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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
The world is counting down to the millennium – and to disaster. When a child's body is found on a remote island east of London, journalist Jonny Murphy is sent to investigate. What he uncovers is more than a tragedy. It's a warning. Something catastrophic is coming … and Jonny might be the only one who can stop it. `A propulsive, atmospheric thriller that ratchets up the tension with every page´ TM Logan `Sultoon parcels out the revelations slowly … her story builds to a cleverly wrought and suspenseful climax as the new year approaches´ Sunday Times `A powerhouse writer´ Jo Spain `Cleverly layered and beautifully atmospheric … Sarah Sultoon has become an auto-buy author for me´ Kia Abdullah –––– They feared the machines. They should have feared the people… London, Christmas 1999. The world is on edge. With the new millennium just days away, fears of the Millennium Bug are spiralling – warnings of computer failures, market crashes, even global catastrophe. But fifty miles east, on the frozen Blackwater Island, a different kind of mystery unfolds. A child's body is discovered on the bracken, untouched by footprints, with no sign of how he died. And no one has come forward to claim him. At the International Tribune, reporter Jonny Murphy senses something is off. Police are appealing for relatives, not suspects. An anonymous call led officers to the scene, but no one knows who made it. While the world fixates on a digital apocalypse, Jonny sees the real disaster unfolding closer to home. With just twenty-hour hours before the century turns, he heads to Blackwater – driven by curiosity, desperation, and the sting of rejection from his colleague Paloma. But Blackwater has secrets buried deep in the frozen ground. More victims – some dead, others still paying for past sins. And when Paloma catches up to him, they stumble onto something far bigger than either of them imagined. Something that could change everything. The millennium is coming. The clock is ticking. Can Jonny stop it? Should he? And what if Y2K wasn't a hoax, but a warning…? –––––– `Propulsive characters and a simmering mystery explode into a race against time … it had me gripped´ Rod Reynolds `The clock ticks down towards a fantastic payoff … Abandoned islands, thrilling chases, investigative journalists – what more could you want?´ Holly Watts `Atmospheric, tense and all the more shocking for mirroring real state crimes´ Eve Smith `Authenticity that demands your attention´ Will Carver `A distinctively chilling roller-coaster´ Peter Hain `Readers who love mysteries, bleak landscapes and a lingering sense of dread will enjoy this, and the author's notes may haunt you´ Mature Times `A thrilling, tightly plotted, and important read´ Michael J Malone Praise for Sarah Sultoon **Longlisted for the John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger** **WINNER of the Crime Fiction Lover Debut Thriller Award**
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TEAM ORENDA ii
iii
iv
Blackwater
Sarah Sultoon
viFor Gill and Pete – even better friends than neighbours. viiviii
Contents
Prologue
Christmas Day, 1999
The child looked like a porcelain doll. Dark eyelashes resting on pale cheeks, softly pouting lips, sandy hair swept neatly under a flat brown cap. Delicate hands folded across a miniature cotton shirt and waistcoat. A figure of peace, placed in repose on the bracken as if simply lying down to rest next to a pyramid of rocks. Even the bluish tinge to the skin could have been explained away by the moonlight.
Except this was Blackwater Island. An uninhabited tidal landmass in the middle of Essex’s Blackwater river. An ecosystem so rare and fragile that it was designated an official wildlife sanctuary and closed to visitors many years earlier. Until an anonymous call before dawn on Christmas Day, Essex police had only ever seen it from a distance, shrouded in the near-constant haze hanging low over the estuary. They weren’t just wary of its protected status as a nature reserve. Blackwater was once a Viking stronghold. The myths and legends surrounding its fall to the Saxons dated back to the Dark Ages.
The caller had left a message on the automated answering service at the small police station in the nearby mainland town of Maldon. All Detective Inspector Gillian Peters overheard before the caller hung up was that an innocent child had died in Blackwater’s wilderness. The only police officer permanently based in an area long overlooked in favour of London, she was used to feeling isolated and edgy. But she wasn’t prepared to deal with the body of a child alone. There was just one person she could call 2who she knew would help her without question. The local pathologist. More used to dealing with dead bodies than she’d ever be.
By the time the two of them reached the copse at the centre of Blackwater’s wilderness, the vegetation was almost over their heads. The all-pervasive estuary mist had turned to rain and the wind tearing through their sodden clothes felt like a lash. But they were coming up against far worse than the elements. For all Blackwater’s mythical folklore, there was no escaping the reality of the scene before them.
A child was dead. Bearing no obvious signs of cause or recent injury. Laid next to a makeshift shrine, on an island long presumed to be largely untouched by human hands.
The two women paused, eyeing the child’s chest, damp and still as a painting. Peters blamed the rain for the single tear escaping down her cheek. Turning, they did their best not to contaminate the scene and went to call for reinforcements. The only wet footprints left in the bracken were theirs.
Chapter One
Herefordshire, two days earlier
Sudden darkness. Total disorientation. Rising panic. Jonny Murphy is thrown the instant the hood is plunged over his head. He saw it coming – the edge of a black pillowcase was hanging out of one of his assailants’ pockets. Why else would the man be carrying it? They’re outside, on a farm in the middle of the English countryside. But that split second of anticipation has done nothing for Jonny’s ability to fight back. He’s suddenly moving like a rag doll, wrongfooted by more than just the dark. He’s had a hood thrown over his head on the job before and was lucky to escape with his life that time.
His two assailants manhandle him at speed down the lane at the edge of the giant yellow field. Jonny knows where he’s being taken – he saw that a split second earlier, too: an old shed by the boundary corner, rusty door already hanging open. Chosen exactly for this purpose, he realises with a sour rush of adrenaline, recalling the men’s unsolicited offer of a ride out into the fields to help investigate reports of suspicious behaviour. Jonny is the journalist in this equation. He’s operating alone in a tricky location that he knows is hiding something big. He shouldn’t be taking offers of anything at face value. Stumbling, he lands hard on his knees in the undergrowth.
‘Careful,’ a voice warns, yanking his arms over his head so he can be hauled along the ground. ‘We don’t want to bruise the product.’
Product? Some of Jonny’s spirit returns at that. He may have 4made mistakes. But he isn’t a product of anyone or anything. Objective thought and independent action are at his fucking core. Digging his heels into the dirt, he pulls back with his arms as his assailants try to drag him forward.
‘Oooh, got some fight in you after all.’
More jibes and taunts, but they are glancing off Jonny now. He works for a major international newspaper. He’s driven to find out the truth at any cost. And the instructions clanging around in his mind are those he’s successfully followed before. Leave footprints. Leave evidence. Fight for your life. He goes limp, dragging his feet until a pair of hands grabs at his ankles. Then he kicks out with as much strength as he can muster, heel connecting with something unmistakably solid.
‘You jumped-up little shit,’ a voice spits thickly. Jonny pictures blood collecting in the man’s mouth, and he kicks out again with a wet thump. The scuffle escalates. There’s a whole lot more swearing. An alarm sounds somewhere deep in Jonny’s mind, but he refuses to acknowledge it. Not yet. Not until he’s got the job done.
But then his leg is caught and immobilised. The cotton pillowcase is pulled tight across his face. And now he’s off the ground, spreadeagled in the air, facing downward. He feels his notebook fall from his pocket, heart sinking with it. Proof of his entire investigation just disappeared on the wind.
Leave evidence, he reminds himself, even though he knows his notebook is the one thing that these men will spot and pocket immediately. They’re after information. They want to know exactly what Jonny knows. And Jonny has most of it written down.
Grunting, the men carry him along until a scrape, creak and distinct change in the atmosphere confirms they’re out of the open air. They must be inside the shed.
Jonny is bent into a chair, his hands quickly yanked behind his 5back and tied together. The stench of fertiliser assails him with such sudden intensity it threatens to make him gag inside the hood. His mind races. They’re on a farm. Fertiliser’s not unusual or especially dangerous – unless it is mixed with a combustible material. Then it becomes one of the two main ingredients needed to produce a homemade bomb. He starts sniffing wildly despite the stench, suddenly desperate to detect a whiff of diesel too. If he’s right, then he’s in the bomb’s kill zone. And he’ll have confirmed this farm’s secret. He tunes out the alarm sounding deep in his mind again. He’s still not ready to listen to its warning.
Then the pillowcase is yanked off his head as suddenly as it was plunged on. A row of giant fertiliser drums are all that he registers before two different assailants step heavily in front of him, unrecognisable in black gloves and balaclavas.
Jonny scrutinises each man, remembering to drop his head deferentially a split second too late. Don’t make eye contact. Minimise aggression. Play for time. Instructions clatter around in his mind until a voice heavy with arrogance and entitlement rings around the shed.
‘Start talking.’
Jonny flinches, keeping his gaze low. Keep calm. Concentrate on practical details. This man is trying to rattle him. He can’t let himself rise to it. Twisting his hands behind his back to test the tension of their bindings, he is encouraged to find his chair demonstrably unstable, wobbling with his every movement.
‘About … about what?’ he asks.
Now a second voice, reedy and sinister, redolent of intelligence – the brains of the operation. Not the brawn. ‘You know exactly what.’
Jonny plays dumb. He’s so close to finding out the truth about this farm he can literally smell it. But it’s worth nothing if he spills his guts now or can’t get out of this fucking shed. A gloved hand 6reaches out to chuck him under the chin before running a menacing finger down his chest.
‘Don’t make me wait, Jonny. We’ve got plenty of ways to loosen your tongue. And the longer I have to stand here staring at you, the more I like the idea of using some of them.’
The brawn lifts his shirt to show off the conspicuous lack of manual safety on the handgun tucked into his waistband. But it’s the sight beyond him that makes Jonny catch his breath. A large, red, plastic fuel tank positioned directly in front of a giant fertiliser drum. Unmistakable evidence of a makeshift bomb factory. One instruction instantly supersedes the others clanging around in his head: play for time.
‘You’ve already got my notebook,’ he begins, rocking in mock panic on the increasingly feeble chair. ‘Everything I know is written down in there.’
The finger jabs hard into Jonny’s gut. ‘Wrong answer. But since I believe in delayed gratification, I’ll let you have another go.’
He rocks harder. ‘I don’t … I don’t know what you mean.’
Breath, rancid and hot, is suddenly puffing directly into Jonny’s face. ‘You’re sniffing around this farm for a reason. We want to know exactly what it is.’
But he doesn’t have to reply. One last determined rock and the chair finally gives way. Jonny shoots both forward and down, angling his body so he thunders into his assailant like a rocket. The man groans as he sprawls in a winded heap.
Scrambling to his feet, Jonny bolts for the open shed door. Dives into the yellow meadows. Blunders on through a shower of pollen. Leave footprints. Leave evidence. Fight for your life. Then the thunder of heavy boots catches up with him. Rough hands grab at the arms still tied behind his back. Jonny falls to his knees as soon as he recognises the two men who drove him into the fields at the start. His assailants from inside the shed reach them seconds later. 7
Gazing up from his clump of felled yellow wheatgrass, Jonny can’t disguise the desperation in his voice. He looks wildly between the four men, by now all arrayed brick-set in front of him, bright pollen dust splayed beneath their feet.
‘Did I make it? Did I pass?’
‘Sorry, son.’ A balaclava comes off to reveal a face and a wry smile that Jonny recognises from a seminar on weapons held at the farm earlier in the week. ‘You failed the minute you got on to the tractor alone with these two jokers.’ The balaclava waves at the two men to his right. ‘It couldn’t have been more obvious they were leading you into a trap.’
All the fight is draining out of Jonny in disappointment. Suddenly that stupid alarm in his mind is ringing so loud it is deafening. Surely he isn’t going to fail? He can never fail, no matter what it costs him.
‘But I got the story. Isn’t the whole point of this exercise to test whether I can get the story and get out safely? It was literally the first thing you said when I got here – that the aim of this course is to teach journalists how to do our jobs as safely as possible. That I had to find out what the farm was hiding but be prepared to fight my way out to report it. And it’s a bomb factory – right? The empty tank of diesel that I couldn’t miss right in front of the fertiliser drums? You even used a bright-red one. Nice touch, by the way—’
‘No.’ The man cuts him off with an expression caught somewhere between irritation and pity. Jonny feels marginally better as he registers the cut swelling on the man’s bottom lip. ‘You’ve completely missed the point of this exercise. We’re all former special-forces soldiers. We don’t care about the story. We just care about teaching you lot how to stay alive long enough to get it. That’s what we’re practising here. And you were toast the minute you agreed to get on that tractor without backup.’
He pauses to spit blood into the dirt before continuing. 8
‘Better luck next time, eh? Look on the bright side. At least you’re not dead. Or took a boot to the face. You wouldn’t have had a hope in real life.’
Chapter Two
London, 30th December 1999
Jonny ferrets around for tea bags in the grimy cupboard above the coffee machine. The newsroom’s windowless kitchen is still choked with the detritus of a Christmas spent in the office. Dirty dishes are piled high in the sink. There’s a faintly rotten note in the air. A black bin bag is leaking empty microwave meal cartons directly on to the floor – along with the frayed edge of a red felt Santa hat.
Beside him, Paloma reaches for the glass jug on the machine’s hotplate. She eyes its thick and murky contents. ‘Think this is drinkable?’
Jonny sighs, taking down two mugs instead of the box of Tetley’s he was hoping for. ‘It’ll have to be. We’re out of tea bags.’
Paloma replaces the jug in mock horror, her American accent coming out with an exaggerated twang. ‘Hold the front page. An English newsroom is out of tea bags?’
Jonny gazes at the empty workstations beyond the squalid kitchen, still strung with tired loops of tinsel. ‘Listen, tea is no laughing matter around here. No one can get any work done without it. And anyway, not even breaking news stands a chance of making it into the paper at the moment – unless it’s about the new millennium.’
Paloma pours herself some coffee. ‘Still sore, I see.’
‘About spending Christmas sitting around in here?’
She raises an eyebrow over the lip of her mug. ‘No.’
Jonny broods on his failed training course. Proving he knows 10how to operate safely in warzones should have been easy for someone like him. He’s a frontline news reporter. The International Tribune covers stories from all over the world. He’s already had a lot more experience of warzones than most people ever have.
‘I am still a bit pissed off about that course,’ he admits. ‘I just don’t particularly want to talk about it any more, is all.’
‘Even if it’s just to remind you of how many sticky situations you’ve already extracted yourself from – successfully and without the help of former special forces?’
His mood lifts a notch or two. ‘Well, since you put it like that.’
‘There you go. And it’s true. I was there for some of them too, remember?’
Jonny recalls the moment they first met. A violent street riot, a febrile South American city. Paloma had arrived from the US to try and find freelance work as a photographer while he had been attempting to make a name for himself covering Argentina’s financial crisis.
‘How could I forget,’ he adds wryly. ‘I suppose it just still winds me up that after repeatedly proving I can do the actual job I suddenly need to pass a test to keep doing it. And it’s not even for anything related to journalism. It’s just to tick a new box on the company’s insurance policy.’
‘It wouldn’t be much of a training course if you didn’t need to pass a test at the end.’
Jonny slops some more coffee into his mug. ‘It didn’t feel like much of a training course to start with. The whole thing was more of an advert for the army than anything else. We spent ages playing with guns and bullets. Did you know that special-forces soldiers don’t carry pistols with manual safety catches these days?’
Paloma looks interested. ‘Really? Since when?’ 11
Jonny instantly regrets getting drawn back into discussing the bloody course again. The truth is he was so busy spinning out over the uncertain status of their relationship while he was doing it that he could hardly concentrate, let alone remember anything. Telling her how he really feels about her the night before it started was by far the most unnerving thing he’s ever done. And for what? He still isn’t sure how she really feels about him.
He tries to move on. ‘I’m not sure. Something to do with the Cold War. That’s when we got on to chemical weapons. Then it was every different kind of military operation in the book. Talking me through the logistics of attack helicopters, tanks, boats, even submarines. Marvelling at glossy photos of hardware.’
‘I see what you mean about an advert for the army.’
‘Right.’ Jonny slurps his coffee, grimacing. ‘Man alive, this stuff is disgusting.’
‘Drink it fast,’ Paloma says. ‘You don’t taste it that way.’
‘If you say so,’ he replies, gulping down the rest. ‘Nope. Still absolutely rancid.’
She puts down her mug with a grin. ‘So the whole thing was just military PR?’
‘Basically. And we only got to the practical stuff right at the end. Which was mainly just a list of instructions about what to do in the event of an ambush or hostage situation. Leave evidence. Play for time. Fight for your life. The usual.’
‘But I thought you said the ambush they staged was actually pretty realistic?’
‘It was. They knocked me off my feet, put a hood over my head. Tied me up and tried to force me to spill my guts about a story they’d planted.’
Paloma frowns. ‘Sounds a bit heavy.’
‘Not really. I mean, we know it happens.’ 12
Her face darkens. Jonny immediately feels guilty.
‘I managed to kick one of them in the face though,’ he adds.
‘I bet that made you feel better,’ she remarks.
‘Only for about ten seconds. The truth is if I’d kicked anyone in the face the last time someone shoved a hood over my head we definitely wouldn’t be here now.’
She rinses her mug in the sink. ‘Then maybe it’s a good thing that you failed.’
Jonny is silenced for a moment. Their reporting on Argentina’s financial crisis had led to a far darker investigation, which seriously threatened both of their lives. Starting again in London hasn’t been easy for either of them. He may have been raised in the UK but his upbringing wasn’t exactly straightforward. And Paloma’s story is almost worse than his. For at least the thousandth time he wonders whether the one person on earth he feels like he can actually relate to will ever feel the same about him.
‘Maybe so,’ he finally says. ‘But now I’m stuck with reporting on the bloody new millennium every day that I don’t have this damn certificate.’
Paloma clangs her mug on to the draining rack. ‘Well at least you’ve only got two days of it left.’
‘I suppose that’s one advantage of covering a countdown,’ he mumbles, still preoccupied, running an unconscious hand down the buttons of his shirt where days earlier he’d been repeatedly jabbed in the stomach. ‘I know exactly when it is going to end.’
‘But not how it is going to end, huh?’
He looks up to find her smirking. ‘Don’t you start. If I have to interview one more person about the risk of total digital meltdown at the stroke of midnight I will melt down the fucking computers myself.’
‘Can you explain it to me? I still don’t totally understand how they think it will work.’ 13
‘The millennium bug, you mean?’
‘Yes. I know it’s a computer virus but don’t get how it could torpedo everything.’
‘Experts are warning of a potential glitch in numerical recognition software that could see chaos take hold in the new year,’ Jonny recites, as if by rote. ‘A computer’s ability to differentiate between—’
‘In English, please. Preferably the American kind.’
‘Look, I don’t have any tea.’ Jonny gestures at the coffee grounds in his own mug. ‘So that’s the best you’re going to get right now.’
‘Well no one is going to let you write about anything else if you can’t even explain it to me.’
‘OK, OK. It’s simple, really. It’s just about how computer programs interpret dates. For example, when’s my birthday?’
Paloma’s eyes narrow. ‘Is this a test?’
‘No,’ he replies decidedly, even though it kind of is a test – just of nothing whatsoever to do with computers. ‘It’s an example. Just tell me when my birthday is.’
‘July fifteen? And you’re already a year older than me, so 1975.’
He tries and fails to stop himself beaming. So she knows when his birthday is. That doesn’t mean she also knows and loves the recesses of his pathetic soul.
‘Correct. July the fifteenth, 1975. Now picture the universal way we enter dates into computer systems. The two digits we use to represent the day, the month and the year. Can you see how straightforward it is for a computer program to interpret the difference between my birthday and your birthday on that basis?’
‘And when’s my birthday?’
He answers a little too quickly. ‘January the twenty-fourth, 1977.’ 14
‘Very good,’ she replies, raising an eyebrow. ‘OK, I see what you mean. The numbers seventy-five and seventy-seven make it clear which date comes first. Right?’
‘Exactly. The concern now is that when the year updates from 1999 to 2000 the computer might roll backward in time rather than forward because it’s never had to deal with a year ending in two zeros before.’
Paloma’s eyes widen with recognition. ‘So loads of automated systems might collapse as a result?’
‘Bingo. Software engineers have been speculating about it for years. The first sign things might go wrong was when an American woman born in 1888 got an automatic invite to join her local nursery when she was one hundred and four. A computer program in some tiny town in Minnesota interpreted the last two digits of her year of birth as 1988 and therefore thought she was four years old.’
‘But surely advanced computer systems can cope with a simple variation in numbers.’
‘That’s why it’s called a bug. Experts can’t definitively predict how all the software is going to behave. Think of it like a variation in the virus that causes flu. Immune responses will differ and some patients will really suffer. But imagine if computers flying a packed passenger plane suddenly malfunction. Or billions of dollars are wiped off financial markets. All information held online is also potentially vulnerable – bank details, medical records, state secrets, the whole salad. Everyone thought what happened in Minnesota was funny until an industry magazine published an article called “The Doomsday Bug”. Now total costs of counter measures are estimated at between three and five hundred billion. International action is being co-ordinated by the fucking United Nations.’ He knows he suddenly sounds irritated, but he can’t help it. He’s been writing different versions of the same story for months. 15
‘But most of these computer systems are still operated by actual people,’ Paloma persists.
‘That’s part of the problem. Even just one person worrying about it is enough for millions to start panicking. The prospect of unpredictable systems failure is terrifying. What if nuclear weapons are accidentally discharged? Or planes start falling out of the sky?’
‘And there we have the story to end the century,’ Paloma finishes archly. ‘I get it now. Even though it still sounds a little ridiculous.’
Jonny reaches into the sink to rinse out his mug. ‘Right. Readers love a good conspiracy. And all this coverage just feels like we’re giving them one because they want one, not because we know one actually exists. At least it’ll be over soon, one way or the other. And you get to take beauty shots of fireworks and drunk people dancing all night.’
‘I like how you think you’re the one with the most boring assignment.’
‘Well, you are going to be at one hell of a party.’ He pauses. Then tries to ask his next question as if he doesn’t care what the answer is. ‘Do you know exactly where they’re sending you yet?’
‘Tower Bridge. They’re trying to get me a second security pass so I can get closer to Westminster, but it’s not looking good. I’m just happy I don’t have to do any of the accreditation paperwork myself. The background checks are crazy. There are different identity badges for each press pen along the river bank. Arrangements for the pleasure boats on the Thames with the best view of the fireworks were finalised weeks ago. They’re even calling the display the “River of Fire”.’
‘Right.’ Jonny tries not to sound disappointed. ‘I’m down at Westminster.’
‘As you should be.’ Paloma avoids his gaze. ‘Hey, if senior reporters aren’t right at the heart of things then…’ She trails off into a shrug. 16
Jonny replies with a forced laugh.
‘Come on.’ She eyes the rest of the dirty crockery in the sink with distaste. ‘It’s time.’
Chapter Three
The London bureau chief – Lukas – frowns as Paloma and Jonny join the daily morning huddle at the newsdesk a few seconds late.
‘As I was saying.’ Lukas taps the edge of the desk with the rolled-up magazine in his hand, running the other through his shock of strawberry-blonde hair. ‘There are some great angles on the millennium bug to pick up and run with today. The planning department has been working overtime. We’ve got an exclusive interview with the two pyrotechnicians in charge of the firework display by the Thames. The whole event is computerised and could, therefore, potentially fail—’
‘The fireworks are computerised?’ Jonny interrupts before he can catch himself. ‘How is that even possible? Isn’t this just about lighting a load of fuses?’
Lukas’s eyes narrow behind the thick black frames of his glasses. ‘That’s why it’s a doubly good get. They’re having to set the rockets off from barges on the water because they’re expecting a million people to gather and watch from the river banks. So a computer program is going to send radio cues to the technicians on each barge from an operations room at Tilbury Docks.’
‘Which I suppose is why they’re calling the display the “River of Fire”.’
‘Right. The route starts at Tower Bridge and ends in Vauxhall. Four miles of major London landmarks. It’s all about maximising the beauty and impact of the spectacle. Gotta compete with all the displays due around the rest of the world. A snapper 18somewhere is going to win best picture and these guys are dead set on it coming from London.’
‘I’ll give it my best shot,’ Paloma pipes up beside Jonny. He smarts as Lukas smiles at her. A murmur of encouragement ripples around the group.
‘We’ve also got an interview lined up with a family of four who will be airborne over the Indian Ocean on the stroke of midnight,’ Lukas continues. ‘Prices are a fraction of what they usually are so they’re headed to Australia to see a terminally ill relative. They can’t afford to worry about potential systems failure—’
‘If we’re going to do that, can we at least talk to a pilot too?’ Jonny interrupts again. ‘They’re the ones who actually need to keep the planes in the air. What if computer systems malfunction to the point they lose control of the aircraft?’
Lukas’s clipped South African accent turns distinctly brusque. ‘As I said, the planning department has been working overtime. We’re also interviewing both a pilot and a spokesman for British Airways.’
‘Well we already know exactly what they’re going to say. The airlines are just trying to sell as many tickets as they have seats.’
Finally Lukas pauses, turning to the news editor seated directly next to him, a neat blonde woman whose sharp black jacket and crisp white shirt look at odds with the crumpled, resigned expression on her face.
‘You can take it from here, Lisa. Jonny and I will be in my office.’
He points the rolled-up magazine at Jonny before flicking it in the direction of his office in the newsroom’s far corner and stalking away. Loose newspapers flutter in their wake like tumbleweed as Jonny follows. He knows he’s about to get schooled – and he deserves it. Lukas was doing him a favour by sending him on that course, and Jonny blew it. 19
‘Close the door,’ Lukas snaps. Jonny tries and fails not to bang it shut.
‘What the fuck is your problem, man? Is this all because of what happened on the course last week?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jonny begins, but Lukas is still shouting.
‘Don’t ever speak to me in public like that again.’
Jonny has to look away. ‘I just … Listen, it came out wrong.’
‘And how exactly was it supposed to come out? Like you weren’t questioning my editorial authority? Or openly shitcanning the work of your colleagues? Or making your disdain for the top news story around the world as plain as your disdain for the way in which we’re covering it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats. ‘I’m just tired—’
‘Tired? We’re all wrecked! Planning Millennium Eve is mincing everyone. What makes you special? You’ve even had a week off kicking back on a farm telling war stories.’
‘Don’t remind me.’ Jonny shifts uncomfortably on the spot, finally choosing to drop into an armchair. A beat of uneasy silence passes between them before Lukas sits down too.
‘Why don’t you tell me what’s really eating you?’ Lukas asks. ‘Is this all still because of failing some stupid test?’
‘It can’t be that stupid if I have to pass it to do any more frontline work, despite all the experience I’ve had already.’
‘I’m well aware of how you feel about it, Jonny.’
Silence. The truth is Jonny knows exactly how Lukas feels about the course too. They were the only two punters left in the bar the night before he left when Lukas had finally admitted to feeling as dubious about their new training requirements as Jonny. He can’t help thinking that if Lukas had schooled him to take the whole thing more seriously then he wouldn’t have gone on to track Paloma down in the small hours and spill his guts to her. But he says none of this. Instead he just apologises again. ‘Like I said. I’m just tired. It isn’t all that surprising.’ 20
‘Ja, I suppose not. What are you, twenty-four? Twenty-five? Still a child. Just a child who’s also a senior reporter at a major international newspaper.’
Thinking of the story that resulted in this promotion almost exactly a year ago makes Jonny feel even worse. He would never have got it into the paper without Lukas, who was the architect of Jonny and Paloma’s arrival in London after their investigation into human-rights abuses in Argentina provoked riots on the ground there. Jonny owes Lukas a lot more than just his loyalty.
‘So what are you saying – that I need to act my age? Apparently I already am.’
Lukas’s tone softens. ‘Just that you gotta be able to play the corporate game better than this. It’s hard, I know. You’ve already achieved more than some reporters achieve in a lifetime of trying. I know you just want to get back at it. But the new millennium is the only story in town right now. And the fact all our computer systems might implode right as it starts is the most interesting angle by far. Some people are losing their minds over it. They think the whole world is going to flame out. Did your girlfriend tell you about the panic room we found on a shoot in a bank last week?’
Jonny tries and fails not to smart at the reference to his relationship with Paloma. ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’
Lukas waves a hand. ‘Ja, I forgot. You two are still dancing around that idea.’
‘It’s complicated,’ Jonny mutters. ‘I guess it just bothers me more than I thought it would … The story, not Paloma,’ he adds hurriedly.
Lukas leans forward. ‘Listen, man. You know how the news business works. Determining what’s in the public interest is also about what the public is interested in. And short of nuclear war – which, by the way—’
‘—some people think might actually happen by accident as a 21result of catastrophic systems failure on the stroke of midnight…’ Jonny finishes for him. ‘Yep, I know. I’ve done that story as well.’
Now Lukas’s eyes are boring into him, rimmed red with exhaustion. ‘Do you need more time off? Is that it? I need you pumped and ready for the big day and night tomorrow. Don’t think I didn’t notice – and appreciate, by the way – that you were kicking your heels in here on Christmas Day with the rest of us.’
‘Definitely not.’ Jonny shakes his head a little too vigorously. ‘I’m not that tired. I’d need a personality transplant to want to go sales shopping. And believe it or not, I actually like microwave turkey dinners.’
Lukas stares at him for so long Jonny has to turn away. No one to spend Christmas with other than colleagues – again. Finally hitting his stride in journalism, Jonny hadn’t expected his personal life to remain quite so spectacularly pitiful. Taken into care after his single mother killed herself when he was nine. Discovering it was because he once had a twin sister kidnapped by his abusive father while they were both still babies. Spending every quiet moment that followed wondering where this fabled twin sister is now and whether finding her would ease the crippling fear of abandonment he’s been living with ever since. He peers at the patterned carpet like it’s some kind of Picasso until Lukas finally says something else.
‘Tell you what. I can live without a byline piece from you today. Most reporters never turn down a byline, but on this occasion I’m guessing you’ll be OK with it.’ Jonny looks up to find him waving a sheet of paper from the printer behind him. ‘Here. Have a read of this.’
‘“Essex police are investigating the death of a child on Blackwater Island”,’ Jonny reads under his breath. ‘“Authorities are appealing for the child’s family to come forward. Anyone with any information is urged to call Essex police.” That’s it? What is this? A news wire? And where exactly is Blackwater Island?’ 22
‘You tell me,’ Lukas replies with a half-smile. ‘You’ve got until this time tomorrow to find out. No child should die without explanation, not in this day and age. Not in any age…’ He trails off into a yawn, rubbing his eyes. ‘Look, just call it a day off. No one needs to know you elected not to spend it in the pub except me.’
Jonny leaves a pause before saying, ‘You’re asking me to investigate something other than the potential consequences of a computer error?’
Finally Lukas grins, standing up and making for the door. ‘Ja. Turns out that sometimes I’m not so great at playing the corporate game either.’
Chapter Four
Shoving the piece of paper into his pocket, Jonny is hurrying out of the newsroom via a side door before Lukas has even made it back to the newsdesk. The trip home to his tiny studio flat – chosen for its position a ten-minute walk away from the Trib newsroom – passes in a windy, wet squall. He’d live directly above the newsroom if he could. Better still, spend his life on the road. Asking the tough questions, holding power to account, never turning away. The mantras of journalism sound hollow as they rattle through his head but he doesn’t care. Too much time alone in the empty silence of his flat takes his mind to places he doesn’t want it to go. Unlocking his front door, he has to remind himself that he’s only going to get his stuff and get out again.
Inside, he’s shouldering his bag with one hand while rifling through the piles of maps on his bookshelf with the other. Essex police are investigating the death of a child on Blackwater Island. And where exactly is that? Shaking open a map of South-East England, he scrutinises the grid squares of Essex county, quickly registering the Blackwater river and an unlabelled island in the middle just a few clicks north of the wide blue mouth of the Thames. Not so far away after all, he thinks, swapping the map for the news wire folded in his pocket and absorbing its little information again with increasing incredulity. Why aren’t police calling this investigation a murder inquiry? And how did the child die? If there is a killer of the worst kind on the loose, shouldn’t a massive manhunt be under way? Authorities are appealing for the child’s family to come forward… So the victim’s identity remains 24unknown. No local children were previously reported missing? Anyone with any information is urged to call Essex police.
Finally Jonny pauses for a moment. He’s cut his news reporting teeth in places where bodies turn up without explanation all the time. But they are almost never children. And when they are, they are never unidentified for long. There are always families going crazy with grief, screaming for news. Or a missing-persons file with a name and face to match. Reading between the few lines of this police report, Jonny knows exactly how much information has been left out. He tucks both the piece of paper and the map of Essex back into a pocket of his cargo pants before heading back out on to the street.
Outside, the rain is intensifying. But Bill’s familiar black minivan is already idling at the kerb. Giving the driver a grateful smile, Jonny pulls open the passenger door.
‘A new record,’ Bill observes from the driver’s seat, windscreen wipers thumping.
Jonny laughs as he slides inside, stuffing his rucksack into the back through the gap between the front seats. ‘When did you get the call?’
‘Twelve minutes ago.’ Bill swaps hazard lights for a single indicator, pulling out smoothly into the traffic. ‘From Lukas himself. Something about you needing an escort to Essex. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but I’m not the man to make it.’
Jonny brightens further. The Trib has a fleet of drivers on retainer, ready to transport reporters and photographers at a moment’s notice, but none come close to Bill. A flash of his distinctive white ponytail against his immaculately pressed black suit and matching shirt in the driver’s seat gets every journey off to a hopeful start, no matter where it is due to end up. He’s everyone’s favourite. And Lukas has assigned him to Jonny.
‘So … ten minutes for the walk back over here,’ Bill continues. ‘Unless you ran? No cheating, now.’ 25
Jonny shakes his head. ‘I walked the usual way. Straight up the main road. So I was only upstairs for two minutes?’
‘And nineteen seconds. Not bad. You don’t even have a flight to catch. You’ve done it inside three minutes before, but only just.’
‘I already had a bag packed.’ Jonny gestures into the back of the van. ‘I’ve been staring at it longingly every night for months.’
‘I don’t doubt it. You news reporters always want to be somewhere you’re not.’ Bill squints at the rucksack in the rear-view mirror. ‘Hang on, you’ve got a sleeping bag too?’
‘Yep. It’s ultra-lightweight. Dead easy to carry.’
‘You’re camping in Essex? What on earth has Lukas got you doing this time?’
‘Honestly, I’m not sure yet,’ Jonny answers, frowning as the traffic thickens. ‘But I thought it was a good idea in case I get stuck—’
‘In Essex?’ Bill laughs. ‘It’s barely fifty miles away, son. And they have hotels, I hear. Although it’s going to take us a good while if the traffic is already this bad. Where exactly are we going?’
‘Have you ever heard of a place called Blackwater Island?’ Jonny reaches back through the gap between the seats and takes the map from the top pocket of his rucksack.
‘No.’ Bill changes lanes, indicator thumping through the van. ‘And if I haven’t heard of it, that usually means it doesn’t exist. Nearly fifty years on the road will do that to a man.’
‘Well, usually, I’d agree with you.’ Jonny opens the map, folding it back on itself to leave the coastal section uppermost. ‘But according to Essex police it definitely exists, and I can only assume it’s this island in the middle of the Blackwater river.’
‘Have you got a nearby village for me, or anything like that?’
‘Eastwood,’ Jonny answers, squinting at the map. ‘According to this, we drive past the town of Maldon, and then Eastwood is right on the water.’ 26
‘Maldon.’ Bill’s face brightens. ‘Now you’re talking. I know exactly where Maldon is. It even came up on the radio just now.’
Jonny frowns. ‘Really? So the news is already out?’
Bill looks quizzically at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘Poncey cooks talking about fancy salt is news? Don’t tell me you lot are falling for the stuff being different just because it comes as flakes in a box.’
‘Oh…’ Jonny realises what Bill is talking about. ‘You mean Maldon sea salt.’
‘Right. They want five pound a box. Salt is salt. And where else would it come from other than the sea?’ He bangs a hand on the steering wheel. ‘Please tell me that’s not the news you’re talking about.’
‘Definitely not.’ Jonny gazes at the map. ‘Essex police investigating the death of a child on Blackwater Island is about all I know so far.’
Bill whistles. ‘That’s terrible. A kid?’
Jonny nods. ‘Apparently. I haven’t spoken to the police myself yet. I probably should have called first. But Lukas has given me a day out of the office. I didn’t want to waste any time sitting on the phone.’
Bill sighs. ‘You need to watch yourself, son.’
Jonny pauses. ‘Watch myself? What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. Burning out long before you’re thirty is going to get you nowhere fast.’
Jonny shifts around in his seat. ‘I’m hardly burning out. I’m just a bit bored. All I’ve been doing since I started reporting from London is writing up different angles on some computer virus that no one even knows is real. At least when I was freelance—’
‘Ah yes.’ Bill cuts him off. ‘That old chestnut. You preferred being your own boss with no idea where your next pay cheque was coming from to being named senior reporter because of a scoop that most correspondents with decades more experience than you 27are still dreaming about? … And don’t look at me like that. I read the paper too, you know.’
Jonny hangs his head. ‘I know I probably expected too much. I just thought I’d be out and about a bit more than I have been since, is all.’ He leaves the rest of it unsaid. No family, no friends other than colleagues, no real possessions, unless he counts the rucksack and sleeping bag in the back of the van. No one of any real meaning in his life except Paloma. Who at least shares his purpose, if nothing else.
‘Plenty of time for that,’ Bill demurs, accelerating into a gap in the traffic. ‘You’ve got years left in you to save the world.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Jonny mutters. ‘But thanks. I probably don’t say it enough.’
‘For what? Doing my job?’
‘That, and for always having deodorant and toothpaste in the back. You make it easier to do mine.’
‘All part of the service,’ Bill replies, tipping a hand to his forehead.
‘Mind if I put the radio on? I need to know if anyone else has picked up the story.’ And got there before me, he adds silently.
‘Of course not.’ Bill waves a hand. ‘Unless it’s those chefs again. I’d rather listen to the shipping forecast. I rather like the shipping forecast, truth be told…’
But Jonny is already back in the zone. The siren call of breaking news is the only real purpose he has. A child has been found dead on an unmapped island barely fifty miles outside the city of London. Not a single family member has come forward to claim the body since. All Jonny really knows is that he’s got less than twenty-four hours to find out enough to keep the story alive.
