The call came an hour or so later. She was frantic and desperate and grasping at answers. Someone had been murdered. He couldn't really blame her. The only discernible thing that came from her lips was a soft, "I need to see you. Right now. Today."
He was in the middle of reading over a huge story he was going to publish but, nevertheless, he said back, "Why don't you come meet me? I'm up to my fucking scrotum in articles that need publishing today. I'm sorry, pet. Meet me at my office. I'll see you tonight, too. Maybe we can go out somewhere, just you and me."
She nodded imperceptibly, even though she couldn't see it. "I'll take my lunch a little early. I'll see you soon." They said their goodbyes and hung up, eventually. An uncomfortable silence filled his office, save for the buzzing of his laptop on charge and the beep of his phone alerting him of a text message. He didn't care to read the latter, however. Not right now.
Malcolm tossed the phone aside, covering his face with his hands and trying to relax for a long, tremulous moment. It began to sink in then. Someone had murdered Ben Swain.
What on fucking Earth were they all going to do? It seemed that no matter how he how hard they all tried, no one could outrun their past. Who knew what Mr. Swain was doing for a living, but it had fuck all to do with government. Malcolm had eviscerated him and ruined him for his career years ago.
One by one, the calls began pouring in. Julius Nicholson was the first to call him, then Jamie MacDonald and Ollie Reeder. Terri Coverley, Fatty, and Angela Heaney only heard his voicemail. The whole fucking Piss Brigade rang him up. He knew nothing and they were all looking for something.
It was a precarious position for the ex-Master of Spin to be in. He still knew how to spin himself a web, though. A great big fat fucking web of lies. He told everyone that he wasn't allowed to share any information, not that he had any to begin with. They weren't privy to that, though. They didn't need to be.
The higher up on the food chain they thought Malcolm F. Tucker was, the better (and the safer he was).
After he'd finished up some work, there came a knock at the door. Nicholas Davidson popped his head inside, eyes on Malcolm as he spoke. "There's a woman here to see you, a Miss Cassidy. Shall I let her in?"
Despite the shit-storm that was going on at the moment, Malcolm smiled. What a rarity it was. Davidson's brows furrowed in surprise. "Let her in," Malcolm said with a gentle nod. "If you would, please." Another rarity: please. Davidson left quietly without another word.
Moments later Sam came wandering in. She shut the door behind her and closed the blinds, rushing over to him and all but launching herself into his arms. "How can you just be fucking casually working when there's a murderer out there somewhere?"
Malcolm's hand rose to cup the back of her head, eyes closing as she held him tightly. "I'm not," he said softly. "Not casually, anyway. But I had things to do. The workday doesn't end for me just because someone piece of shite's dead."
There was a fire in her eyes as she drew back the tiniest bit to see his features. "Malcolm," she chided him. "Don't say that. Have some respect. He's dead."
Malcolm deflated at the look she was giving him. He always had, truth be told. She knew just how to get under his skin, or scold him when he was being a complete arsehole. "He's half the reason I landed in prison for a whole eight months, you know. And he fucking took pleasure in it. I can't help it if I'm still a little fucking bitter."
She sat down in his lap, hands placed at his shoulders. "Don't you understand? They're going to immediately add you to the list of suspects." His brows furrowed again. It was a possibility he'd considered already, but to hear her say it shattered something inside of him.
"If it happened last night like everyone's said, thankfully you have an alibi," she said to him. He waited, a questioning expression on his features. "I was home alone," he answered, finally.
She pressed a finger to his lips and began speaking. "You were emailing me. You called me. We spoke. There are these nifty things called phone records. And they could check your emails to see the timestamps."
Immediately, Malcolm began shaking his head at that. "Doesn't matter," he told her. "I'm not going to let them know about us. I won't let them read those emails. If they do, you become my weakness. A chink in my armor. You'll become a target by the media. All the cunts will rush after you. I'm on top right now with my fucking online column. They'll tear you apart. Everything will be seen by the public. Open investigation and all that jazz."
With a sigh, he continued. "It's all over the telly. Have you been watching the fucking news? Nothing about this entire fucking thing will remain private. He was killed in an alley. How fucking undignified. That's what the Detective Constable told me. A fucking alleyway. Must have been shanked or something like fucking that. How fucking American."
She laughed then, but it wasn't a jovial sound. It something akin to heartbreak. Anger, too. She was upset. That much was fairly obvious. She always smiled when she was really angry.
She took his face in her petite hands, drawing him to her for a long, slow kiss. It surprised him, but he melted into it. His hand found her thigh to hold her close and he sighed against her lips. "You don't get it, do you?" he murmured to him. "I'm stronger with you. We need to tell the police about this. They're going to ask anyway. They'll probably bring you down the station, when the time finally comes. Whenever that may be. If they don't immediately find whatever fucking psychopath did this. They'll interrogate you. Doesn't that hit a bit too close to home for you?"
Her forehead came to rest against his shoulder for a little while before she dared to speak up again, speculating aloud. "What if it was just a robbery gone wrong? I don't know how he died, but… what if that's all it was? I wonder exactly what happened."
The only other option was far too terrifying. That someone had targeted poor Mr. Swain on purpose. That someone had possibly followed him. Why would someone kill him? Why? And if that was the case, were they planning on killing anyone else? Was Malcolm a possible target as well? What was the purpose of all this?
"Stop thinking too hard about all this," he said to her, breaking the eerie silence that had fallen between them. "It'll be alright, I promise." His hand began to stroke her back, sighing inaudibly as shefinally began to relax against him.
Hopefully this mess would all be sorted out soon enough.
