Exposure (4 page)

She had matured; she was confident now. She called him Ben, because he'd snapped at her once, ‘Drop the Mr Harris for Christ's sake – I'm not a bloody shop walker!'

‘How's it going J?' he asked her.

He never smiled, Julia noticed. When he said something complimentary it was with a scowl. ‘Fine, I think. I'm getting a lot of stuff in these days. I hope you're happy with me.'

‘You'd know if I wasn't,' he said. He dropped his heavy glasses on his table. ‘I didn't think you'd last,' he said flatly.

‘I know,' Julia answered quietly. ‘That made me all the more determined.' He glanced at her quickly, and then said, as if the words were chewed-up glass, ‘You're doing all right. Don't try and run before you can walk, that's all.'

Julia smiled. ‘I won't, because you won't let me.'

‘Too right,' he agreed. ‘Now I'm busy, even if you're not.'

Julia had been on the staff for nine months when William Western exploded his bombshell. A big news story had just broken. The mutilated and abused bodies of five-year-old twin girls had been discovered in a wood outside a Welsh village on the border.

It was shaping up to be one of the most gruesome sex murders of children since the Moors killings thirty years ago.

When the directive came down to Ben Harris he couldn't believe it.
I want Julia Hamilton to cover this. Let's see what she's made of. Western
. Ben slammed the note down on his desk and shouted an obscenity. He didn't care who heard him. Send an inexperienced young woman up to cover a horrendous child murder like this – Western must be off his trolley.

He opened his office door and yelled into the bedlam of the news room. ‘Tell J. Hamilton to come in here!' Then he banged the door shut. Davis, who had become a good friend to Julia, raised his eyebrows in a comic grimace. ‘He's yelling his head off for you. Stand up to him, Julia – it's the only way. If he fires you, we'll all come out on strike!'

‘Like hell you will,' she managed to smile at him. ‘I can't think what I've done …'

When she came into his office, Ben Harris looked up and glared. ‘I've just had this come down from the top floor,' he said. ‘You can read it, but you're not bloody going.'

Julia scanned it quickly.

She said quietly, ‘I've got to go. I haven't any choice.'

‘Sit down a minute,' he told her. ‘Just listen to me. You're a good reporter. You're doing well. I like your stuff and I'm bloody difficult to please. But this isn't on. This is the biggest murder story we've had for decades, and it's going to be one of the worst. Those kids were tortured and raped. Whoever did it, mutilated them while they were still alive. I wouldn't send a woman to cover this story in any circumstances. And you've never touched a murder story, have you?

‘This isn't going to be just human interest, grief-stricken parents, shock horror in the community, all that crap – this means inquests, police-incident rooms, autopsies, the lot! It's no job for you. If you foul up on this, you're finished. That's the way he works.'

‘If I refuse the job I'm finished,' Julia said. ‘That's why he picked me. He said it, let's see what she's made of – I've got to go, Ben, or I might as well resign now.'

He looked up at her. She was pale, he realized, shocked by the prospect. But she was right. Western would write her off if she refused.

‘You know, it might be better if you did just that,' he said slowly. ‘I've seen tough men gutted by something like this. Don't do it. Call the old bastard's bluff. I'll back you.'

‘I know you will,' she answered. ‘But it's not the point. I can't walk away from it, or I'm not fit to be in the job. I'll go, Ben, and I'll show him what I'm made of. Now, will you back me up?'

He stood up. ‘I'll back you, J. Hamilton,' he said. He looked angry. ‘But only so long as you don't screw up.'

‘Thanks,' she said. ‘I'll try not to.'

The double murder was a sensation. The tabloids shrieked with gory headlines, the quality papers reported with restraint and sobriety; the
Sunday Herald
gained plaudits from all sides for the concise unsentimental coverage under the byline J. Hamilton. The reports were a masterly analysis of the horror that had engulfed a family and a small community in a Nonconformist village. There was no sensationalism, just clear prose of depth and integrity, exploring the personal and social elements in the sexual perversion of the crime.

No-one suspected that the writer was a woman.

When the arrests were made, Julia was called back to London. A local man, married with children, was charged with the double murders. They were close neighbours of the twins' family.

On her first day in the office, she was feted and congratulated. The grinning Davis smacked a kiss on her cheek. A personal note of commendation was sent down from Western. That evening she was borne off to the pub to celebrate. Ben Harris came up to her.

‘It's about time I bought you a drink,' he said. ‘You deserve it. Come and sit down over here.' He seldom socialized with his staff. He kept himself remote, immersed in his job. Nobody else liked to join them.

‘You look completely gutted,' he said. ‘Take a few days off.'

‘I'd rather work,' Julia answered. ‘I cope better if I keep going.'

‘I told you what it would be like,' he said. ‘You wouldn't listen. But it's marked you, and it shows. Drink that up and have another. I don't often stand drinks, so make the most of it.' A rare smile softened his face. He pushed his thick, grey-streaked hair back, and said, ‘You did bloody well. I was amazed; and you got better and better.'

‘Thanks,' she smiled back at him. ‘It's heady stuff, coming from you. Thanks, Ben.'

‘Excuse me for butting in—' He looked up sharply. A young man was standing by their table. ‘I just wanted to say what a great job you did on those Rhys murders. I'd no idea it was a woman when I read them. My name's Felix Sutton.' He held out a large hand and Julia shook it. ‘I'm on the political desk. I hope you don't mind me crashing your party. I just wanted to say it was great stuff.'

He had a friendly, self-confident grin. ‘Mind if I sit down?'

‘Of course not,' Julia answered. Ben Harris pushed his chair back. She realized that he looked at the intruder with hostility. He gave the young man his well-known scowl. ‘I'll be off then,' he said.

Felix suggested they went to a trattoria in Covent Garden. He didn't argue when she said of course she'd pay her half. Sitting opposite him, Julia realized how attractive he was. He wasn't conventionally handsome; he looked like a boxer, with a broken nose and a boxer's body. He was certainly younger than she was, but it didn't seem to matter.

‘Before we order,' he said, ‘do you want to talk about the case, or have you had enough blood and guts for tonight?'

Julia winced. ‘Don't,' she said. ‘It was a nightmare. I just had to shut off any feelings or I couldn't have done those interviews or gone to the inquest. All I could do was hang in there to see whoever did it got caught. It kept me sane. Now I've got to put it out of my mind. Or try to. I haven't slept a night through since I went up there,' she admitted.

‘I'm not surprised. Let's start with a bottle of wine. The talk round the office is you're marked for stardom. They're all buying drinks and chatting you up now, but some people aren't going to like it. Ben Harris for one,' he said.

‘But I've only just started,' Julia protested. ‘I couldn't be a threat to him in a million years.'

‘That's not how he sees it,' he countered. ‘I'll bet he stabbed a few backs on his way up, why shouldn't you? Especially with the old man behind you. Have you been down to the house yet?'

‘I went before I started working. He wanted to have a look at me. He said he'd noticed my stuff on the
Post.'

‘I've heard that's how it goes. But only if it's someone he's picked out specially. I wish I'd get a chance to meet him.'

‘Maybe you will.' She was careful not to discuss William Western. He didn't pursue it; he talked about himself without bombast, but without modesty either. He'd come to the newspaper as a junior reporter straight from Keele University. He had a first-class degree in Modern History. He had done some amateur boxing, he touched his nose and grinned, reached the all-England semi-finals, but that was just a hobby. He liked keeping fit and worked out at a gym on the weekends. ‘What I really want', he said, as the second bottle of wine was opened, ‘is to get to the top. One day I'm going to be sitting in old Warburton's office.' Clive Warburton was chief political correspondent, and a powerful pundit on the Westminster scene.

‘You
are
ambitious,' Julia remarked. ‘But you've got plenty of time, anyway.'

‘No, lady, that's where you're wrong.' He was quite serious, the cheery grin had changed to a look of steely purpose. ‘Anyone who thinks they've got plenty of time isn't going to get there. I'm the original young man in a hurry. I want it all and I want it yesterday.'

Suddenly he laughed. ‘As you can see I'm an ambitious bastard. Changing the subject, I love your hair. Is it for real?'

‘Of course it is,' Julia protested. He smiled at her and it was a naked sexual invitation. ‘I suppose I have to take your word for it—'

‘You do,' she said firmly. ‘It's late and I'm shattered. Let's get the bill.' She paid her share and he took it.

‘This was great, let's do it again?'

They were in the street and he was looking down at her.

Julia had ended an affair when she left Yorkshire. There'd been no man in her life since then. ‘Why not? I liked it too.'

‘Can you lift me back to Islington?'

‘Yes, of course.' He squeezed himself into the little car; he was too tall and too big to fit into the front seat comfortably.

‘Mine's on the bloody blink,' he explained. ‘We had a little argument with a lorry coming up the A10 and the lorry won. Just here, number twenty-eight. It's not as grotty as it looks outside. Quite nice. Want to come in for a drink?'

‘Not tonight,' Julia said. ‘I'm on my knees I'm so tired. I hope to God I sleep.'

‘You would if you came up with me,' he said coolly.

‘You're very sure of yourself, aren't you?' She felt suddenly angry. Angry with herself too, because she was tempted.

He grinned and, bending down, aimed a light kiss on her cheek.

‘No harm in trying,' he said. ‘I hope you'll say yes, next time. See you, Julia.' He got out and ran up the stairs and let himself in. He didn't look back as she drove off.

That was five years ago, and his prophecy had come true. She was the brightest young star in the Fleet Street firmament, with her own byline, and a book analysing the Rhys murders published to general acclaim. And she and Felix had moved into a flat together.

Felix had planned a weekend at the pub on the Avon. He liked fishing and he waved her objections away by saying he'd teach her. ‘It's a nice place, not fancy, but they hire out rods and a boat.' Julia had been looking forward to it; London was hot and she'd just come back from a hectic trip to the Midlands to write up on a prominent industrialist who had committed suicide before he could be arrested for fraud.

His company was in receivership. He'd walked out of his Queen Anne house near Melton Mowbray and blown half his head off with a shotgun. A couple of days lazing on a river and making love to Felix would take her mind off his wife and two teenage children.

But on Thursday afternoon the call came through. Western's personal secretary. The same smooth voice, well known to Julia now.

‘Lord and Lady Western would like you to dine with them on Saturday and stay the night.'

‘This Saturday?'

‘It is rather short notice, but they're sure you'll understand.'

There'd been several invitations since that nerve-racking initiation. Julia knew the formula: down for dinner, a smart gathering of politicians, diplomats, people Western wanted to make use of, or who hoped to make use of him. Then leave promptly after breakfast. He called it ‘Dine and Sleep', mocking the Royal protocol at Windsor Castle.

‘I had something planned,' Julia protested.

‘I know they're counting on you,' the voice said. ‘Surely you can rearrange it, Miss Hamilton. When can you let me know?'

It wasn't an invitation, it was an order. As the voice was well aware.

‘I'll change my plan,' Julia conceded. In a necessary show of independence, she added, ‘But you're right, it is short notice. I suppose someone else dropped out.'

‘Not to my knowledge. Arrive at six-thirty, black tie as usual. I'll let Lady Western know.'

She'd put through a call to Felix. He had been promoted to Clive Warburton's ‘Gofer'. Go for this and go for that. But it was a start, and he was making himself very useful.

‘Darling,' she said, ‘I've got to cancel our weekend. The old man's asked me for a D and S on Saturday. I'm so sorry, but I've got to go.'

‘Of course you have,' he answered. ‘Might be something in it for you.'

‘I was looking forward to going with you,' she insisted. ‘I tried to get out of it, but it was impossible.'

‘Don't get your knickers in a twist,' he said cheerfully. ‘We'll do it another time. The Warbler wants me to go to the all-night debate tonight, so I won't be home. He's out to dinner, lucky old fart. See you.'

Julia put the phone down. He didn't mind about cancelling the weekend. Of course, it was easier for her that he wasn't jealous or possessive.

He took life as it came. Their personal life, she corrected herself. He had tunnel vision when it concerned his career. He expected her to feel the same. They had fun together; they had mutual friends, though most of them tended to be Felix's age and with his interests. But he was good about escorting her to anything important. He could be charming and well mannered when he chose. You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, he quoted. They had a very open, civilized relationship and it suited them both. She just wished he had been as disappointed about losing their weekend as she was.