Chapter 9 #2
‘I said I’d speak to you first.’
But Jo knew that someone from the Daily Mail news team would already be in their car gunning it down to the Townells’ home.
‘Mick?’ she asked, ‘Have you got email access at home?’
When he said he did, she told him: ‘I’m going to go and speak to my news editor right now.
Then I’ll send you a contract through. We’ll pay you ￡5,000 if we use your story on the front page.
’ She was on safe ground here: judging by Spikey’s reaction, there was no chance of that happening: ‘￡2,500 if it’s used anywhere else in the paper.
But you have to sign up and speak to us only. How does that sound?’
‘That sounds fine.’ There was relief in his voice. He obviously hadn’t enjoyed this conversation much, which was a good thing because it meant he might stay away from the Mail when they arrived at his front door.
‘Phone me as soon as the email comes through,’ Jo instructed him. ‘I’ll speak to you in a few minutes,’ she said in a friendly tone. But at the end of the call, she slammed the phone down hard.
‘Shit,’ she announced loudly. ‘We’ve got a major problem.
Aidan, I need you to go to Canterbury. Very sorry.
But I need you to go right now, do not pass Go, do not collect ￡200.
Here’s the address.’ She handed Aidan – already on his feet scrambling things into his briefcase – a Post-It note.
‘Don’t even stop to blow your nose. I’ll brief you en route, but in a nutshell, you’re keeping the vaccine-damage family I’ve interviewed away from the Mail. ’
Aidan had the decency to nod and not look too ticked off.
She knew she was taking advantage; if she’d asked Dominique to do this job, she’d probably have been dealing with a temper tantrum.
Dominique liked to work on her own thing, did not like to do anything which could be interpreted as an errand for Jo.
‘Thanks very much,’ Jo added, ‘I really appreciate it. Really sorry to land you with the babysitting job.’
Now she had to tackle Jeff and get money out of him.
She walked over to the news desk and stood by the side of Jeff’s chair, waiting for him to finish a phone call.
Jeff, her mid-40s, completely dependable news editor, always in a somehow fresh-pressed shirt giving off a whiff of limes, even though he was in that chair round about ten hours a day.
Though he did frequent the office gym. Allegedly.
‘Otherwise, I’m a heart attack waiting to happen,’ he’d tell her.
‘Good, good. That sounds very good,’ he was telling the person on the other end. ‘The editor will love that.’
She hoped this meant she’d caught him at the right moment.
‘Jo?’ He put the receiver down and swivelled his chair to face her, although she could see the flashing lights of two other calls holding on his line.
‘Got any money?’ she asked him.
‘For a coffee?’ he replied.
‘No. For an exclusive.’
‘Uh oh. I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘The Townells want ￡2,500 for their story. I can only stump up ￡500 and that’s if I put off the freelancer who was going to file on eco-tourism for us.’
‘Two and a half grand?’ Jeff wanted to check, ‘for the whooping cough vaccine twin?’ He rubbed the palms of his hands over his face. ‘Or else…?’ he asked.
‘They go to the Mail. And they’ve already spoken to the Mail, so Aidan’s on his way down there to guard the door.’
‘Oh, damn,’ he exclaimed, ‘I thought we were going to get this one, at least, for free.’
‘Me too,’ she added.
‘Two thousand five hundred quid… won’t take any less?’
She shook her head: ‘Don’t think so.’
Jeff’s pen was being squeezed mercilessly between his chunky fingers.
‘OK, OK, well, we can juggle some things about. Defer a few payments… and sort this out somehow. You say OK.’
‘Thanks,’ she fired him a smile.
‘I better get some decent stuff to go with it. Make it worth a page three with a sidebar on the front, huh?’
‘Yes, please, Jo.’
Mick phoned back once he’d received the contract by email and made something of an embarrassed apology.
‘This is fine,’ he told Jo. ‘I’ve phoned the Daily Mail to say forget it, but they say someone’s already on the way down.’
‘You can’t even speak to this person,’ she warned him, ‘or you’re in breach of our contract. OK? My deputy, Aidan’ – that would annoy Dominique – ‘is on his way to help you. The Mail will be very persistent. But just keep away from them, please.’
There was a pause while Mick registered what he’d done – made himself the subject of a little Fleet Street dogfight.
‘Aidan Brodie is my reporter, he’ll phone you before he rings at your door, so you’ll know it’s him.
If I were you, I would get out of the house for the day, because the other reporter will be very persistent.
I’m sure you’ll be promised all sorts of things.
But to be honest, Mick, ￡2,500 is a lot for the story. ’
And that wasn’t a lie. Although vast sums were occasionally paid out by papers for big celeb stories or news of international profile and saleability, ordinary people rarely made four figures.
Especially at her paper, which was always operating on freshly squeezed budgets.
The Mail had more money and, in her heart of hearts, Jo had already resigned herself to the fact that this story might be snatched from under her nose.
And it was an important story – a clear cut example surely of the government and the vaccine companies knowing about the possibility of harm and not acting.
Important to the world at large and important to her.
Damn, damn, damn. She might have to go to Canterbury, too, she decided.
But first, she would phone the doctor, as her anonymous friend had recommended.
Ringing the surgery number got her through surprisingly easily to Dr Paul Taylor directly.
Jo explained who she was, said she was planning a story on the new Quintet injection and would he like to talk to her.
‘Jo Randall,’ he said pleasantly, recognising her name, ‘I’ve read lots of stories by you.’ And then he hung up, which was the kind of thing you got used to in her line of work. But still, it came as something of a surprise.
She gave a long sigh and began to punch his surgery number back into the phone. But a call flashed up on line two, so she decided to take that instead.
‘Jo Randall.’
‘Hello, hello there, Ms Randall… sorry about that. It’s Dr Paul Taylor here, I’m calling you back on the mobile. It’s just… well… easier this way.’
‘Oh. OK. Hello.’
‘Quintet,’ he said quickly. ‘You’re doing something on Quintet, are you? About time too. I don’t know much about this injection. But it comes with risks, especially to certain groups of children.’
‘Have you got any evidence… anything in the way of facts?’ she asked.
‘Would you like to meet up? That would be best, then I can tell you more.’
‘Yes, good idea—’ but before she could get out the wheres and whens, the doctor added: ‘I take a break between twelve and one today. I know you journalists are always in a hurry. So, I’ll meet you at ten past twelve on Primrose Hill, the first bench you come to if you take the Fitzroy Road entrance. Does that sound OK?’
‘Ermm, well… yes. Unless you’d prefer a café round there or something a bit more comfortable?’ She knew she would.
‘No, no, the park is fine. You’d better take my mobile number, just in case you need to change the plan.’ He gave her his number, then hung up again without any further warning.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ Jo said out loud, irritated. She suspected he was totally cranky and she didn’t have time for this. She dialled Green Tony’s number. He picked up on the first ring for a change.
‘Green Party HQ.’
‘Tony, it’s Jo Randall, your most persistent caller. Your telephone stalker, your serial dialler.’ She tried to sound friendly, although by now she was irritated with him too.
‘Ah, Jo.’
‘Don’t “ah, Jo” me. This better not be another one of your long-winded excuses.’
‘Savannah just isn’t ready for this yet,’ he said. To her ears, this sounded pompous.
‘Well, she better bloody well get ready, cos the news team are going to be staking her out all day, every day starting Saturday, unless I get this interview.’
‘Oh, rubbish,’ was Tony’s response.
‘They are. The editor has spoken. He’s desperate – in love with her or something – she has to talk, one way or another.’
‘How very sinister,’ Tony said. ‘Well, they’ll be wasting their time. Jo, please don’t do this to her or you’re going to be way out of favour. You’ll go into the Siberia section of my contacts book.’
‘And just where do you think you are in mine?’ she shot back. ‘You’re in the freaking Arctic, about to go into bloody global-warming meltdown.’
At least he laughed at that.
‘She’s thinking about it,’ he said, wanting this conversation to be over.
‘She is never off the telly, Tone,’ Jo commented. ‘Why won’t she do a newspaper chat?’
‘She’s nervous. It’s so much more personal.
More open to interpretation by the journalist. She finds TV quite easy.
She can say what she wants, the way she wants to say it.
Newspapers give her the jitters. Her campaign has been flawless,’ he gushed.
‘She couldn’t have done better if she’d been running for the White House. She doesn’t want to muck it up now.’
‘This isn’t about mucking it up. This is the icing on the campaign cake. This is me.’ Jo didn’t like the pleading tone in her voice now. ‘I’m a huge fan of hers.’
‘I know. Just leave it with me a bit longer. Please.’
‘Why don’t you let me ask her?’ Jo tried. ‘I can tell her what I’d like to talk about, reassure her.’
‘Very persuasive, Jo, but I don’t think so.’
‘Just ask. Please.’ Jesus. This was getting tiresome. The wannabe politician, for God’s sake, making like a Hollywood diva. It was almost strange. For a moment, it fleetingly crossed Jo’s mind to wonder what Savannah was so anxious not to reveal.