The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 2

  “I do know the story,” Jack sighed. He liked the lad. He was a promising photo-journalist, one day he could be a quality writer. He had talent. He also had a conscience, ethics and a campaigning sense of righteousness. Jack was in no mood for Crusaders. Marianne unfolded her arms, looking from one bristling bundle of testosterone to the other.

  “Would you like my opinion?” She was still smiling.

  “We need George Brownlow.” Jack pulled on his aged Barbour.

  “Not for The Interview, please, can’t we write him into Lifestyle or something?” Paul pleaded support from his colleague.

  “As our new MP, he needs a decent piece. He’s important. Anyway, who have you lined up for the next ‘Interview’? ‘We’re working on it’ is hardly a headline.” Jack was checking his pockets for cigarettes.

  “It’s a surprise,” Marianne replied easily.

  Jack guffawed, severe nicotine withdrawal kicking in.

  “Okay what about this,” she said, “American TV star’s son, married to local beauty, living happily in that new development by the canal. You know, why Chesterford instead of Los Angeles – fors and against?”

  Paul was horrified. The ‘local beauty’ was his sister Zara, a former fashion model. The TV star’s son, his brother in law, Mike. Both kept deliberately low profiles. Paul would never use family connections as media fodder, he was aghast.

  Jack fastened his coat, “And the actor’s name?”

  “Ryan O’Gorman, you know, good looking Irish guy, big hit series on American television, and a few arty films too, in his younger days.”

  Jack pulled his collar around his jowls. “Never heard of him.”

  Marianne looked at him, unblinkingly. Jack shifted a little.

  “Really? He’s the star turn presenting the National Media Awards next week.”

  “I can’t wait!” exclaimed Sharon, their shared secretary, as she dumped a pile of post on Jack’s desk. “He’s really dishy in an ‘older man’ kind of way. I could show him a few of the local attractions, no bother.”

  “Are you in this meeting?” Jack barked. Sharon exited. “I’m not sure I like the sound of this, I know we’ve been short-listed for a few awards but you’re not hoping to influence any decisions are you?” He eyeballed Marianne, she met his gaze, he knew she would never stoop so low. He also knew she would never reveal what she was working on until it was in the bag. He recognised a smoke screen when he saw one. He gave her his ‘do as I say’ frown but even he had to admit the politician was not the most enthralling of subjects.

  “Look this young headline hunter doesn’t want George Brownlow for The Interview, but I say it has to be the MP unless you come up with something I feel compelled to run, it must be an exclusive mind. If so, you can do Brownlow as a Lifestyle piece. But not the bloody actor no-one has heard of or his son in a flat by the canal, okay? Nothing mediocre, we don’t do wishy-washy, we need to keep readers not lose them.”

  The shrillness of the telephone interrupted them. Jack snatched at it.

  “Yes, myself and Marianne Coltrane,” he said into the receiver, “I took the lead, Marianne worked it up into the story. Well, she is one of my best journalists.”

  Marianne mouthed, “One of?” at him. He hushed her with his hand.

  “I’m sure you’ll find everything is in order, of course, speak to her if you like, but we do have another newspaper to get out tomorrow, so don’t make a meal of it, if you don’t mind!” He handed the phone to Marianne.

  “Don’t tell me, Legal Department?” she whispered. “Hi Lionel, how’s it going? Yes all verified and checked. Yep, the forged Death Certificate has been validated by forensics. Yes, now we’ve hit the newsstands there is a copy of my report and relevant contacts with evidence on its way to Detective Inspector Greene. Is that all Lionel? As Jack intimated, we are on deadline here.”

  Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and set his jaw. Paul gazed in awe at Marianne, who was now sitting on Jack’s desk, swinging her legs. She jumped to the floor.

  “No, Lionel, I did not send my copy to the Legal Department first.” She put her hand over the receiver. “I’m in trouble again, with compliance apparently. It’s a black mark, written warning or something?” Jack narrowed his eyes. Lionel was clearly banging on.

  “Well, the thing is Lionel, if I sent it to you for clearance and it gets leaked to the opposition and they publish our brilliant exclusive story and sell more newspapers than us, well there won’t be a Legal Department, will there Lionel, because we’ll all be out of a job.” She put the phone down gently.

  “Too right,” Jack agreed, “Prat!” Marianne laughed. “I hope everything is checked, treble-checked and verified,” he said, glaring at her.

  “Of course it is. Although we know this is going to blow wide open, so I was thinking, let’s launch a website, publish the names and photos of the women who were in the home, with their written permission of course, and let those who wish to make the connection come forward. I am sure there are dozens, if not hundreds, of women who were told their babies had died, only to have them kidnapped and sold on in the illegal adoption racket.”

  Jack bit on his plastic substitute cigarette.

  “I like it, added value. Now what were we discussing?”

  “Whether or not to do our local MP for the Interview, although Brownlow would be difficult to do as a ‘Lifestyle’ piece, he doesn’t seem to have a lifestyle,” Marianne continued. “Conservative, rarely drinks, not married, not gay, spends a lot of time taking tea with community leaders of all persuasions. Not a little boring.”

  Paul groaned.

  “Well let’s see what you come up with, as I said, we don’t do mediocre, who on God’s earth would be remotely interested in some nobody actor’s son living by the canal?” Jack called back as he left, “The Duchess awaits.”

  “It was a bluff.” She side-stepped Paul’s anxious look, “I knew he wouldn’t go for it, I wasn’t casting your family to the wolves, just wanted to throw him off the scent while I work something through.”

  Paul rubbed his left temple vigorously. “Who then?”

  “A barman called Brian Protheroe, works at The Cockerel, Peatling Mill, about to be discovered as the UK’s next great tenor. I hear a major audition is on the cards.” She eased into Jack’s chair. The computer bleeped to life.

  “Sounds like a good story. Is it true?”

  “Of course it’s true; it’s one of my stories. Buy me a coffee and I’ll fill you in.”

  “You really are bloody brilliant you know.”

  She beamed at him, “Ah, only a bit bloody brilliant.” She reached for his arm and then on the count of three they burst into a rendition of, ‘Bring Me Sunshine’ a song they laughingly called Jack’s theme tune, skipping as best their disparate heights would allow, Morecombe and Wise style toward the lift.

  “Where are you two going?” called Sharon, from her work station.

  “Not to The Duchess,” they replied in unison.

  “When will you be back?”

  They let the ping of the lift answer.

  George Brownlow was in a real pickle. He glared at the mirror. His reflection stared back, flustered. The overall look was pink and blotchy. His eyes were bloodshot - lack of sleep; his skin dry and flaky - too many takeaways; he oiked his trousers up, still not comfortable, far too many takeaways. Holding the hangers in front of his chest, he tried to decide what to wear. The pale blue designer shirt, tie-less, or the turquoise stripe with plain dark tie? Were the chinos too casual, too right on or the green moleskins, too county?

  “I really hate this,” he told the mirror.

  He dropped the hangers on the floor, pulled the faded denim shirt off the bedpost where he had left it the night before and, grabbing phone and car keys, climbed into his beloved classic car. He had a meeting with a local journalist; someone called Marianne Coltrane who had suggested they rendezvous at The Cockerel in the picturesque village of Peatling Mill, abo
ut eight miles outside his constituency, heading south. He was annoyed with himself for not insisting they meet on his patch, but he had been in a rush as usual.

  The mid-day radio presenter was desperately trying to co-ordinate a phone-in about teenage pregnancy. It was not going well. A vicar from an inner city Parish was being caring and constructive. A well-spoken mother of four daughters was all for reintroducing chastity belts, perhaps with digital locking mechanisms, and when the subject of abortion was raised; a young woman dissolved into tears and hung up. The presenter opted for an upbeat dance track to soothe the frazzled airwaves. George frowned, making a mental note to review his own and the Party’s policy on such matters.

  Roadworks ahead were impacting on his very tight schedule. He had planned to arrive at least fifteen minutes early, order himself an orange juice, nip to the loo, smooth his hair and return to his seat to sit staring at a ‘very important document’. He wanted to appear calm, studious, self-assured. A loud clunking broke his reverie, the steering wheel shuddered, the engine sputtered, rallied a little with a touch of the accelerator, and then belching loudly, gave up the ghost. The Conservative Member of Parliament for Chesterford South, swore like a sailor. He did not even have the bloody journalist’s mobile number. He tried the pub via directory enquiries but the line was constantly engaged. He boiled, along with the radiator.

  Marianne had finished her interview with Brian, the operatic barman. Not quite as close to becoming the spectacular new star she had hoped but she would make a good enough job of it. Paul would take the photographs later, he had his brief: muted bar room background; handsome tenor in full cry; rehearsing in the gents’ lavatory where the acoustics were more conducive to his falsetto. Paul was a good photographer, his pictures would add poignancy to the piece. She knew exactly what she wanted and was determined ‘The Interview’ maintain its quirky ‘would you believe it?’ character profiles, whatever her editor decreed.

  She closed her notebook, looking around the pub, one of the few hostelries which had managed to avoid being ‘themed’, so pleasant, if a little frayed around the edges. She had hoped to kill two birds with one stone, thinking the ambience of the pub would reveal a softer, more approachable side of a man renowned for his unswerving dedication to public service. Checking the time, it appeared the MP was not going to show. She tried his mobile; it flipped to answer-phone. She could not wait, ‘The Interview’ had to be put to bed. She finished her drink, beamed goodbye to the singing barman and left.

  A couple of miles down the road her speedy two-seater zipped past a roadside recovery man scratching his head, while a baggy trousered-bottom stuck out from beneath the bonnet of an elderly classic car. It fleetingly occurred to Marianne that this might be the Honourable Member for Chesterford South, unhorsed. She seemed to recall he drove a vintage car. She motored on, murmuring along with the radio. George Brownlow would live to be grilled another day, hopefully when she was off duty and Paul would be tasked with the interrogation. She would have to edit it no doubt but that, she considered, would be more than enough George Brownlow for her.

  The National Media Awards were fast approaching, the Chesterford Chronicle had been short-listed for a number of prizes and as Jack had promised a memo about the event that very day, the newsroom was buzzing with everyone discussing the competition, what to wear, where to sit.

  Sharon handed the memo and table plan to Marianne.

  “I see Jack’s already decided who’s sitting where,” she said.

  The others quickly gathered round. Marianne passed the sheet of paper to Paul without comment. George Brownlow was to be seated on her left and, the irritatingly Machiavellian Jack Buchannan, on her right. It appeared Jack would not rest until she extracted some sort of story from their new MP. Great, she thought as she made her way to the lift, a real fun evening to look forward to.

  Later, taking a large whiskey to her study, she flicked on the desk light beside her laptop, and sitting down, pushed aside the file she had been working on - the follow-up campaign on behalf of the stolen babies scam - and decided to go through her George Brownlow research again. Surely there was something of interest, something to give her an angle, something she would find engaging? All she could discover about their newest MP were the scrappy bits of biography from his official Conservative Party press release.

  Place of birth - Chesterford General Hospital, where his father had been a paediatrician. Education - a good public school in the shires, then to Oxford and onto Leeds to read Law. He practiced briefly with a local firm and from there, moved quickly into politics, staying in the background until the seat in his home town became available. His life’s ambition, according to the press release, was ‘to be a true servant of the people – without cynicism or sarcasm.’ A straightforward mission, allegedly like George himself, his intention was to be a dedicated public servant the whole of his working life, in fact until his dying day. Marianne groaned, who wrote this rubbish?

  She finished her whiskey, turned off the light and padded to bed, planning to share a taxi to the awards dinner, at least then she could have a few glasses of wine - she was going to need them.

  As it happened, the handsome ‘nobody’ as Jack termed the guest presenter, never made it to the ceremony, some excuse about baggage handlers and delayed flights. So it was the aforementioned George Brownlow who was called into the breach. It was fair to say he did a pretty good job of hosting on the hoof, and rounded the evening off by presenting Marianne with the Journalist of the Year Award, for the ‘Stolen Babies Scam’ expose. The applause was rapturous. Paul feigned despair, rolling his eyes and grinning inanely, as she swished back to the table.

  “Not another bloody award,” he scoffed. “Mantelpiece will disintegrate under the weight of them all at this rate.”

  Marianne beamed, nursing the replica typewriter in her arms.

  “Will you put it down to drink champagne?” Jack was very nearly smiling too.

  She waved a free hand. “Can do both, I’m multi-dexterous.”

  She downed a good half-bottle before relinquishing the trophy to zealously embrace the MP when he returned to the table, kissing him so hard his lips were tattooed red. George seemed genuinely surprised to be so brutally woman-handled, but pleasantly so, and the pair immediately began an animated discussion about the origins of the first typewriter company. In fact MP and journalist seemed to have a lot to talk about and shared another bottle of champagne, or so Marianne thought, because George only touched his glass to raise it to her many toasts. Observing the banter, Jack almost smiled again.

  Paul had been mortified. “You’re going out with who? George Brownlow? Why? Is it for a follow-up or what?”

  “Well it’s because he asked me, actually. Men never ask me out, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Marianne airily went back to typing notes she had been working on through the weekend, part of a training programme she had volunteered to produce for the newspaper’s graduates.

  “George Brownlow? Are you serious?” Paul asked again. “Looks like a St Bernard, probably smells like one too.”

  “Don’t be rude!” she snapped.

  “But I’m always asking you out,” he bleated.

  “Oh Paul, you don’t count.”

  “Now who’s being rude?”

  After Marianne and George’s first date to a smart, celebrity-chef restaurant where they agreed, once George had paid the astronomical bill, the food had been filthy and they were both still hungry, their romance rolled out quite easily. George was thrilled to have someone to share official engagements with and more than pleased this someone was not only intelligent and entertaining but drop-dead gorgeous, to boot. Very soon they were enjoying regular Sunday morning brunches, lazily scanning the newspapers, sipping cappuccino and planning the MP’s media stance on a myriad of topics for the coming week, and because George had his career, he completely understood how seriously Marianne took hers. They were sitting in her neat little kitchen, d
rinking coffee and scanning the piles of newspapers George had gathered en route.

  “I’ve been thinking,” George said.

  “You be careful.” Marianne smiled.

  “Cheeky. No, the story, the illegal adoption scam, there must have been quite a few homes like that which existed across the country in the 50s and 60s.”

  “I’d say it’s been going on long before then and probably still goes on now. Maybe not telling the young mothers their babies had died, but there has always been some sort of trade in children, like slavery, it’s always been there.”

  “Well, I could certainly help take the campaign to the next stage, get the national press talking about it, see if we can’t persuade the Adoption Service to start an investigation.”

  Marianne laid her cup carefully in the saucer. “I appreciate your offer George, but this has to be handled very sensitively. These people have other lives, other families, they may not want to be involved in something like this at all.”

  “I do understand,” George said, touching her hand with his, “this is not a cynical attempt at vote-catching you know – I admire you hugely for all the work you’ve done and how delicately you handled the story and those involved. But I agree with you, there’s a bigger picture and I’d like to use what little sway I have to help.”

  She beamed at him.

  “You know what George, you’re fantastic.”

  He grinned back, turning quite pink.

  “You know what Miss Coltrane, so are you!”

  They each went back to their newspapers, smiling. Marianne’s mobile shattered the companionable silence. She checked the caller and left the table. George could hear mumbling. She burst back into the room.

  “Sorry George, I’ve got to go, they’ve arrested Sister Mary May, all hell’s broken lose. She’s screaming the fifth amendment and demanding to see the Papal Envoy.” George was on his feet, passing her handbag, taking his coat off the peg.