Office Politics

It wasn’t till Tuesday morning that Allan had the chance to interrogate Juno, catching her by the coffee machine before she’d even sat at her desk. Daniel, who was passing by, paused at the photocopier to listen.

“What were you up to yesterday?” said Allan.

“Councillor Harrison’s funeral. I’ll write it up before I go home.”

“And after that?”

“Checking out my lead. You said it was okay, remember?”

“It can’t have taken all afternoon. Where were you the rest of the time?”

“In the pub, with all the other reporters.”

As well as looking exasperated, Allan felt uncomfortable. He almost always come off worse in these exchanges with Juno, and he was more than a little fed up with it.

“Don’t be a smartarse, Juno. Tell me, have you got a story or not?”

She took a deep breath.

“Actually, I think it’s more of a monthly feature.”

As she knew, this was close to sacrilege. An invitation to write the monthly feature was the ultimate seal of Allan’s approval, the holy grail of the Chronicle. Introduced when he became editor, it consisted of a long article on a matter of local interest – the problem of stray dogs, for example, or traffic calming, or housing plans. The aim was to engage the readers without unduly distressing them, and Allan would only entrust it to a reporter with some experience, who understood the readership and knew just where to draw the line. A reporter like himself, in fact, though he’d allowed Daniel to write it once. So when Juno dared to put herself forward, his first reaction was indignation. A trainee? And what’s more, a girl? Who on earth did she think she was?

He was about to say as much when a second thought occurred to him. Maybe a better strategy would be to let Juno have her own way? He didn’t for a moment think she’d produce an acceptable article, but Head Office would give him brownie points for giving her the chance, and when she failed, they might stop banging on about equal opportunities. Plus Juno would be put in her place, and in no position to give him lip. As he saw the possibilities, Allan put his indignation aside.

“Okay,” he said. “If that’s what you want. Write it up by Wednesday next week…”

He finished the sentence in his head.

“…and I’ll believe you’re a real reporter. Otherwise, shut up and do what you’re told.”

As Allan smiled with satisfaction, Juno felt a moment of panic. Her plan had been to ask for too much as a way of getting more than usual, which in this case meant a few column inches somewhere nearer the front than page ten. She never thought Allan would agree. What kind of article could she write from the little she knew about MM, especially one that didn’t offend the sensibilities of Chronicle readers? But it was too late to back down now.

“Great!” she said. “I’ll get started tomorrow.”

Allan retreated into his office, while Daniel, who’d overheard everything, shot Juno a truly venomous look. A minute later he ambled over, his face stretched into a salesman’s smile.

“He’s given you the monthly feature? You’ve done well for yourself there, Juno.”

“Don’t ask, and you don’t get,” she said.

“What’s it about?”

“Can’t say at the moment. But I appreciate your interest, Dan.”

Daniel’s smile became more strained. He hated people calling him Dan, as Juno well knew, but this was not the time to complain.

“No problem. If you need any help…”

“Thanks, Dan. I’ll bear it in mind.”

He turned and marched towards Allan’s door, and through the plate-glass window she saw Allan beckon him inside. Daniel was clearly agitated, while Allan held his hands up in a gesture of conciliation. Assuming they would be there for a while, Juno turned and picked up the phone. She didn’t see Allan and Daniel pause to glance at her through the window, or notice Daniel sneak out of the office and position himself by a filing cabinet, close enough to listen in. 

“Hi Steve.”

“Hi, Juno. How’s it going?”

“I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

“I’ve been saying that for weeks.”

“Jesus! Do you want it or not?”

Tempted though he was to give another dubious reply, Stephen felt he’d pushed his luck far enough.

“Sorry, Juno. Fire away.”

“I followed up your Silver Street tip. The guy in the flat works at Beech Brothers, so I went to talk to some of the staff. Something dodgy’s going on there. You know the VCR you mentioned?”

Stephen couldn’t forget it. Not the spicy video, at least.

“I think he got it from Ted, the Despatch Manager. He’s selling clothes, too, and yoghurts and cheese, and all kinds of electrical stuff. It comes by van and he stores it inside. I think he’s involved with the videos, too.”

Stephen paused to take this in. He was young, ambitious and eager to climb the slippery pole to the CID, and this might be vital information. He also saw another chance for something that might count as a date.

“Want to tell me about it over a drink?”

“There isn’t much more than that to tell. I saw Ted and a driver unload a van – a Happy Valley van, it was – and take dozens of boxes into Beech Brothers. If I find out more, I’ll let you know.”

Stephen masked his disappointment with excessive concern for her welfare.

“Don’t do anything risky,” he said. “There could be bad people involved in this. I’d feel awful if you got hurt.”

“Thanks, Steve, that’s really sweet of you.”

She resisted the temptation to add but I think I can take care of myself, and continued to the main point of her call.

“Steve…” she said, “on Friday night…”

For a moment he deluded himself into thinking that, after weeks of effort, Juno’s hard heart had begun to melt.

“Yes, Juno?”

“Do you know where they took him? The guy from Silver Street, I mean. There must have been an ambulance.”

Stephen sighed.

“St Ethelred’s, I think.”

“Thanks a lot. I’ll see you soon.”

“Juno…”

But she had hung up already, leaving Stephen struggling with mixed emotions. On one hand, his tender feelings for Juno had once again been put through the wringer. On the other, he had information which might impress his sergeant and so help to further his own career. Was the benefit worth the cost? As he made his way to the sergeant’s desk, he pushed the awkward question aside.

“Sarge,” he said, “I’ve had a tip-off. About the Silver Street VCR.”

Sergeant Dennis was a sceptical man, hardened by years of exposure to villains, including those inside the force. But knowing that the VCR was an item of particular interest, he listened to Stephen attentively as he repeated Juno’s story.

“How did you get this, Gresty?”

“From a source. I keep my ear to the ground.”

“You do, do you? Well while you’re down there, make sure nobody kicks your arse.”

Despite his ribbing of PC Gresty, Sergeant Dennis was impressed. According to its serial number, the VCR was part of a load hijacked from a lorry the previous month, by a gang believed to have carried out a number of similar operations. Gresty’s tip-off could be the best lead they had. So he passed it up the hierarchy, and within an hour it sat on the desk of District Commander Gordon McKenzie.

The District Commander realised as he read the report that he had a problem. Not only was he a friend of Jack Beech, Chairman of Beech Brothers Limited, they belonged to a fraternal society whose members were sworn to assist each other. He’d even been to Captain Jack’s house, where he’d unknowingly sat on a leather sofa supplied the previous week by Ted. Whether the tip was sound or not, he was reluctant to embarrass Jack by barging into Beech Brothers in search of stolen property. Not without his permission, at least. He picked up the phone and dialled the number.

“Jack? It’s Gordon McKenzie.”

“Gordon…”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll get straight to the point. One of your employees may be engaged in illegal activity.”

“Really? I’m sorry to hear that, Gordon. Who is it?”

“Edward Holloway. I think he’s your Despatch Manager.”

“Ted? But he’s been with us for years.”

“We might have been misled, of course, but we’d like to have a word with him. On the premises, if you don’t mind. No uniforms, we’ll be very discreet…”

Jack was unexpectedly put on the spot, and his first thought was to play for time.

“Gordon, can I phone you back? A call’s come through on the other line.”

“Okay, I’ll wait to hear from you. But don’t be too long.”

Jack put the phone down and furrowed his brow. The Ted situation was complicated, and since talking to Frank the previous day, he knew it had to be dealt with quickly. Fencing stolen goods from the premises, as long as it stayed within reasonable bounds, could be accommodated, if not approved. But skimming English Electricals’ orders to package dodgy dairy products went far beyond the acceptable. As Frank said, something had to be done. But what?

Sacking Ted was out of the question. The union would play merry hell, and Jack had no desire to discover how Ted’s associates might react. On the other hand, grassing him up was unthinkable. Not only would it put an end to the unofficial staff benefit scheme, it contravened the code ingrained in the DNA of the working class. No-one was lower than a grass.

Most employers would neither have known nor cared, but Jack was cut from a different cloth. In the absence of wealth or the old school tie, he and his brothers had fought their way up from one of the roughest estates in the city. Their DNA had working class running through it like a stick of rock, and the code had as strong a grip on them as on any clerk or machine-minder. What to do? It was a difficult problem, and one for which he had no solution. Until he considered Gordon’s request.

It was clear that allegiance to the code trumped the claims of the fraternal society. But if he complied, would the code be breached? For one thing, Gordon had approached him. For another, he’d offered no information. And for a third, he knew Gordon would do it, whether he agreed or not. As he dialled his number, Jack’s mind was made up.

“When were you thinking, Gordon?”

“Tomorrow morning. If that’s convenient.”

Jack glanced at Wednesday’s page of his diary. The Association of Packaging Employers’ Annual General Meeting was not scheduled to end until two o’clock. He examined his conscience again. It was clear – no rational man could accuse him of grassing.

“That’s fine, as long as you’re gone by lunchtime.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“No problem. Glad to help.”

Gordon smiled as he put the phone down, knowing that he was onto a winner. Jack hadn’t even bothered to ask what Ted’s illegal activities were.

After an uneventful afternoon writing Councillor Harrison’s funeral piece, and one about a dog that could allegedly pick horseracing winners, Juno was at home by six.

“The monthly feature?” said Glynis, as they sat drinking tea at the kitchen table. “Is that good?”

“It’s better than good. I’m not sure I can do it, though.”

“Course you can! You’ll write the best piece in the history of that crummy paper.”

Juno laughed.

“If he’s in St Ethel’s,” she said, “we could go and interview him tonight. D’you know the visiting hours?”

“I’ll check.”

After Glynis had called St Ethelred’s they bolted their fish fingers, slurped some tea and sped off on the Lambretta. Glynis had once been a cautious rider, but after eighteen months of commuting she’d abandoned the Highway Code to adopt the unwritten code of the city. Weaving in and out of traffic, overtaking on the inside and giving way only to taxi-drivers, she got them to the hospital with thirty minutes of visiting left.

They had no change for the car-park, so they left the Lambretta on a grass verge and entered by the nearest door. Glynis claimed to know her way around as she’d been there once to visit her aunt, but her knowledge ended at Ear, Nose and Throat. They walked down several corridors which looked exactly the same, until they finally stumbled upon Reception. They pressed the buzzer on the desk and eventually a woman appeared.

“Yes?” she said, in a tone that suggested she didn’t have much time to waste, and they’d better not be wasting it.

“We’re looking for someone,” said Glynis.

“Name?”

Glynis looked at Juno, who shrugged.

“MM?” she said.

“I said name, not initials.”

“We don’t know his full name,” said Juno. “We thought you might be able to help us.”

The receptionist sighed with exasperation.

“He had an accident last Friday. They said he was taken to A and E.”

“Lots of people have accidents, dear. You’ll have to tell me more than that.”

“He was probably bleeding quite badly…”

“We get thirty of those on a Friday night – I’m not going through every one of them. I can’t help unless you give me his name.”

Juno glanced at Glynis and turned back towards the receptionist, who was drumming her fingers on the desk.

“He sliced if off. With a razorblade.”

The receptionist stopped drumming.

“Oh… him. They put him in the special unit.”

“So can we…?”

“Sorry, no visitors.”

“But…”

“There’s no but about it. No visitors.”

As the receptionist was turning away, Juno made a final effort.

“Can you tell us his name, at least?”

“That’s confidential information. You’re obviously not family, or you’d know. If that’s all, I’ve got work to do.”

There was nothing else they could say. As they made their way to the door, the receptionist gave them a look that might have frozen a haddock at twenty paces.

“What a waste of time,” said Juno, as they sat on the verge beside the Lambretta. “We’ve got nothing. Nothing solid, at least.”

“So what’s our next move?”

“Back to the house? He can’t be the only one living there – Mrs Flynn mentioned someone called Sandy. Maybe we could hang around in the street, and wait for Mrs F to go shopping?”

“Hang around in Silver Street? You’re joking – they’ll think we’re looking for business. How about we deliver some flowers?”

“Like the Mafia, you mean?”

“Or maybe turn up in overalls, and say there’s a gas leak?”

“Also like the Mafia. Let’s face it – short of breaking in, we’re stuck.”

Glynis’s eyes lit up.

“Absolutely not! No way!”

As Juno looked sternly at her, Glynis sighed and lay back on the grass.

“What about Suzanne?” she said. “I bet she could tell us a thing or two. He went out with her five years ago, and he’s never had a girlfriend since. And there’s the girl who found him. You don’t think they’re the same person, do you?”

“Not according to Mrs Flynn.”

“And the mouse bodies… serial killers do that. They start by killing animals, then move on to humans. Maybe he was just practising.”

Juno laughed.

“You’re getting carried away. We still have Carol and Marion, though. I think Carol might know more than she’s said.”

“You’re meeting them on Thursday, right? What time?”

“After work. About quarter past five.”

Glynis did a swift calculation. Thursdays were always busy, but if she worked through most of her lunch-hour, left as early as possible and bombed it down the dual carriageway…

“Can I come?”

Juno hesitated. Could Glynis be relied upon? She didn’t want to undermine the trust she’d established – with Carol, at least – and Glynis was unpredictable. On the other hand, she’d found the Beech Brothers lead, and the look on her face was so imploring…

“All right, I’ll meet you there. But let me do the talking, okay?”

“Thanks, Juno. I bet they sing like canaries.”

“Shut up, before I change my mind.”

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Glynis suddenly sprang awake. Hers was the only ground-floor room, off the hall between the front door and the stairs. She was used to being woken by Andy coming home late on a Saturday night, but this was Tuesday, and whatever she’d heard didn’t groan or sing bawdy songs under its breath. She switched on her bedside light and sat up. Nothing seemed out of place in her room, so she slipped into her dressing-gown, wrapped it tight around her stripey pyjamas and cautiously opened her door. There was no light in the hallway, and no sign of anyone on the stairs. Obviously not Andy or Ben, and Juno was safely tucked up in bed.

Turning her head towards the front door, she spotted a brown envelope lying flat on the mat. Though Glynis was a fairly light sleeper, the noise of the envelope hitting the mat would hardly have been enough to rouse her. She recalled the sound in her head when she woke – a vigorous, metallic rattling – and looked up at the letterbox. Someone had rattled it on purpose. She shuffled down the hall, picked up the envelope and read the inscription: For the attention of Juno Jones.

Now fully awake, Glynis raced up the stairs and knocked softly on Juno’s door.

“Juno! Wake up, Juno!” she whispered.

She knocked harder and put her ear to the door. All she heard was snoring, so she went inside, approached the bed and seized Juno by the shoulder.

“Juno!”

Juno’s eyes jerked open. She stared around the room for a second before focussing on Glynis’s face.

“For God’s sake, Glynis! What time is it?”

“About three.”

“Three o’clock! Are you out of your mind?”

“Look…”

Glynis held up the envelope. It was the size of a paperback book, and padded.

“It just came.”

“Came from where? You’re not making sense.”

“I was sleeping when it came through the door. Somebody rattled the letterbox.”

Juno sat up and looked at the envelope. After inspecting the handwriting, she shook it and tried to feel through the padding.

“What is it?” asked Glynis.

“It’s hard to tell.”

“So open it…”

After another, closer look Juno opened the envelope carefully and emptied the contents onto her bed – a cassette tape in a scratched plastic case.

“Is there a note or anything?”

Juno peered into the envelope and stuck her hand inside to make certain.

“Nothing.”

“What about the tape? Is it blank?”

“Let’s find out.”

Taking the envelope and the tape they crept downstairs to the kitchen, where the only cassette player in the house stood on the kitchen windowsill. As Juno set it up on the table, Glynis took a saucepan from the cupboard.

“D’you want some cocoa?”

“Cocoa?”

Glynis turned away, a little embarrassed.

“I drink it sometimes when I can’t sleep.”

“All snuggled up in your jim-jams, you mean?”

“Don’t laugh!”

She filled the saucepan with milk and made two steaming mugs of cocoa. Juno eyed hers dubiously.

“Let it cool first,” said Glynis.

She sat down at the table and pulled the hood of her dressing-gown over her head.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Juno slid the tape into place and they huddled around the cassette player like spies receiving a secret message. She pressed the play button – the spools began turning, but all they heard was the hissing of tape. They waited. They turned the volume up, and swiftly turned it down again as a thin, reedy voice began to speak.

“Testing, testing… One two, one two… Mary had a little lamb…”

They heard a click as the tape was turned off, and a second click as it started again.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” the voice said. “Think of it as a romance, if you can. Why don’t we call it… Summer of Love.”

Juno and Glynis waited, hunched over the tape and gripping their mugs as they watched the spools revolve. A throaty cough was followed by the sound of somebody slurping tea, and what sounded like the shuffling of paper.

“Are you sitting comfortably? Very well, then I’ll begin…”