No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) Read Online Free
Author: Howard Linskey
mum, the benefit claimant, the football fan, the Europhile and the paedophile; the latter being two crimes so heinous in the Doc’s eyes that they almost shared top billing on the paper’s front pages.
Tom Carney kept out of the Doc’s way from then on. The next time he stood before the great man, he had a story to tell. Tom had met the hooker, a woman called Trudy Nighton who went by the working nickname of‘Mistress Sparkle’, and was convinced she was telling the truth. The Doc took some persuading but eventually he believed it too and personally assigned the team to cover it, on the understanding that evidence, real corroborating evidence, of the ‘photos-of-Grady-with-his-todger-out’ variety, was what was needed here.
The surveillance operation recorded the comings-and-goings and cumings-and-goings of the uber-respectable and very-married Defence Secretary, Timothy Grady, who until that point had been widely tipped as a future Conservative Prime Minister. His much-vaunted support for ‘family values’ did not however prevent Grady from meeting ‘Mistress Sparkle’ and her friends in his London apartment, with her services billed at an eye-watering three hundred quid an hour, though he of course had negotiated a discount. Not for nothing was Timothy Grady known in politics as ‘the Lion,’ a nickname he had acquired while renegotiating Britain’s budget rebate from the EEC. So intransigent had been his stance on this issue that French and German politicians had started referring to him, in a derogatory manner, as the ‘Lion from London’ and when the right-wing press picked up on it, renaming him ‘The Lion of Brussels’, Grady did nothing to stifle this heroic image.
Even though he knew every salacious word virtually by heart, Tom Carney sat on the train and read and re-read the story he had co-written all the way along the Jubilee line. For the first time, Tom walked into the newspaper’s headquarters like he truly belonged there. As he passed rows of desks manned by veteran reporters he adopted what he hoped was a laid-back demeanour, as if destroying the career of a future Prime Minister and landing the front page in the process was all in a day’s work for this young reporter. A couple of journos actually bothered to mumble a greeting. A pretty young girl he had once unsuccessfully flirted with by the water cooler even smiled at him.
‘The chief wants to see you,’ said Terry-the-sub when Tom reached his desk, looking like he begrudged the congratulations Tom was about to receive.
‘Careful,’ said Jennifer, the Doc’s secretary, as he arrived at the huge, glass-walled office that dominated the enormous newsroom, ‘he’s not a happy bunny.’ She made it sound like she’d just invented the nauseating phrase everybody seemed to be using at the moment.
‘Well,’ Tom said, ‘it’s nothing I’ve done,’
His reverie was short-lived however, cut cruelly short by a familiar, booming voice that had more than its usual level of malice behind it. ‘Carney, get in here now!’
Tom walked into the office in disbelief.
‘Chief?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘You prat!’ shouted the Doc and he immediately threw a folded copy of that morning’s edition at Tom, who ducked as it sailed harmlessly over his head and out though the opened door behind him. ‘You complete and utter fucking prat!’
CHAPTER FIVE
DC Ian Bradshaw was staring at the ceiling again. He’d spent a lot of time looking at ceilings lately, during the long nights of sleeplessness that followed his recuperation. Then there were the hours of listless staring when his depression left him with so little energy he couldn’t even stretch out a hand to change the TV channel with the remote control. Instead he would leave the inane daytime chat, stupefying game-shows and saccharin-coated kiddies’ programmes running. Every lunchtime in Bradshaw’s flat, ‘Mr Benn’ would go about his business of escaping from the real
Tom Carney kept out of the Doc’s way from then on. The next time he stood before the great man, he had a story to tell. Tom had met the hooker, a woman called Trudy Nighton who went by the working nickname of‘Mistress Sparkle’, and was convinced she was telling the truth. The Doc took some persuading but eventually he believed it too and personally assigned the team to cover it, on the understanding that evidence, real corroborating evidence, of the ‘photos-of-Grady-with-his-todger-out’ variety, was what was needed here.
The surveillance operation recorded the comings-and-goings and cumings-and-goings of the uber-respectable and very-married Defence Secretary, Timothy Grady, who until that point had been widely tipped as a future Conservative Prime Minister. His much-vaunted support for ‘family values’ did not however prevent Grady from meeting ‘Mistress Sparkle’ and her friends in his London apartment, with her services billed at an eye-watering three hundred quid an hour, though he of course had negotiated a discount. Not for nothing was Timothy Grady known in politics as ‘the Lion,’ a nickname he had acquired while renegotiating Britain’s budget rebate from the EEC. So intransigent had been his stance on this issue that French and German politicians had started referring to him, in a derogatory manner, as the ‘Lion from London’ and when the right-wing press picked up on it, renaming him ‘The Lion of Brussels’, Grady did nothing to stifle this heroic image.
Even though he knew every salacious word virtually by heart, Tom Carney sat on the train and read and re-read the story he had co-written all the way along the Jubilee line. For the first time, Tom walked into the newspaper’s headquarters like he truly belonged there. As he passed rows of desks manned by veteran reporters he adopted what he hoped was a laid-back demeanour, as if destroying the career of a future Prime Minister and landing the front page in the process was all in a day’s work for this young reporter. A couple of journos actually bothered to mumble a greeting. A pretty young girl he had once unsuccessfully flirted with by the water cooler even smiled at him.
‘The chief wants to see you,’ said Terry-the-sub when Tom reached his desk, looking like he begrudged the congratulations Tom was about to receive.
‘Careful,’ said Jennifer, the Doc’s secretary, as he arrived at the huge, glass-walled office that dominated the enormous newsroom, ‘he’s not a happy bunny.’ She made it sound like she’d just invented the nauseating phrase everybody seemed to be using at the moment.
‘Well,’ Tom said, ‘it’s nothing I’ve done,’
His reverie was short-lived however, cut cruelly short by a familiar, booming voice that had more than its usual level of malice behind it. ‘Carney, get in here now!’
Tom walked into the office in disbelief.
‘Chief?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘You prat!’ shouted the Doc and he immediately threw a folded copy of that morning’s edition at Tom, who ducked as it sailed harmlessly over his head and out though the opened door behind him. ‘You complete and utter fucking prat!’
CHAPTER FIVE
DC Ian Bradshaw was staring at the ceiling again. He’d spent a lot of time looking at ceilings lately, during the long nights of sleeplessness that followed his recuperation. Then there were the hours of listless staring when his depression left him with so little energy he couldn’t even stretch out a hand to change the TV channel with the remote control. Instead he would leave the inane daytime chat, stupefying game-shows and saccharin-coated kiddies’ programmes running. Every lunchtime in Bradshaw’s flat, ‘Mr Benn’ would go about his business of escaping from the real
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