The Judgement Book Read Online Free Page A

passed.
    ‘Bloody Plymouth cabbies,’ grunted Dan. ‘They don’t want to know unless you’re young, female and cute.’
    The evening was still, the fading light mixing with the orange of the streetlamps. Dan spotted another taxi rumbling up the road. They had to move fast. If a big story was breaking, getting there as soon as possible was vital. Some creativity was required.
    ‘Come here El,’ he said, stepping out into the middle of the road. The photographer remained determinedly on the pavement. ‘Big money for good piccies,’ Dan cooed, rubbing his fingers together, and El reluctantly joined him. The cab slowed.
    ‘’Ere, what the hell you doing?!’ shouted the driver, waving a fist from the window. Then his tone changed, surprise replacing the anger. ‘’Ere! Aren’t you that bloke off the TV?’
    For once, Dan thought the dreaded words could just work for him. Usually followed by a jabbing finger and, “What you should be reporting on,” or “What you don’t understand is,” this time being recognised might be useful. They clambered in to the back of the cab.
    ‘Yeah, I’m the man on the telly and we’ve got a story breaking,’ said Dan. ‘Quick as you like please.’
    The man whistled. ‘Cool. I’ve always wanted to do something like this. Wait until I tell the Mrs! Hold tight.’
    The taxi’s wheels squealed in protest as the driver forced it into a spinning U-turn. Dan and El instinctively grabbed the door handles to steady themselves. Dan started going through his Scramble plan. He called Nigel to get him to Freedman’s house, then the newsroom. There was a satisfactory panic at the end of the line. The outside broadcast truck would be despatched. They wanted a live report for the 10.25 bulletin.
    The cab’s engine gunned as it headed through the city centre, past the bombed-out Charles Church, lonely memorial to the Blitz of Plymouth, up to the University, all glass and concrete towers, and on to El’s flat on North Hill.
    The taxi pulled up on the double yellow lines and the photographer jumped out, jogged up the path and waddled back less than a minute later, panting heavily, camera slung around his neck. He cradled it lovingly as he climbed back into the cab. Despite the warmth of the evening, El wore his familiar battered body warmer, its pockets filled with flash bulbs, lens cloths, light meters and spare batteries. The paparazzo was ready for action.
    Dan checked his ever-unreliable second-hand Rolex. Almost nine o’clock it said, so probably about ten past. Only an hour and a quarter until the late news. They’d have to move quickly.
    El handed Dan the jacket he’d borrowed for the auction. ‘Here mate, think you’ll need this.’
    Dan took it and checked the inside pocket. The black tie he kept for sudden VIP death stories was safely there. Good. He found a few scraps of paper in his jeans pocket. Enough for some hasty notes. He had all he needed.
    Blackmail, sex, a fake bomb and the suicide of a well-known MP. It sounded like the sort of story journalists dreamt of. He looked at El. The photographer’s face was soft with the whimsical contentment that said he sensed a scandal erupting, and the scent of big money to be made.
    The cab sped through a turning traffic light, screeched around a corner. The flats and terraces of the city centre faded, replaced instead by semi-detached houses. All were in the impeccable decorative order so beloved of estate agents, all with two or more cars in the drive, and all with neatly trimmed lawns, both front and back, naturally. They’d reached Hartley, probably the most upmarket area of Plymouth, although many locals joke that might be a contradiction in terms.
    The taxi growled to a stop in Hawthorn Lane and Dan hopped out, El managing more of an untidy clamber. Elegance had always eluded him. Within seconds of their arrival, curtains began twitching.
    It was that kind of an area.
    ‘Thanks, mate,’ said Dan, giving the driver a ten