Her cheeks were suddenly flushed, her eyes blazing with anger. ‘Don’t patronize me, Frank. Just tell me who I need to speak to at the station. Just give me a name.’
‘It won’t get you anywhere. They’ll accuse you of wasting police time and they’ll get very angry. Girlfriends are always trying this on, Carol, believe me.’
‘Just give me a name.’
‘Benson. DS Ted Benson. And don’t mention my name.’
‘You could help me if you wanted to. You know it’s not Geoff. Geoff? He’d give you the shirt off his back. His father’s a professor, a professor, for Christ’s sake. His mother’s a doctor and a JP. He couldn’t have done it.’
He sighed again. Connie Jackson had already pointed out his impeccable middle-class credentials. ‘It doesn’t always follow, Carol, you know it doesn’t. You should do, you’re a journalist.’
‘If it wasn’t for you the poor sod wouldn’t be on remand,’ she cried bitterly. ‘I wish to Christ he’d never set eyes on you.’
‘I can understand that, but let’s not forget there’s an eighteen-year-old girl involved here, who had her entire life in front of her. And if he’s guilty, and proved to be guilty, he’ll have to serve his sentence.’
‘He … is … not … guilty,’ she said, spacing the words with trembling lips. ‘And if some arsehole of a counsel tries to … to manipulate everything so it seems he is I’ll never stop searching for the truth. I’ll hire a proper investigator and I’ll never give in, never, never, never …’
She burst into tears. There was nothing he could do to calm her, as she wouldn’t listen or let him touch her. She was still weeping when he got up to go, her friends anxiously crossing from their table to hers.
He was middle-sized, slender and dark haired, with brown eyes. He had a warm and easy smile. ‘How do you do, Mr Briggs.’ Crane shook his hand. ‘Sit down and tell me how I might be able to help you.’
‘I’ll not waste your time,’ he said. ‘Mind if I call you Frank? I’m Henry.’
‘Go ahead, Henry.’
‘It’s about a girl called Donna, a reporter, a dodgy photographer, a wealthy lesbian, an abusive boyfriend and a man who owns a garden centre, whose body police divers are searching for in Scamworth reservoir even as we speak. And the reporter is in the frame.’
‘You another journalist? How do you know all this?’
His smile had the breezy look he’d so often seen in Anderson. ‘Come on, Frank, an old China hand like you wouldn’t expect a London investigative reporter to reveal any sources, would you?’
‘It would depend on what you wanted from me.’
‘Frank, there’s a powerful scent coming out of Bradford. It’s the scent of one of the best crime stories of the decade. It’s got the lot: a dead beauty, a crime the police can’t solve, a man who puts his hand up when he’s not guilty, a PI who teams up with the reporter to find the real killer, and a reporter who works the clock round on a murder he committed himself.’
‘He’s not stood in the dock yet.’
‘Agreed, but the feeling is, with that lot stacked against him, he’d better start getting used to prison food.’
He’d got it all right, but Crane was saying nothing to any reporters that might one day prejudice the case. He smiled. ‘No comment.’
‘Frank, this is nothing to do with routine reporting. All the papers, are circling for that particular kill. I’m talking the paperback here, that’s going to be rushed out the minute the verdict’s in place. You know, that’ll be in every supermarket and petrol station, every airport and chain store. But it’s no deal unless I can get your input.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
‘There’s an advance involved,’ he said. ‘I’ll split it with you and give you a small percentage of the royalties. That gives you two and a half grand in your back pocket. All you do is talk to me. I do the rest; writing, promoting, publicity.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Crane said firmly. ‘It’s tempting, but if there’s one thing I price above rubies it’s my anonymity. It would get the punters twitchy. They might think I’m getting too big to chase a debt for them or a husband who’s running loose.’
‘No one’s going to know about our private deal. And I’ll write it as if I’ve dug out most of the detail on my own, while paying due tribute to you for “the valuable help you gave me.”’ He put fingers up to indicate quotation marks for the last words.
Crane hesitated. He could find a good use for the money.
‘It might even run to a film or a teleplay . You’d be down for a piece of that too.’
‘The trouble is, Henry, I’ve got to know Donna’s parents very well. They’re two really decent types and they worshipped the kid. If this book had a big success they’d have to live through losing her all over again, when they’re just beginning to get their heads right.’
‘I understand that. I’ve got a kid sister of my own. But the thing is, it won’t just be me thinking there’s a book in this. Some very mangled versions could find their way into the pipeline. If you and me were to cooperate it’ll be the exact truth, sympathetically told. Once the rest know I’m getting it from the horse’s mouth they’ll back off.’
Crane watched him. He couldn’t argue with that. Whatever he did he was never going to be able to protect them from having to keep reliving Donna’s short life and appalling death.
‘All right,’ he said cautiously. ‘I’d need approval of the final draft. I mean that and I’d want it in writing.’
‘Agreed. I’m currently on leave and staying at the Norfolk. I’ll be spending the time getting a feel for the area: the Willows, the SOC, the clubs and so on. If we could spend a couple of evenings talking it through on tape, that’s all I’d need. Anything else, I can ring you.’
‘I can make it tomorrow evening and probably the one after.’
‘Great. We can have a meal sent up to my room.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thanks, Frank, I’ll give it my best shot.’
Crane held open the door of his little office for him. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘if you were absolutely obsessed with a beautiful hooker and she made you so angry you topped her and then managed to cover your tracks, would you have so much printer’s ink in your veins you could then try to turn it into the biggest story of your career?’
He smiled the engaging smile again that was so reminiscent of Anderson’s. He didn’t nod. But he didn’t shake his head either.
That evening, as his car was idling at traffic lights, Crane saw a billboard outside a newsagent’s. It said: BODY FOUND IN SCAMWORTH RESERVOIR.
There were fresh flowers in the tiny flat and the window stood open on the warm still evening. He said, ‘We could go for a meal. We never did have a chance to celebrate your promotion.’
‘We could … eat in, if you like,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ve brought some things from work I can put in the oven.’
‘Fine by me.’ He sipped a little of the gin and tonic she’d made him.
‘I could do with a quiet evening.’
‘Hard day?’
She nodded, smiled. ‘Robert’s looking after me. He’s the manager in charge of my section. He’s nice. Keeps us at it, but he works very hard too.’
‘Good. I hope you’re giving the impression you’ve got your eye on his job when he gets his next promotion.’
‘Oh, Frank …’
She wore a lemon cotton shirt over skinny black pants, and her smooth hair gleamed in declining sunlight. He thought again of the woman she’d been on that first evening: fright hair, wrinkled clothes, sunk in an apathy she’d not bothered to conceal. He knew she was now a woman who was going somewhere. She was beginning to get on and she liked it, liked it a lot. He could see her in ten years, a valued senior employee, her plain looks enhanced by maturity. He wondered again if he really had been responsible for any of that. He’d given her a word or two of encouragement, involved her in that tortuous search for her sister’s killer, but the rest had been all her own doing.