Sabbathman (16 page)

She reached for the binoculars again, trying to find him, but when she finally managed to steady her shaking hands, the hollow in the saltmarsh was empty and the man had gone.

Two days after the Exmouth explosion, Tuesday 28 September, Annie Meredith was sitting in a small French restaurant in North London. Across the table, his back to the wall, was a man in his late thirties. He was slightly built, with a pale, freckled face and carefully parted sandy hair. His name was Willoughby Grant, and he was the founder and editor of
The Citizen
.

Grant broke open his second bread roll and smeared the inside with butter. For a thin man, he seemed to have a ravenous appetite.

‘But didn’t you see the pictures?’ he said, ‘on TV?’

‘Of course I did. Everyone did. The whole country did.’

‘And you think we’re in business to ignore all that? You think we’d lead with anything else? Given the …’ he looked up, licking the butter off his fingers, ‘… inside track?’

‘No, that’s not my point. It’s just …’ Annie frowned, leaning back from the table to let the waiter take her plate, ‘… the way you’re starring to handle it, the way …’

She looked at the man across the table, annoyed with herself, trying to think of a better phrase. The brief, after all, had been explicit. Get hold of Willoughby Grant. Invite him to lunch. Befriend him. Flatter him. Seed the conversation with the odd hint, the odd whisper. Make him feel trusted. Make him feel part of the operation. Get him
onside
, for God’s sake.

Annie reached for the bottle of Chablis. Most journalists she’d ever met liked a drink, though in Grant’s case she’d seen little sign of it. In fact he’d barely finished his first glass.

‘More?’

Grant shook his head, covering his glass with his hand.
The choice of restaurant, La Petite Marmite, had been his. It was off the beaten track, out in the wilds of Highgate. Evidently he used the place a good deal.

‘I’m still none the wiser,’ he said, ‘about why you asked me out. We’re quite happy dealing with your people through the usual channels. Anyone else, for that matter. Police. CID. Special Branch. So,’ he smiled, ‘why the invite?’

‘I told you. I thought we might talk.’

‘About what?’

‘About this morning’s paper.’ Annie reached for her calfskin briefcase and slid out a copy of that morning’s
Citizen
, laying it carefully on the table between them. Two days after the explosion, Grant was still milking the incident for all it was worth. On Sunday, his stringer in Exeter had bought up the world rights to video footage shot by a weekend tripper on the beach. The footage, highly graphic, had shown the first rescue helicopters dipping over the wreckage minutes after the explosion. Grant had sold the pictures to TV outlets all over the world, but had saved the best sequence for his own paper the next day. The picture had nearly filled Monday’s front page, a grainy close-up of divers manhandling a pathetic bundle of flesh and rags, all that was left of the boat’s owner. Over the picture, the headline had read: HOW DARE THEY?

The picture on the front page of the paper on the table, a day later, was equally stark. It showed a middle-aged woman in a state of near collapse. Her name was Nicola Lister and she’d been waiting for her husband on a quayside four miles upriver from the scene of the explosion. The woman’s face was contorted with grief. She’d just been told about her husband’s death and she was plainly in shock. In its own way, the picture was as horrible as Monday’s front page, but the tone of the headline had changed completely. Instead of the ritual outcry at yet another terrorist killing, it had pointed the finger at someone totally new. MR ANGRY, it asked, ARE YOU WATCHING?

Grant bent forward across the table. He looked, if anything, proud of himself.

‘Well?’ he said, ‘Anything the matter with that?’

‘Not really. Except it’s wrong.’

‘You read our piece inside? Page two?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you still think we’re wrong?’

‘Yes.’ Annie nodded. ‘That’s what I keep telling you. That’s why I’m here.’

Grant smiled benignly, shaking his head, leaning back in his chair, and Annie studied him a moment, wondering yet again about the paper he so obviously babied from edition to edition.
The Citizen
had been on the news-stands for less than a year, but already it was a legend in the industry. No one in his right mind launched new titles any more, not in the middle of a recession, yet somehow this pale, freckled, slightly stooped figure had pulled it off. The Registry personal file that Annie had read had been less than helpful, a terse recitation of the facts. Willoughby Grant had a background in television. He’d cut his teeth on current affairs documentaries. Then he’d edited a highly successful morning show, building a reputation for bold new formats. He’d taken some of them to the States and made a great deal of money. Yet everywhere he’d been, all those places he’d worked, he’d left very little behind him, no fund of stories, no scandal, no fervour, no hatred, no adulation. Just mountainous viewing figures, a healthy balance sheet, and a couple of phone numbers in case anyone came up with a great new idea.

Annie glanced down at the paper again.
The Citizen
, Grant’s latest brainchild, was brash, tasteless and thick-skinned. It never pulled back and it never apologised. Media buffs and sundry lawyers predicted disaster every week, yet every rule it broke, every finger it poked in society’s eye, attracted more readers. In some strange way, it seemed to have caught the public mood. The country was stuffed. The gloves were off. It was time, courtesy of
The Citizen
, for some straight talking. Nice idea.

‘You really think it’s some loony?’ Annie said. ‘This Sabbathman?’

Grant smiled again. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Then why have you been pushing the Northern Ireland line? Until now?’

‘Because we didn’t think hard enough. Because we were running with the pack.’

‘And this psychiatrist person you’ve found, the one you feature on page two, he’s changed all that?’

‘Yes.’ Grant reached for another roll. ‘Are you sure you’ve read it?’

Annie nodded, ignoring his invitation to take a second look. The drift of the piece was infantile, some provincial shrink invited to cobble together a description of the would-be killer. The profile he’d handed to the paper talked of ‘The Rambo complex’, and ‘Hungerford-by-instalments’, and predicted the probability of more bloodshed to come. The man was dangerous. The man was outraged. Killing meant nothing to him. One of the subs had evidently dubbed this invention ‘Mr Angry’, and Willoughby Grant had promptly put him on the front page. Now, ten hours later, his enthusiasm was undimmed.

‘A bottle of Krug says I’ve got it right, OK?’ Grant tapped the morning’s headline. ‘Bloke gets fed up, like we all do. Writes to the papers, phones his MP, gets nowhere.’

‘What’s he fed up about?’

‘Doesn’t matter. I can think of a million things. So can you. So can anyone. Politicians. Taxes. The weather. The point is, he’s fed up. Period.’

‘Mr Angry?’

‘Exactly.’

‘So he starts killing? Murdering people? In cold blood?’ She gazed at him, ‘Is that the way it goes?’

‘Yes.’

Annie began to laugh. A passing waiter glanced down at her and Annie nodded at the wine list.

‘A bottle of Krug,’ she said, ‘on Mr Grant.’

The waiter looked inquiringly at Grant.

Grant shook his head. ‘You can do better?’ he said.

‘Yes. As it happens.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘Off the record?’

Grant conceded the condition with a shrug. ‘If you like.’

Annie leaned forward, recognising the chance at last to plant her precious seeds. Not too much, the Controller had said, and not too many. But enough to stuff the genie back in the bottle and get the bloody politicians off the hook.

‘OK,’ Annie said, ‘this is for background only. Things are
happening in Northern Ireland. There’s a genuine move towards peace. It hasn’t surfaced yet but it’s there.’ She paused. ‘The IRA people have been talking to us.’

‘Us?’ Grant frowned. ‘You mean Whitehall? Talking to the Provies?’

Annie nodded, glad that at least a little of the current affairs journalist had survived in Willoughby Grant.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘believe it or not, yes.’

‘Why? What’s in it for us? Who’d ever do it? Why take the risk?’

‘Money. The bombs in the City really hurt us. The figures you’ve seen are underestimates. We’re talking billions.’

Grant reached for his wine glass, touching it speculatively, like a man suddenly confronted by a long-forgotten friend.

‘Am I supposed to believe this?’ he said slowly. ‘The Brits forced to the table?’

‘Yes. But that’s not the point. The Provos are split. The peace faction want to make history. The hardliners still want to make war. It’s become a way of life for them. They’d be lost without it.’ She paused. ‘So the bad guys are looking for opportunities, mischief, anything, any alliance, to strangle the peace talks at birth.’

‘And you’re saying Sabbathman …?’

‘I’m saying nothing. Because right now we don’t know. Not for sure. And that’s being totally honest. But we’re finding out.’ She paused again. ‘That’s all I can say. Apart from the obvious, of course.’

‘Obvious?’

‘What happened on Sunday. A planted charge. Detonated by radio signal.’ She smiled. ‘Ring any bells?’

Grant looked briefly hurt, then smothered a yawn. ‘You mean Mountbatten?’

‘Yes.’

Grant nodded. Monday’s papers, in the immediate aftermath of the Exmouth explosion, had been full of reminders about the way the Provisionals had disposed of the Queen’s cousin, fourteen years ago, blowing up his fishing boat off the coast of Western Ireland. The technique had been identical and the Monday broadsheets had run weighty articles analysing the various parallels. In
parts of Whitehall, including Gower Street, there’d even been talk of ‘the missing piece of the jigsaw’ and ‘conclusive proof’.

Annie fingered the wine list. Krug was on page three.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘You can’t just dismiss it.’

‘We didn’t. We mentioned it yesterday.’

‘I know. Three lines. I counted them.’

Grant ignored the dig, sipping his Chablis, deep in thought. Finally, he shook his head. ‘No one’s interested in Ireland any more,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll stick with Mr Angry.’

The main course arrived. Grant was having Dover Sole but he only played with it, picking at the flakes of pale flesh, building walls of mashed potato with his fork, making little ponds of melted butter, leaning back to admire the effect. Annie did her best to steer the conversation back to Northern Ireland but Grant wasn’t interested. The story, he kept repeating, was Mr Angry. That was the angle they were working on now. That was the line that would put them ahead of the competition. That, and of course the communiqués, the paper’s exclusive link to the mysterious Sabbathman.

‘But he hasn’t been in touch,’ Annie said. As far as I’m aware.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Grant glanced up. He’d been planting sprigs of parsley in the mashed potato, trying to make them stand upright.

‘The communiqués,’ Annie repeated, ‘those messages you’ve been getting. The ones we’ve seen. The ones you’ve put in the paper.’

Grant nodded. His hand reached for his own briefcase. He pulled out an envelope and passed it across.

‘Sorry,’ he said again, ‘meant to show you earlier.’

Annie opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper. She glanced up. ‘Is this the original?’

‘No. That should be with Scotland Yard,’ Grant glanced at his watch, ‘about now.’

‘So how did you get hold of it?’

‘It came by post.’

‘This morning?’

‘Yes.’ Grant looked pained. ‘Terrible service from the West Country. Even first class.’

‘What was the postmark?’

‘Dawlish. It’s just down the road from …’ he smiled, ‘… where it happened.’

Annie looked at him a moment, wondering how much to believe. Getting the message late meant extending the story for yet another day. More headlines. Another nice idea. Grant was still watching her.

‘Read it,’ he said, ‘then we might talk about Mr Angry again.’

Annie unfolded the sheet of paper. She recognised the typeface at once. Same machine. Same spacing.
‘Farewell then, Mr Lister,’
it read,
‘£160,000 in share options. Thirty-eight per cent increase in salary. And all for flogging water. Obscene money, Mr Lister, which is why I decided to disconnect you. Even with your lucky hat on.’
Annie looked up. Jonathan Lister had been Chief Executive of the region’s recently privatised water company. There’d been a storm of protest about the size of local bills but no one, to Annie’s knowledge, had yet suggested Semtex.

Annie read the note a second time. ‘May I keep this?’

‘Of course.’

Annie folded the sheet of paper and laid it beside her plate. Grant was watching her.

‘Well?’

‘Perfect,’ Annie lifted her wine glass, an ironic toast, ‘fits your Mr Angry like a glove.’

‘Exactly. You believe me now?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Annie didn’t answer, putting her glass down again, beginning to wonder for the first time whether this strange man and his silly paper might not, after all, have got it right. Not Willoughby Grant’s little fiction, of course. Nothing as simple as Mr Angry. But maybe one man. One man with a lot of back-up. One man with nothing to do with Northern Ireland.

She looked up. ‘Why the hat? What did he mean by the hat?’

‘It was Lister’s lucky charm. He only wore it to sea. He said it kept him safe.’

‘Who knew that?’

‘Most of the workforce. Apparently it had been in the company rag.’ He paused. ‘And his wife, of course. She knew.’

‘I don’t imagine she did it.’

‘No,’ Grant looked grave, ‘wrong sex.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Mrs Angry? I hardly think so. Hasn’t got quite the same ring. Lacks impact.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘No offence.’

Annie looked at him for a long time, trying to separate the whimsy from the hard-nosed journalist that she knew must be in there. At the Gower Street morning conference, when she’d raised the question of tactics, her controller had been impatient, almost dismissive. If Downing Street wanted Willoughby Grant pulled into line, then so be it. It wouldn’t be a drama. It wouldn’t even be difficult. Any journalist, he’d assured Annie, would jump at the Irish exclusive, even if it was embargoed until later. That’s what they all wanted. That’s what made these people tick. A little flattery. A little self-importance. A week or two in the front circle. It had worked before and it would doubtless work now. At the time, listening to the theory, Annie had simply nodded in mute agreement but now she knew the Controller had been wrong. Willoughby Grant was different. He didn’t respond to any of the normal blandishments. No one could rein him in. He was well and truly off the leash.