Despite a few pangs of uncertainty about turning up at the front door of a potential witness, Garry did what he was told. He first did a few online searches through his phone to find the correct address. His source had given him Stephanie Wilson’s name and the road she lived on but not the exact house number. Luckily, there was a Ray and Stephanie Wilson on the electoral roll, so he knew where he had to go. He had also found them in the online version of the phone book too. Not many people seemed to be in the book now, given the widespread use of mobiles, but the Wilsons were obviously old-fashioned and had a landline number. Garry called it and spoke to the husband, Ray, who seemed delighted the press were involved. They arranged for the journalist to visit the house the following morning.
The interview with Stephanie herself was largely taken over by her husband who, from what he said, had been single-handedly responsible for uncovering the whole story. He kept saying how he had been a journalist in his youth and that it was his idea to call the police.
The way he had spoken, you would have been forgiven for thinking it was he who had uncovered the body and was in the process of cracking the case. Stephanie hadn’t said too much and was clearly highly affected by her friend’s passing. As Garry managed to coax the truth from her, it became clear her husband had had pretty much nothing to do with any of it. That didn’t stop him asking if the paper wanted to send a photographer over to take photos of them both. Garry thought he was a bit of a nuisance but seemed relatively harmless and thanked them both for their time. He had what he needed.
The offices of the Morning Herald were spread across two floors midway up one of the taller buildings in the centre of Manchester. Editorial and advertising shared a floor, production and finance occupying the one above it. Other businesses had various floors within the property but the whole place was like a ghost town on a Sunday. Garry used his security pass to get through the staff door at the back and then again for the lift.
He had barely stepped out of the elevator when he heard his editor’s far-too-cheery voice from across the other side of the room: ‘Garry.’
While the few heads who happened to be working that day turned to look in his direction, no doubt confused why their boss was so pleased for once, Tom was bounding towards him. Garry started walking towards his desk but his editor caught up and put a fatherly arm around his shoulders, ushering him into his own office. Even when he had been popular in the past, he had never been invited into the editor’s office.
Garry had a good look around. The view was as impressive as it could be considering what Manchester had to offer. Garry’s usual desk offered various angles of the back of some girl’s head who worked in advertising. Admittedly, she looked more attractive from the back than the front but that wasn’t the point. The editor ushered him into a plush leather swivel chair, where the mechanism to move the seat up and down actually worked, which was significantly more than you could expect from a chair on the main news floor. He then offered to make Garry a cup of tea.
What on earth was going on?
Garry thought his boss making him a hot drink was perhaps pushing things too far, so declined.
He told his editor how the morning interview had gone and repeated what he had said on the phone the day before. His boss nodded furiously throughout, making the odd note and just repeating ‘good, good’ over and over. Garry was aware that the magnitude of someone being brutally murdered seemed to be lost in the moment. He was told he could use the editor’s own computer to type up the story so, still feeling as if he were in some bizarre alternate universe, he used his notes to do just that.
Garry thought of the victim as he wrote. He was excited about finally being in his editor’s good books but didn’t want to let that detract from the empathy he felt. Ray Wilson and now his boss both seemingly wanted to use the murder almost as a springboard for their own aims. Ray’s were harmless and slightly pathetic but Garry hoped his boss wouldn’t push things too far. Yes, it was a big story and he was going to be the one to break it, but he didn’t want the fact to be lost that someone had been murdered.
He finished typing and went to find the editor back on the main floor, receiving plenty of odd looks from his colleagues, unsure what he had done to receive such a warm welcome. Tom almost skipped across the newsroom towards him and they both went back into the office. Garry’s boss sat in front of the computer and read through what had been written. He nodded frequently and again repeated ‘good, good’ numerous times. When he was done, he turned back to Garry. ‘Top, top work, this, young man. Top work. Need to spice it up a bit in a few places but this is really well done.’
Garry was nervous by what he meant by ‘spice it up’ but said nothing.
‘I think you’re just about done for the day,’ Tom added. ‘Go get yourself a pint and enjoy the evening. You deserve it. We’ll get this on the website tonight and then tomorrow your name will be on the front page.’
He was being sent home early. Working unpaid overtime was something he had done many times but Garry had never been let go before his shift ended. This really was new ground.
‘I reckon there’ll be a press conference tomorrow and you’ll be right there,’ his editor added. ‘Maybe you can give your little source a call when you get in? Y’know, see if anything else has happened?’
Garry had no intention of doing that but said he would, picked up his bag and made a beeline for the lift. He moved quickly as he didn’t want to risk his invitation to leave early being revoked but also because he didn’t want to see the accusing stares from his colleagues as he walked out, wondering why he was suddenly so popular.
They would find out when they saw the front page.
After checking in again with his delighted editor on the Monday morning, Garry had been told he would be going to the press conference over at Longsight mid-afternoon. His editor told him to ‘ramp up that two-day cock-up angle’.
What he meant was to ask questions about why it had taken two days for the police to successfully find Yvonne’s body after Stephanie Wilson’s phone call. Personally, Garry thought it was a bit harsh. The police weren’t to know there was a dead body involved and, considering she could have just gone away for a few days, he thought they had done pretty well to act in that time.
Regardless of his own thoughts, he would ask the question. At least with all the other media present DS Daniel couldn’t shout at him in quite the way she had on the phone the night before. He found a clean pair of dark trousers and his favourite jacket. He had worn it out a few times after being assured by his friends it made him look interesting. He thought it gave him the air of some type of philosophical deep thinker.
He made sure he was sitting at the back for the briefing, making notes as other people asked their questions, and spotted DS Daniel on the end. She hadn’t said much, simply sitting and scowling at the audience in front of her. As he sat waiting to pluck up the courage to put his hand up, he thought she had looked directly at him. Her long almost-blonde hair was swept back out of her face and he thought she looked kind of cute.
That thought began and ended as he asked his question. He saw her looking straight at him, a half-smile on her face with her eyes telling him one thing clearly: ‘You’re dead meat, sunshine.’