More Than You Know (74 page)

“Matt, hi. It’s me.”

“Oh … Gina. Hallo.”

“You don’t sound very pleased to hear from me. It’s been a while.”

“No, no. I am … sorry. I … well, yes, of course I am. How are you doing?”

“I’m doing pretty well, thanks. Very well, actually. Which is why I’m ringing you.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes. I’m looking for new premises. To open a second shop. I thought you might be able to help.”

It annoyed him when people thought he was a sort of glorified estate agent.

“Gina, I don’t handle that sort of thing. Sorry.”

“Oh … OK. I just thought—”

“Well, you thought wrong,” said Matt shortly.

“I’m sorry,” said Gina. Her voice was sharp; it cut through Matt’s misery.

“No, no, I’m sorry. Got a few problems at the moment.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“ ’Fraid not. No.”

“Well … you know where I am, Matt. If you need me.”

It worried him that he knew where she was. He hoped nobody else did.

Jack Beckham told Barrett to stay after the evening conference. He was holding the first draft of his article.

“There’s not enough here,” he said, “too much sentimental claptrap. This isn’t fucking
Woman’s Own
. What’s this girl’s name, for a start?”

“I … said I wouldn’t give that.”

“Well, you need to give it, OK? And we need facts and figures, and I’ve told you, we certainly need the name of the developer, and a quote from him. Otherwise, we could have made it all up.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look, I’m trying to make a star journalist of you. I thought that was what you wanted when you came down from that one-horse town. Maybe I was mistaken, maybe—”

Johnny Barrett said OK, and that none of that would be very difficult.
And told himself that he had done his best to protect Heather; after all, she hadn’t been stupid, and she had certainly known she was talking to a journalist.

Now, the developer.

“Eliza, hallo, it’s me, Heather. Look—I thought I’d better tell you I talked to that journalist after all. He turned up at the house and … well, he was really nice, just like you said, and he bought me a coffee and I quite enjoyed it.”

“Right. Did he say when it might go in?”

“No, he didn’t. But he did promise not to put any names or addresses in and—”

“Good. Well, I’m glad you told me; that’s great. I’ll try to get round later in the week; have to go now. Take care.”

“Johnny Barrett? This is Eliza Shaw. Look, I hear you talked to my friend.”

“To Heather, yes.”

“I wish you’d rung me first. I did want to be there.”

“Not necessary, Eliza. I don’t know why you thought you needed to be. She’s very bright. Very sweet.”

“Yes, OK, but … you won’t put her name in, will you?”

“Now, what was the deal, Eliza? And what do you think I am?”

“A member of Fleet Street,” said Eliza. “Please don’t, Johnny, please.”

“You’re insulting my integrity,” he said, and rang off.

Susan came into Matt’s office with a typed list.

“What’s that?”

“You asked me to find some low-rent flats, Mr. Shaw. I’ve got a few, all very nice; shall I leave them with you?”

“Oh … yes, please. Thanks, Susan.”

Perhaps this was what it would take to please Eliza, at least a bit,
show her he wasn’t all bad, break the awful frozen impasse. Although why he should want to, he didn’t know. She so clearly despised him and everything he stood for …

Barrett’s third call revealed the name of the landlord of the Clapham terrace, and of the developer who had bought the freehold.

“And here’s a thing,” said his informant. “It’s a subsidiary of Matt Shaw’s company. Probably a tax dodge, very clever.”

“Matt Shaw? Are you quite certain about that?”

“Course. Ask him, why don’t you?”

“I think I’d better not,” said Barrett.

“Hallo, Louise. How you doing?”

“Oh … pretty well. We seem to have got planning permission on the new hotel. Nice story for you; we’ve seen off the arty brigade.”

“Yes? Well, not for me this time. Look … just checking something—is SureFire Development an offshoot of Matt Shaw’s company?”

“Yes, it is. But it’s perfectly legal, nothing worth writing about. Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Barrett. “Just doing a roundup, you know.”

“Louise? Eliza. Look, have you heard from your friend Johnny Barrett lately?”

“Funny you should say that, but yes. About an hour ago. Asking me—”

“Asking you what?”

Louise told her.

“Oh, Christ,” said Eliza. “Jesus Christ.”

“OK,” said Jack Beckham, “this is pretty good now. Well done, Barrett. We’ll make a journalist of you yet. Lawyers seen it?”

“Yup.”

“Because it is strong stuff.”

“Yeah, I know. But they said as long as there was no doubt about the landlord—and it’s definitely him, and anyway, I got a quote out of him—”

“Good. We’ll run it tomorrow. With a trail on the front page. Now … this crap about Covent Garden. Can you believe it—they want to turn it into some kind of fancy shopping area, with cafés and jazz bars. The old porters’d be turning in their graves.”

Eliza even tried to get through to Jack Beckham; it was no use. The story was just too good.

Matt was out that night at a dinner. She sat at home with Emmie, feeling increasingly sick. At eleven o’clock, she called the cab service she and Matt used and asked them to go and get a first-edition copy of the
Daily News
from Waterloo Station.

She opened it, shaking so hard, and gulping with fear, that it took long minutes to find the feature.

The property feature: across two pages.

“Millions Made from Misery,” it was called, and underneath that, in only slightly smaller type: “The landlords who make lives hell.”