A Kind Of Wild Justice (30 page)

However, she had no time for further philosophising if she wanted to make the most of the advantage she and the
Comet
had been given by Fielding. She reached for her phone and called through to Paul’s office.

‘Come in now, get news and pix and Tim Jones,’ he instructed. He meant bring in the news and picture editors along with Jones as chief crime man. Together they worked on the story all day, Pam Smythe directing her news team, Tim and his number two working through the Yard and their own contacts on either side of the law, and Joanna mercilessly exploiting whatever contacts she had left who might be able to help her on the story.

She spoke to Mike again a few hours later, to check on developments, homing in on every possible angle he might be able to give her that could put her and her newspaper ahead of the pack. ‘So it is a revenge killing, then?’ she asked. ‘For Angela? Is that what your lads think?’

‘’Course they do. Where he was found, the way he died, his cock in his mouth. Unless we’re just being made to think that.’

‘You’re getting complicated.’

‘Yeah. Well. I try to think round things, don’t I? Which is maybe why I was never going to make it big in the job …’

His bitterness and disappointment were never far from the surface, she thought. She stayed silent.

He continued after a brief pause ‘No. You’re right, Jo. Revenge for Angela is the number one theory. The Phillipses will be questioned, of course.’

‘You don’t think any of them would be capable of what was done to Jimbo, do you?’

‘As it happens, no, I don’t. And Jimbo O’Donnell was never short of enemies. But they’re obviously going to be on the list, aren’t they?’

Jo supposed so. She felt a sharp stab of pity for the family, together with a pang of guilt. If she and Fielding hadn’t opened the whole can of worms again the Phillipses would not be in this situation.

She had no time to dwell on it, though. She had work to do. And fast. The material was dynamite and she knew they had put together a really good package by early evening conference at 5.15 p.m. The official Yard announcement did not come until about half an hour before that. Fielding’s tip had given them a lead of the best part of a day. The
Comet
had been handed a huge advantage over its rivals, with the exception, she had little doubt, of the
Mail
. For about the first time since the whole thing had started again she allowed herself to feel a little bit pleased with herself. Just a little. And O’Donnell was dead, brutally murdered, which really was beginning to give her a nice warm feeling. Whoever had done the deed.

After the conference Paul gestured for her to stay behind. She knew he would consider the story the
Comet
would be putting to bed that night to be at least something of a recovery. And, indeed, he seemed to be in the best mood he had been in for some time. ‘I had lunch with Cromer-Wrong today,’ he told her
cheerily. Ronald Cromer-Wright was the
Comet
’s senior lawyer. Naturally he was invariably known as Cromer-Wrong. Nicknames like that were traditionally every bit as much a part of Fleet Street life as of the gangland world. It was instantly reassuring to Jo that Paul had referred to the lawyer in the familiar vernacular. Had he not been quite so cheery she might have wondered a little uneasily, in view of her recent exploits, where this opening remark was leading.

‘Apparently Cromer-Wrong bumped into a rather well-oiled Nigel Nuffield at some chambers do who informed him that he would never be doing business with him or anybody else at the
Comet
for as long as you remained employed here, but refused to elaborate,’ Paul continued, sounding highly amused now. ‘Actually, I’m beginning to come round to your way of thinking, that maybe that’s no great loss. But Nuffield’s been paid by the Phillipses, apparently, so that’s not his problem. I just want to know what you did to him, Jo.’ Paul was grinning as if in anticipation.

This was almost like the old days, thought Joanna. ‘I told him he was an overpaid, over-hyped, patronising fucking bastard,’ she explained casually. ‘Oh, and I think I may have mentioned something about prancing about in a damned silly wig …’

‘I’ve told you before, Jo, about being afraid to say what you mean,’ remarked her husband solemnly. Then he started to chuckle. She could still hear him chuckling as she left his office, closing the door behind her.

Paul had always had a wicked sense of humour, buried as it all too often was beneath that cool, rather distant exterior, and it pained her that she, at least,
seemed to be seeing less and less of it nowadays. He also had a liking for journalists who stood their corner and showed spirit. Even the one who was his wife, it seemed. By the time she reached her desk she was remembering all the reasons why she had married him in the first place.

Then, just before first edition time, he phoned down and asked her to come along to his office. She was still feeling buoyant – until he told her he was taking her byline off the main story.

‘Sorry, Jo, you’re too much at the heart of it all. The Phillipses might still sue. I can’t take unnecessary risks. And God only knows what the O’Donnells might yet come up with. I want to distance you from it all. Having your name all over the splash every time something new breaks on this one just won’t do.’

‘Fine, whatever you say,’ she told him crisply. She made no further comment, but she did slam the door to his office on the way out.

As she walked back to her desk she couldn’t help but think back to the days when in an unhappy situation like this the first person she would have chosen to drown her sorrows with would have been one Paul Potter.

She told herself not to be so dammed stupid. If she hadn’t been his wife she doubted Paul would even have bothered to tell her about the byline, and she would have known nothing about it until the first edition dropped. It was utterly ridiculous that a byline should matter so much to her at her age and after all she had been through in newspapers, after all she had achieved. But it did matter, of course. Particularly when she was the one who had got the lead on the story. It was actually even more than that. This was
her story, through and through, and had been from the very germ of the beginning of it to whatever decaying bones of it there were now. She had taken the flak when it had gone so badly wrong. She should also get any credit that was going. Even after all these years it was still important to her to be seen to be achieving, to be seen to be at the top of her particular game.

It mattered all right. And the day that it didn’t would be the day when she might as well not bother to continue even pretending to be a journalist.

The red-top Sundays had a field day. The
News of the World
homed in on Rob Phillips who gave a near-hysterical interview in which he said that O’Donnell had finally got what he deserved and that he only wished he had had the nerve to do the job himself. ‘What happened to O’Donnell is poetic justice,’ he said. ‘I just hope he died in agony and in terror, like my poor sister did. But no end, however dreadful, could ever be quite bad enough for that evil bastard.’

It was hard-hitting stuff. The fact that O’Donnell was officially an innocent man twice acquitted for crimes against Angela, including her rape and murder, in two different courts of law, received little attention. Because O’Donnell was dead, the
Screws
had a clear run at the story. You can’t libel the dead.

The
People
featured an almost equally hysterical outburst from Tommy O’Donnell. He more or less accused the entire Phillips family, Rob Phillips in particular, of involvement in the murder and even suggested that Mike Fielding probably had a part in it too. Joanna was only surprised that she didn’t merit a mention somewhere along the line.

She thought the
People
was on by far the most dodgy legal ground, but who was going to sue? Certainly not Mike Fielding who in any case appeared just to want the whole thing to go away so that he could ensure the safety of his pension. And certainly not the Phillipses. They would not have the bottle for yet another court case, she was sure of it, nor the cash, come to that. And in any event, with Rob Phillips’s rantings coincidentally appearing in the
Screws
on the same day as the Tommy O’Donnell stuff was in the
People
, what sort of case would they have? If, indeed, it was a coincidence. She thought it probably more likely that they had known over at the
People
what the
Screws
was running. After all, from about Friday morning onwards every week half the aim of the news teams of the two big red-tops was to find out what the other was splashing on. And if they’d had early knowledge at the
People
of the
Screw
’s exclusive, that would have greatly influenced the advice of the paper’s lawyers and the decision of its editor.

She called Fielding the next day. ‘Just wanted to see how you were doing.’

‘I’m not quite sure,’ he said. ‘O’Donnell’s death has taken the heat off a bit.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Somewhat takes the attention away from all those claims about me pushing you guys and the Phillipses to get the private prosecution case against O’Donnell set up, doesn’t it?’ he said.

Typical, she thought. He always saw everything in terms of how it affected him and his career, always had done. Jimbo O’Donnell being found dead with his cock in his mouth was no exception.

And what did he mean ‘claims’? That was the trouble with Fielding, sometimes he seemed to bend the truth so much inside his head that he got to believe his own fabrication. Which was, of course, exactly what journalists were so frequently accused of. ‘Did you see all the stuff in the Sundays?’

‘Yup. Predictable, I suppose.’

‘I wondered if you knew how the investigation is going. Any progress?’

‘Don’t believe so. Not that I’m allowed to get a look-in, of course. One thing’s for sure, there’s a longish list of folk who wouldn’t have minded topping Jimbo.’

‘Yeah. And you are on it, according to his brother Tommy.’

He chuckled drily. ‘The O’Donnells think everybody’s idea of justice is the same as theirs,’ he said mildly.

‘Well, I must admit I’m glad the twisted bastard’s dead,’ she replied. ‘I’m beginning to get quite a warm feeling about it, in fact.’

‘Yeah.’ There was a silence.

Surely he had more to say than that? She waited.

‘Yeah,’ he said again, a little more life in his voice at last. ‘Come to think of it, so am I.’

Fielding told himself that for him it was good news not to be involved in the case any more. Things seemed to be straightening out quite nicely. With Jimbo dead the Complaints and Discipline guys did indeed seem to be losing interest in him and the part he had played in the private prosecution. He knew he would be sure to be interviewed by the team investigating O’Donnell’s murder, and he determined that
he would be respectful and to the point, and not let any of his personal feelings get in the way.

Unfortunately he was called in by the senior investigating officer on an afternoon when he was least expecting it. He had spent far longer than he ought to have done that lunchtime in the pub and had also drunk far more than he should. Confident of spending the rest of the day doing nothing more challenging than the ‘paper shuffling’ of which he was so scornful, he had downed four or five pints of bitter, he couldn’t quite remember which, each after the first one accompanied by a large whisky chaser.

To make matters worse, the senior investigating officer was Todd Mallett. Detective Superintendent Todd Mallett. Mike had known that, of course, but he had tried not to think about it. Apart from anything else, it really rankled that the other man, whom Fielding had always considered to be thoroughly inferior to himself as a police officer, had ultimately achieved a rank far senior to his own.

Fielding had never doubted that he had both greater ability and greater intelligence, not only than Todd Mallett but than most of the officers he had worked with over the years. That made his failure to progress beyond the rank of DI all the more infuriating. Particularly as even he had to accept that the stagnation of his career was at least partly down to his own behaviour.

Mallett interviewed Fielding himself, rather than delegating the task to one of the lower-rank officers on his team and Fielding knew that was a gesture of respect. But he still couldn’t help the way he felt. Particularly after that ill-fated lunchtime session. From the moment he opened the door to the second-floor
office which Mallett, who was actually based at HQ at Middlemoor, had been allocated, Mike seemed unable to stop himself appearing uncooperative and belligerent.

Mallett greeted him in his usual courteous, affable fashion.

Fielding, in the sort of mood which ensured that even the other man’s affability irritated him, responded abruptly; ‘Right, what do you want with me, then?’

He was aware of Mallett studying him appraisingly. Apart from anything else he supposed it would be highly optimistic to think that the detective superintendent would not notice that he had been drinking.

Certainly when Mallett spoke again he was no longer affable. He had greeted Fielding pleasantly and informally, and addressed him as Mike. The interview suddenly turned very formal and not a little hostile. His own fault again, Mike knew.

‘I suggest, Detective Inspector, that you watch your attitude. There is no doubt at all in my mind that you have already gone against the instructions of your senior officers in passing on certain information, albeit through a third party, to the Phillips family, and that by then encouraging them in every way you could to take out that ill-fated civil prosecution you opened the whole can of worms which has led to James Martin O’Donnell’s death …’

‘Look,’ interrupted Fielding, ‘I’ve been through all that with the rubber heel squad. None of you can prove a thing.’

‘Really,’ said Mallett, leaning towards Fielding across the small table which separated them. ‘Well,
that’s down to Complaints and Discipline, although I wouldn’t be quite so sure of yourself if I were you, Inspector. As it happens, all I am interested in is any leads you may have acquired during your extremely dubious and meddlesome “enquiries” which could help us find Jimbo O’Donnell’s killer.’