The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (2 page)

‘Mother Reunited with Daughter Stolen at Birth!’ screamed
the headline. She read it slowly, twice; it made her want to laugh and weep at
the same time. She took a deep breath, suddenly elated, she had done it again;
another wrong, righted; another great story. Marianne Coltrane allowed herself the
merest flush of pride. This was good work.

She checked the by-line. Jack Buchannon’s name was next to
hers; a nod to her boss, having unpicked the initial thread of this complicated
and despicable charade. She had done the real graft though, exposing a black
market in the sale of new born babies, a hideous scam masquerading as a charity
helping young girls ‘in trouble’. Now justice would be done and would be seen
to be done. The picture told the story; two women clamped in an embrace, the
years falling away, their love as fresh as if one had just given birth to the
other, their new beginning shining out from the page, a ray of hope. She folded
the still-warm paper crisply, putting it aside.

They say newsprint seeps into the veins, but for Marianne it
was like drowning, submerged the instant she had seen her work in print; just a
couple of small paragraphs and yet they were her words; powerful words. The
truth hit her like a train. The pen is indeed far mightier than the sword. From
that moment on, the newspaper business filled her very soul, it became her
entire world, everything. It was all she had and she was sure, all she could
ever wish for.

The newsroom was a goldfish bowl, all movement visible
through vast panes of glass opposite her desk. Reporters flashed to and fro
like minnows, the sub-editors clumped together in the middle like a puffball of
tangled weed, with features, picture desk and sports spiralling out; wayward
fronds in murky waters.

She could hear voices rising and although she could not yet
see them, she recognised the combatants and knew what they were arguing about.
She checked her watch. The glass of water on her desk vibrated, sending up tiny
champagne bubbles of oxygen. Placing a hand on the polished surface, she could
feel the pulse of the massive press many floors below. It was running off the
lunchtime edition; pushing thousands of copies through steel rollers onto
conveyor belts, to be strapped into bundles, loaded onto waiting vans and
whisked through the city streets at breakneck speed.

It was timed to hit the newsstands two hours ahead of its
nearest rival. It had been her idea to change the print shift making this
edition that bit earlier, it had helped, though sales were still on the slide.
She closed her eyes, absorbing the therapeutic thrum of the machine, the life
force of every word she wrote.

A door slammed, the arguing grew closer. She ducked behind a
pile of files, hoping she had not been spotted; she had been in the office for
hours, checking and re-checking her notes, filing them meticulously, this story
was big and just the tip of the iceberg. She always started early, avoiding the
dreaded school run, when rivulets of children spilled from vehicles of all
shapes and sizes, irritatingly blocking the entrance to the newspaper’s car
park, until the bell sounded and their relieved parents could drive away.

Now she watched the two men standing beyond the glazed wall,
the old dog facing down the young pup, gesticulating at each other and then
towards her inner sanctum. She was in no mood for their posturing, not today,
she was on a deadline, she needed to stay focused. She crouched down as they
scanned the glass, hotching herself along the carpet to kneel beneath her desk,
trying to make herself invisible. In her haste she disturbed some papers and
the invitation to the National Media Awards fluttered past her nose to the
floor.

She prayed they had not seen it. She forced herself to leave
it where it lay, resisting the urge to pick it up and read again the
spine-tingling phrase, ‘As a nominee you are invited to attend.’ She could just
imagine the dazzling Hollywood smile of the guest presenter, as he handed her
the coveted trophy for Journalist of the Year. The voices grew louder, and
deciding her presence, at least as referee, was required after all, she hauled
herself up, and gathering an armful of files, propelled herself into the
corridor.

As the clash between the two men heightened, she burst
through the door, slicing the atmosphere, tottering to negotiate the cluttered
space with her hands full, spectacles doubling as a hair band against a shock
of auburn. She smiled at the younger man, who looked swiftly to the elder. She
dropped the files on Jack Buchannan’s overflowing desk, neither male had
attempted to assist; this was a newsroom after all.

“What’s up?” she asked, still smiling at her editor, Jack, a
grumbling Scot with a penchant for a stiff gin at any time of the day or night.
He ignored her, returning to his desk to prod at the keyboard, abruptly
bringing to a close the heated discussion she had interrupted. The computer
bleeped uncomfortably, he waggled the mouse, picked it up and dropped it in a
drawer, slamming it shut. The network was down.

“Is there a problem? Something you’re not happy about,
Jack?” she asked patiently.

“Ach, look at them, no-one doing a hand’s turn. You’d think
their arms had been ripped out at the sockets, brains turned to slush. Can they
not just pick up a pen and y’know, write with it?” He flung out an arm,
embracing the disabled cluster about him, on a good day one of the most dynamic
editorial teams in the country. Marianne leaned back on his desk, arms folded.

“I’ve seen the first edition, good work Marianne,” she said,
under her breath. Jack pretended he did not hear.

“I’ve given Paul a directive and he’s being argumentative,
nothing for you to worry about. Now, I need a cigarette.” Jack stood up,
hesitated, it was raining outside. Slumping back into his chair, he put on
spectacles to bring the office clock into focus and immediately brightened.
Marianne guessed what he was thinking. The Duchess of Cornwall would be just
open, the public house kept odd hours, catering for the print team coming off
the night shift. At least a smoke outside the pub meant a chat with someone
half-intelligent, if not wholly intelligible. He made for his coat. Marianne
opened her diary.

“Bit early, Jack,” she said, softly. The younger man
coughed.

“Have you a problem?” Jack grunted, his accent as broad as
the day he crossed the border. “Alright, get it off your chest, but I’m not
changing my mind, no matter what Marianne says.”

“We’ve been discussing ‘The Interview’,” Paul Osborne
widened his eyes at Marianne. “I think Jack’s wrong to insist we run a
politician and only a local politician at that. The Interview’s taking off;
people have started asking who we’re doing next. The bag lady sleeping outside
St Winifred’s A & E department was amazing. I mean a war hero, on the
scrapheap, living as a down-and-out, a severe failing of the system, the system
she fought to protect.”

“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.