Do you know what Kitty's working on? Seriously, because you'll never guess. You'd have to already know to ever have a clue what Kitty's working on. You could be reading it over her shoulder and still not be sure what exactly it is that she's working on right now. This is meant to be her great contribution to journalism, this is what's become of the scoop she used to dream of all through college, all through working her way up, through making endless cups of tea and proving herself on a few stories she had to scrabble for, fight tooth and nail and backstab for, all those terrible nights in terrible flats and the week at the end of every month where no matter how careful she was with her cash she'd always end up living on toast and strong black coffee and what's she working on? What's Kitty writing about?
The burning issue of pigeons wandering on to trains and being crushed underfoot. Squashed pigeons, that's Kitty's tale. Complete with quotes (to be cut, to never make the edit, doesn't know why she bothered to get them) from the cleaners who have to scrape the mess up off the floor.
A phone on the newsdesk rings and she doesn't even try to answer it. It's her editor who gets it and announces brightly, "Leon, hi!" Kitty keeps her eyes trained on her work, but stops typing, turns an ear towards the conversation. No idea why; it'll only depress her. Leon's down at the courts today. Again. Leon was here before her yesterday morning, and was sent to cover the break-in at the Tower of London. Things like that are always happening to Leon. And now he gets to follow the story through, this whole bloody 'Moriarty' business, Leon gets to stick with it, Leon gets to see it through to the end and keep reporting on it and it's not fair, and it's not fair, and it's not fair and...
Kitty gets up from her desk and leaves the office. She doesn't excuse herself or say anything. Not that she's being rude, no, nothing like that... Just that nobody asks. Nobody really pays that much attention to the fact that she's leaving the room. It's her name, she thinks, and she makes her way down through the building. She should have changed her name before she came here. Kitty. It's a name for a stripper or a barmaid or a trophy girlfriend. It's not a name for a serious journalist. It's her name, of course it is, her name that keeps anybody from taking her seriously.
That and the fact that she hasn't landed a decent story since she was at The Sun. Even that was just Sun-decent. Political sex-scandal. They might as well have hung a sign around her neck when they printed it, 'HACK'. 'HACK' and 'HACK' is all she'll ever be.
Right now? Kitty would kill for a political sex scandal again. Better a hack than... Than just stood on the outside step, smoking and trying not to look like she's trying not to cry.
It's the same thing she did about a week ago. That time, there was a car sitting across the street. Jim was sat in the back, took one look at her and, "Bingo. Moran, we have a winner."
Moran reached over, picking up the camera from the passenger seat, and took a couple of quick snaps. Blandly, knowing a smart answer couldn't be far away, he asked, "How do you know she's even one of the journos?"
There was no smart answer. It was a stupid question, so Jim decided not to bother with an answer. He could have given Moran a whole list of things, gone on ten minutes or more, but it was just really obvious. The handbag, for instance; huge. Could take a laptop, two A4 folders and lunch, still have room for change of shoes. That was just one thing and it was enough. But he didn't answer. He was studying Kitty, this most important of women, without even knowing her name yet. Skinny, shaking Kitty smoking on the steps, so alone and so forgotten and so utterly perfect for his purposes. Caught up in this, he didn't even notice Moran calling him until the other man felt the need to shout. "What?!" he snapped.
"Sit back. If she sees you now-" Of course, Moran was absolutely right. It was all over if she saw him then. But he wanted to look at her. So pale, looking like an orphan, completely done for in the big nasty world of British journalism. And wasn't it nice, he thought to himself, to be doing the girl a service? He'll be making it so no one can ever forget her again. He saw her, and saw in her eyes the deep, brutal pain she was trying so hard to hide, and smiled for her. Little lost Kitty, about to land the scoop of this young century and not even knowing it. It was almost a full minute after Moran expressed his concern that Jim actually obliged and sat back. "So," the driver murmured, checking over the pictures he'd taken, "do you want to keep looking or...?"
"No. She's the one. Drive on." Still his eyes stayed on her, even as the car pulled away, until he couldn't turn his head any farther. Then, turning back, a thought struck him; "Oh, and remember and make
sure the other fella, what's-his-name...?"
"Coxcroft... Leon Coxcroft."
"Aye, the cock, make sure and let him in on the Tower job. Just so he doesn't feel too put out when the golden goose turns out to be a failed kid's TV presenter." And this Jim thought of as an act of impossible benevolence, on his part. After all, they've been feeding Leon Coxcroft exclusive crime stories for years now. The cock has gotten fat enough off of them. Time to let somebody else have a little bit of fun.
But there's no car there, this week. In fact, there are no cars anywhere up and down the street. Now, Kitty's more than aware that there's a reason for this. There are road works nearby. People are avoiding those, not driving this way, not using the street for parking in fear of being blocked in. It's all perfectly logical. But her overall impression, as she looks around, is of grey, bleak loneliness, total isolation.
Matter of fact, the only sign of life she can see right at this moment is a wall-eyed pigeon waddling along, bobbing its empty little head to peck at bare tarmac. Bleeding idiot bird. "Do you want to borrow my Oyster card?" she mutters, as it pecks the step at her feet. Then stamps and sends it scattering, shedding feathers in its panic. Naturally, though, it's in that precise moment of cruelty that two PAs clack out from inside, glossy lips parting in shock at having to witness such barbarity. Kitty straightens fast, tries to smile like it's nothing. Then, for reasons she doesn't quite understand herself, mutters, "Sorry." The jury clack on by on patent heels, pert little arses grinding in tight skirts. Judgement? From these? From suicide-blondes who make the better part of their living by impressing their bosses, not with front, but with their fronts? Oh please...
God, she wishes she hadn't said 'sorry', not to those bitches.
She should have stayed in Eastbourne, like the rest of her family. Stayed in the little caf on the front and met someone nice and raised a couple of squalling brats in that lovely little seaside town but no, not Kitty. No, Kitty would go and learn to write shorthand and avoid professional bias and how not to report and then she'd go to the big city and become a star reporter at a major national newspaper and...
Compulsively, she lights another cigarette.
Across the street, behind the To Let sign on the first floor, Moran is making tea in an abandoned office. He found the mugs in a cupboard, chipped and stained, but he's had worse. Two mugs. He carries one over to the woman at the window. She's confused; you don't have to be Jim to spot that she's confused. Looking back and forth between the photograph in her hand and the woman across the street with her brow furrowed and her lip curled as if to say, Really?
Moran takes a deep breath, "Problem, Dani love?"
Dani looks up at him, "That? Over there? The chain-smoking weakling? Was he sure? I mean, are you sure he was sure?"
"Oh, well, I'll tell you what, love; why don't we ring him and ask?" She bristles. No call for that sort of talk. Not when Moran knows she's already worried. Jim's in police custody this time, plain and simple. It's not that she doubts his ability to cope, just that she doesn't like the idea. She goes back to looking out the window, to smoking her own cigarette. Her third, actually. Maybe she shouldn't be pulling anybody up on their chain-smoking, not today anyway. In between drags she studies her fingernails, until Moran can't watch her anymore and says, "Sorry."
"No, it's alright."
"I'm sure he's getting along fine."
She nods. Shaky at first, and then more definite. "Yeah. Of course he is. And he will be, won't he, so long as we keep things smooth out here?"
He reassures her. Sits by her at the window, watches her watch Kitty as she places a call to the newsdesk. They've had a week to research her. There's nothing they don't know. Still, the best way to get to any journalist has been the same since the dawn of time; call up, ask for her by name, leave a number. Never identify yourself. Never leave a message of any kind. Sound urgent.
And then, for Moran and Danielle, it's just a matter of waiting. Keeping things smooth. After a while, trying to sound like she doesn't care, Danielle says, "Are you worried? About Jim, I mean." And she doesn't mean about police custody either. About lately. About everything that's going on (or seems to be; God knows he tells them nothing anymore) in the man's head.
Moran lies, says "No."
Before she can pursue the question any farther, Danielle's phone rings. She answers, suddenly as someone who is breathless and rushed and panicked, "Hello? Oh, Ms Reilly, thank goodness..."
"Sorry," Kitty murmurs, "but who am I speaking to?" In her mind she is begging, bargaining with God and all the angels, please let this be an absolute stranger calling my number with that desperation on her voice.
"Oh," the stranger replies, "You don't know me." Silently, Kitty punches the air, mouths her thank-you up to the heavenly host. Then the stranger continues, "I need to speak to you about the Moriarty case."
And just like that, everything falls apart. Kitty rages. Swallows down hot bile and says in clipped, grudging syllables, "I'm afraid I'll have to refer you to my colleague who is covering that story." She could cry again. She could slip right back out for another smoke, out where the cold legitimizes her snivelling.
"No."
The voice is adamant, unequivocal. Just that, quite simply, 'No'. No, I will not be referred to your colleague and how dare you try and fob me off. There's strength beneath the panic. Kitty stops thinking the word 'stranger' and thinks the word 'source'.
"No, Ms Reilly," the source says, "I want you. Coxcroft can't be trusted, he's in bed with..."
"How do you know his name? I never said that name."
"I know a lot of names. I know Leon Coxcroft's, and I know James Moriarty's and I know Sherlock Holmes'."
"Holmes?!" Kitty's echo is too loud. She's getting looks from all around the room, sneaky and sidelong, and people stop typing to listen to her for once. Cautiously she turns her chair away from the desk, curls up quietly with the phone. "What's he got to do with this?"
"Do you know Richard Brooke's name, Miss Reilly?"
Unashamed, "No. Should I?"
And then the source utters words every journalist longs to hear. The sentence itself is innocuous, but so loaded with meaning and fear. The promise of an exclusive, and of danger, a real scoop, a name-maker. And this one promises to take on that idiot Leon too, and tear apart the biggest story in the country today. Perfection. The source says, "I'm really not comfortable discussing this over the phone."
Kitty's hands, for the first time in long, uneasy days, stop shaking.