Chapter 7 The Local Echo
The Local Echo
‘You want to go where?’
‘It’s just for the weekend.’
‘Hang on, so let me get this straight. You want to go gallivanting off to the South of France for the weekend to try to get an interview with some love rat?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be gallivanting; I’d be investigating.’
‘And you want the paper to pay for it?’
‘Yes, that’s sort of the idea.’
‘Flick Lomax, have you taken leave of your senses?’
It was later that afternoon and Flick was in her editor’s office.
After her conversation with Maggie, Flick had driven back to The Local Echo.
Their offices were in town, situated just off the high street, in a converted Victorian woollen mill that backed onto the canal.
It was actually a really nice building; they had their own floor and the others were occupied by a travel agent’s, a bed manufacturer’s, an accountant’s and a funeral director.
Which, when you think about things, and Flick was always thinking about things, summed up the basic cornerstones of life.
Nice holidays, a comfy bed, death and taxes.
Which was either comforting or depressing, Flick wasn’t sure. She’d mentioned it to Tupperware Tony once, asked him his opinion, and he’d looked bewildered and said he’d never even thought about it before. Which confirmed what Flick had always suspected: that most people didn’t think like her.
Most people would have left Maggie’s caravan feeling dejected.
So that was it. There was going to be no story.
No exclusive. No chance of a promotion or pay rise.
No Big Break. And, importantly, no answers.
All that effort and for nothing. Most people would’ve walked back across that muddy field, feeling sorry for themselves about their ruined trainers and wasted time and career frustrations and stopped at the petrol station on the drive back to the office and treated themselves to some chocolate or crisps in a calorie-laden attempt to cheer themselves up.
Hell, maybe they would have even bought both.
But Flick wasn’t most people. Instead she drove right past that petrol station, hunched down low in her seat, windscreen wipers creaking furiously, as she hatched a plan.
With or without Maggie, she was still going to try to write the story.
She was a journalist, remember? And journalists didn’t just give up at the first hurdle.
No, they did not. They were tenacious and determined and when they got a whiff of a good story they chased it with integrity, ingenuity and a killer instinct.
Well, at least that’s what they did in all those Netflix documentaries she watched.
Only, there was just one tiny problem – well, it wasn’t exactly a problem, more a minor detail. One of several she’d conveniently left out when she’d pitched the story to Maggie.
She hadn’t told anyone at the newspaper about what she was up to.
Not Simon on Features, Tupperware Tony, or Melissa, one of the subeditors who was known for her amazing skills at standfirsts and keeping the various indoor plants alive.
And certainly not Seymour, her editor, whose office sat apart from the main news desk and into which she’d only entered a handful of times, once being the day she went for her interview.
No, instead she’d been working on her own initiative. Well, wasn’t that one of the fundamental skills of being a journalist?
OK, so admittedly initiative seemed a little overrated – so far it had resulted in one expensive pair of ruined trainers and a caravan door (figuratively) slammed in her face. But she wasn’t giving up.
Which is why she’d plucked up her courage, knocked on her editor’s door, and spent the last ten minutes pitching her idea to Seymour.
Who had sat across from her behind his large mahogany desk, mouth agape, listening to her telling him that no, she hadn’t spent the morning at the town hall interviewing pole-dancing pensioners.
But had, in fact, been miles out in the countryside investigating a story about a woman who had lost everything in a romance fraud.
‘And he’s not a love rat. The term is romance fraudster,’ she finished.
‘And I think you’ll find the term is not on your nelly,’ replied her editor.
Seymour, her editor, was in his sixties, with eyebrows that took on a life of their own and a fondness for Fair Isle vests, single malt whiskey and pastéis de nata from the Portuguese bakery on the corner.
At least Flick thought he was in his sixties.
She wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell how old anyone was once they were over thirty.
He also liked to use sayings she’d never heard of.
Leaning back in his leather swivel chair, he laced his fingers across his stomach and raised one of those bushy eyebrows of his.
‘Let me ask you, how do you already know he’s in the South of France? And what’s more, how do you plan to find and interview this romance fraudster –’ Seymour made a point of enunciating the words – ‘if the police haven’t?’
‘I know where to look.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Social media, of course,’ replied Flick, as if it was obvious.
Because it was. Isn’t that how everyone looked up their old boyfriends or girlfriends?
Late at night, when you were feeling particularly bad about your life, eating what was left of the reduced-fat hummus and scrolling mindlessly in the hope of being reassured that they’d aged a lot worse than you and were still single.
Even better, single with a really bad haircut.
Flick felt a niggle of doubt. Or was that just her?
Anyway.
‘People like to show off,’ she continued. ‘They can’t resist boasting about their holidays or their lifestyles and romance fraudsters are no different. Even if they change their name or their username and use aliases, everyone leaves a footprint if you look hard enough.’
‘And how’s that?’ Seymour frowned, making his eyebrows flap like seagulls.
‘Well, hashtags are often a dead giveaway, sometimes they even leave their location on, especially if it’s a fancy hotel or restaurant, which of course isn’t an accident, they want you to know where they are.
To show off and say, “Look at me, look at how great my life is!” even though mostly it’s just to convince themselves, because they’re largely complete fantasists.
But even if they don’t leave their location on, there’s cross-referencing between followers and friends, examining reels, their likes, screenshotting and zooming in on photos or landmarks in their stories to spot things in the background .
. . and that’s before you’ve even looked at their activity on TikTok or Facebook groups or X that used to be Twitter or Threads . . . There are clues everywhere.’
Her editor looked lost.
‘Well, in that case you should tell the police if he’s wanted for questioning.’
‘And they’ll do what exactly? The police are understaffed and overstretched as it is. According to Home Office data, eighty-two per cent of burglaries go unsolved. They’re hardly going to cross the Channel to catch a thief if they can’t even catch one on their own doorstep.’
‘They might if they think they’ll catch a suntan,’ quipped her editor.
Sitting across from him, Flick frowned. Was he trying to be funny? She wasn’t sure.
‘OK, I’ll tell them.’
‘Good.’
‘But I still want to go. It would make a great story. You know it would.’
It was a compromise of sorts. Flick knew the police wouldn’t do anything. But this way she could still try and get her interview.
‘Would it, though? I mean, a middle-aged woman falls for a con man? It’s hardly headline stuff.’
‘And pole-dancing pensioners are?’ snapped Flick.
Seymour didn’t reply. Underneath his Fair Isle vest, he could feel his shirt buttons straining from the extra pounds he’d gained since Gaynor, his wife, had left him six months ago.
Too many takeaways and beers on the sofa.
They’d met when he was a young, skinny-hipped reporter working in Fleet Street and he’d travelled to Liverpool to interview a band that was about to become the next Beatles.
For the life of him, he couldn’t remember their name now, but he’d never forget the pretty redhead who asked for his ticket at Lime Street station.
Six months later they were married with a baby on the way and he’d given up his crazy London life for a steady job on a regional paper.
He never regretted it, though sometimes he missed who he used to be.
He glanced at his wastepaper basket, noting the empty box from the bakery and made a mental note to cut back on their custard tarts. Starting tomorrow.
And he really missed his wife.
He reached in his drawer for a packet of Monster Munch.
‘I think you’re forgetting this is a local newspaper,’ he said, after a moment. ‘We don’t have that kind of budget. This isn’t News of the World.’
‘Actually, I don’t think that exists any more.’
‘But that’s not the point, is it?’ Seymour sighed heavily. ‘You’re supposed to be a local reporter. Reporting on local news.’
Through a gap in the vertical blinds, Flick caught sight of Simon on Features staring into Seymour’s office.
He was her senior and seemed to take great pleasure in giving her all the worst stories.
He’d been dying to know why she was going to speak to their editor, but she’d refused to tell him.
Now, with hope fast disappearing, she could imagine the smirk on his face when he found out.
Simon was someone who kept his location on and liked to post photos of himself drinking cocktails in bars around town together with the hashtag #cheerstome which, Flick thought, said everything you needed to know about Simon.
‘But it is local news,’ protested Flick. ‘The woman’s living locally in a caravan. That’s local connections.’
But Seymour wasn’t listening. ‘Look, I know you’ve got ambitions. I was once like you. But keep working hard and one day you’ll get here. You’ll get my spot. You’ll be in this chair,’ he continued, his mouth full.
Flick looked at her editor, feet up on his desk, eating pickledonion Monster Munch in his messy office. This was not the peak of her ambition.
‘And, all right, perhaps it is a good story. But if it’s a good story you want, I’ll send you over to Clifton Park Reservoir.’
‘What’s happening at Clifton Park Reservoir?’
‘Electric scooters. They’re getting stolen and dumped there. Black market. Gangs. It’s got all the hallmarks of a big story.’
‘But it’s not a big story, is it?’
‘Well, that depends upon you. You’re our community reporter. You can interview people. Follow up leads. Look at their footprint on social media,’ added Seymour pointedly.
Flick felt her spirits sinking.
‘If you write up a big piece, we can even think about the front page. How about that?’ he enthused, flashing Flick a bright smile.
He didn’t want her feeling discouraged. She was a good reporter.
Hardworking, enthusiastic, never missed a deadline.
Not once during that whole time her mother was sick or even after the funeral.
‘Or at the very least you could be on page three. Though not in the traditional sense, of course,’ he added with a jovial laugh.
‘Is that a reference to the tradition of sexually objectifying women by publishing photos of topless models in British newspapers that was finally banned in 2015 after a three-year campaign?’ replied Flick.
Seymour nearly choked on a pickled-onion monster’s foot.
‘Right. Yes. That one.’ Clearing his throat, he nodded vigorously, his expression stern. ‘And not a minute too soon either, in my opinion. Thank goodness times have changed.’
‘Thank goodness,’ agreed Flick.
‘Anyway –’ eager to move off this subject, Seymour quickly grasped on to another – ‘enough about work. Any summer holiday plans? I understand you’ve still got some annual leave to take before the end of August.’
‘Yes, two weeks.’
‘You know, if you don’t use it, you lose it.’
Flick noticed Seymour chuckle to himself, there was obviously a joke in there somewhere, but she didn’t get it.
‘I’d rather be at work to be honest.’
Seymour studied Flick. She reminded him a lot of his daughter, when she was that age. Ambitious. Opinionated. Fearless. Before the drugs knocked all the stuffing out of her and tore their family apart. He felt suddenly protective.
‘Look, I know you’re dedicated, but it’s all a work–life balance. Why don’t you take some time off? Go on holiday with that boyfriend of yours, whatsisname?’
‘Rory.’
‘You two must be quite serious by now.’ He raised an eyebrow.
Flick responded by returning the kind of smile she knew was required of her whenever anyone asked this question.
‘Anyway, I’m sure Simon and Tony can manage on the Features Desk. Summer’s always a quiet time for news.’ He smiled genially. ‘Think about it.’
‘I will.’ Flick nodded. But she didn’t need to think about it. She didn’t want a holiday. She wanted to break this story.
Pep talk over, Seymour threw the empty crisp packet in the bin and swung his legs back underneath his desk. It was Flick’s cue to leave and, standing up, she walked over to the door and reached for the handle.
‘Who is she anyway?’
Flick turned to see Seymour looking at her thoughtfully.
‘This poor woman who lost everything?’
‘Her name’s Maggie. She used to own a little art gallery in Bath. Apparently she was quite successful.’
‘And now she’s penniless and living in a caravan up on the Pennines?’ asked Seymour. ‘Why move up here?’
‘To be honest, I don’t think she had anywhere else to go.’
Shaking his head, Seymour let out a low whistle. ‘You just never know, do you? One wrong decision and your life’s over.’