sighed, and started the car without looking at me.

‘Richard, I—’

‘What?’ He concentrated overhard as he pulled out.

‘I hope – I mean, you didn’t think I was stepping on your toes back there?’

‘Of course not.’ He was obviously lying.

‘I just thought – she needed some coercion, and—’

‘Rose, it’s fine really.’ We slowed to a crawl behind an old red tractor. ‘I understand, honestly.’

But he still stared straight ahead, refusing to look at me. My heart sank. I rarely mentioned my previous incarnation, and although sometimes they actually asked my advice at the
Burford Chronicle
, it was hard not to see how differently we had done things on the nationals. I was used to the pace of the major broadsheets, the fast-track of a story you had to turn around immediately. I was used to working alone, pushing on despite being told no, unrelenting when I was on the trail of a story. But in Burford they ran a polite ship – it was just that kind of operation. However welcoming they’d been since I’d joined their ranks a year ago, sometimes I felt they just suffered me because they were just – well, polite.

‘So, what now—’ I began as a shiny black Range Rover with partially-tinted windows swung into the small lane far too fast, ragga music pumping from it, narrowly missing our wing mirror. I ducked instinctively as Richard swerved into the hedgerow.

‘Blimey!’

An indignant crow flapped out with a rusty squawk.

‘Bloody idiots,’ Richard muttered. ‘Can’t even drive the bloody things. I don’t know why they bother.’

In the mirror I watched the Range Rover disappear round the bend. It was impossible to see who was driving.

‘Stupid poser,’ Richard muttered, reversing.

I thought of my husband’s big car and cringed.

‘It must be so annoying when you’ve lived here all your life,’ I murmured.

‘What?’

‘All these fake farmers driving round in Chelsea tractors.’

‘Or lived here since ‘ninety-eight, any road.’ Richard’s face finally relaxed into a smile. ‘Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind having a go in one of them myself. I bet they’re bloody powerful.’

We drove back to the office debating the finer points of Mrs Johnson’s twee front garden. In the end, the pissing boy won genitals-down.

* * *

I was packing up to leave when Tina called me over.

‘I have got one thing that might be more up your street. We want to do a kind of
Homes & Gardens
thing about the new guys up at Albion Manor. Bit of local glamour.’

‘Oh?’ I chucked my notebook into my bag, unenthused. It might be time to give up on the
Chronicle
. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Hadi Kattan.’ She stuck her pen behind her ear. ‘I want to approach them about a lifestyle piece. It’d be quite a coup, wouldn’t it? And I think they’ll be quite keen because he’s already involved with some community stuff. Word is he’s helping launch his son’s political career, so they’re getting stuck in all over the place. And you’re our big catch really, so he might buy it.’ She looked up at me. ‘Sound up your street?’

I had a chance to say no. I knew I should. But the part of me that had been chasing a story since I was twenty-one said yes.

‘Sure,’ I said quickly. ‘Always. Let me know what you want to do.’

At bedtime I realised Effie’s efforts at breakfast meant we were out of milk, forcing me to unearth a reluctant James from the studio. Leaving the kids glued to
Alice in Wonderland
, I drove to the garage at the end of the lane.