Helen was amused by the boldness of his approach – no one stood between Whittaker and promotion.
‘I do hope you are not trying to dictate to the press -’
‘That’s precisely what I’m fucking doing. And if I were you I’d heed what I’m saying to you.’
Emilia was stumped for once, but she rallied quickly.
‘With the greatest of respect -’
‘What do you know about respect?’ Whittaker barked over her. ‘What respect have you shown the Anderson family during their ordeal? Shouting through their letterbox, calling their home night and day, sitting outside their house hour after hour, going through their bins.’
‘You’re exaggerating. I have a duty -’
‘Am I? I have a log here detailing every time your red Fiat registration number BD50 JKR has parked up outside their house. The log was compiled by Amy’s father and runs to two pages. It places you there at midnight, 2 a.m., 3 a.m. It goes on and on and on. It’s harassment. It’s stalking. Need I remind you of the Leveson enquiry? And the code of conduct that all journalists, whether national or regional’ – he said this last word with real disdain – ‘have agreed to abide by?’
For once Emilia had no comeback. So Whittaker continued:
‘I could demand a front-page apology to the family. I could have you fined. Fuck it, I could probably get you sacked if I really wanted to. But I’m a kind man so I’m going to be merciful. But keep your ill-informed opinions to yourself or you’ll find yourself hounded out of local journalism and, hell, there’s no way back from that, is there?’
Emilia left shortly afterwards, fuming but helpless. Helen was speechless – and impressed.
‘Do you really have a log of her visits?’ she asked.
‘Of course not’ was the reply. ‘Now get back to work and please, Helen, make some bloody progress. I’ve bought you some time. Make use of it.’
And with that she was dismissed. Helen marvelled at his front and was impressed by his loyalty to the team – and to her. But as she headed back down the corridor, she couldn’t help feeling that this outright attack on the grimly determined journalist would rebound on them. Emilia had survived much worse than this and always came back fighting.
As soon as Charlie entered the incident room, she noticed the atmosphere. When an investigation is in full cry, incident rooms are noisy, aggressive, busy places. But today it was quiet, sombre even, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Mark’s desk was clean, his board cleared of personal photos and memorabilia. It was as if he had never existed.
But Mark had been a popular member of the team and everyone felt his absence. He may have been vulnerable, a fuck-up, but that was part of his charm, especially for the girls. The little-boy-lost thing. He was also bright and funny and when he applied himself he was a good copper. But now everyone was privately asking themselves whether the Mark they knew was the real one. Could he have sold them out? Had all their work been wasted, leaked? Were his financial needs really so dire that he would betray them like this? Charlie was troubled by it – she’d always basically liked Mark – and she made a mental note to check what had happened to his personal things. She got on with her work, but the empty chair was always in sight out of the corner of her eye.