What Will Survive (11 page)

Mark Petroni leaned back in his chair, his leather trousers creaking, and ran his hands through his lank fair hair. The editor waited a second, then returned to leafing through that day's edition of the paper. ‘Great stuff on Aisha Lincoln, everybody. Nice to know we can handle a breaking story.' His gaze settled on Amanda and the slightest of frowns crossed his face. ‘Well done, Amel—'

The news editor, Simon, cut in: ‘Amanda did a very good job.'

The others stirred and there was a murmur of assent. It subsided and people shifted in their seats, waiting for the editor's next remark. The silence was broken by the front legs of Mark's chair hitting the floor with a thud.

‘Yeah well, I was chasing pix from Lebanon yesterday, I just assumed you guys knew what you were doing. Couldn't we have made a bit more
of an effort with Fabio Terzano? The guy took some fantastic photos and all we've got is a piddling box at the bottom of page four.'

‘Hang on, Mark.' The editor flashed him a smile, conciliatory but firm. ‘We gave it three hundred and fifty words, and you've got to remember that far more of our readers will have heard of Aisha Lincoln than of Fabrizio Terzano.' He mispronounced both names with a soft Z. ‘OK, I gather the guy used to be the business, but he hasn't exactly set the world on fire in the last few years.'

‘Since he nearly copped it with the muj in Afghanistan, you mean?'

Someone said, ‘The what?'

‘Mujahidin,' Mark said shortly.

Amanda turned to him in surprise. ‘He was in Afghanistan? I didn't know that.'

Mark folded his arms. ‘You wouldn't, not from us.'

‘Celia?' The editor appealed to a tired-looking older woman, with the dry complexion of a natural blonde, who was rummaging in a folder. Half a dozen sheets of paper slipped from her lap to the floor and she flapped ineffectually as she tried to stop more following.

‘Fabrizio Terzano wasn't on file. I had to get Alan to cobble something together and I don't think he was aware—'

‘Some journo, American bloke, only died in his fucking arms.'

Flustered, the woman began retrieving her papers. ‘I'm commissioning half a dozen obits every week, building up our stock. If you'd like to suggest some names—'

‘It was a cuttings job. Makes us look like a bunch of wankers.' Mark turned to stare out of the windows that ran along two sides of the editor's office. It was sunny outside but the air conditioning in the building kept the temperature just below comfort level, regardless of the weather. The women were wearing long sleeves or cardigans — Amanda wished she had brought one to wear over her dress — and the editor was the only man in the room who had removed his jacket. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and the only thing that was missing, she thought, was a green eyeshade.

‘Sorry about that, just getting the profile sorted for tomorrow.' The features editor, who had been speaking quietly into his mobile phone since
the meeting began, pulled his chair forward to join the group: ‘Look, it's not as though the story's going away, is it? We could still run a proper obit.'

The editor frowned again. ‘Well—'

‘We've been talking about a promotion, something that'll attract attention without costing too much. You brought it up last week,' he reminded the editor, ‘but no one had any brilliant ideas. So how about the Fabrizio Terzano Prize for young photographers? We get a look at their pix before anyone else, and we set up an awards ceremony with lots of nice publicity all round. In which case, the least we can do is give the guy a decent sendoff.' He sat back in his chair, thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers and waited.

The editor steepled his hands. ‘Not bad, Steve, not bad at all. But won't it be expensive?'

‘Doesn't have to be. We offer a small amount of cash or equipment as a prize — we might be able to get Canon or someone to donate it.'

‘Who's going to judge it?'

The features editor grinned. ‘You, Mark, plus a team of distinguished photographers, preferably including at least one woman.'

‘What about Eve Arnold?' the women's page editor suggested.

Mark stared at her. ‘Do you know how old Eve Arnold is?'

‘I think that's aiming a little high,' the editor agreed. ‘What about what's-her-name — woman who takes photos of children. You know who I mean.'

Amanda heard Mark mutter: ‘For fuck's sake.'

‘Isn't that kind of in bad taste?' Everyone turned to look at Vivienne Gaught, whose diary — heavily-edited — was the nearest thing the paper had to a gossip column. She was occasionally photographed leaving parties with Kate Moss or Patsy Kensit, and had been persuaded to join the staff by the editor during a lunch so costly it had entered newsroom mythology. A full-length photograph of her in a Julien MacDonald dress — what there was of it — appeared in the paper on Tuesdays and Fridays, causing much hilarity among the rest of the staff. Disaster had nearly struck a couple of weeks before when a bored sub had superimposed the editor's head on Vivienne's body, a prank noticed just before the paper went to
press. ‘He only died three days ago?' she added. ‘We don't want to look like grave-snatchers.'

The editor said curtly: ‘I think you mean grave-robbers, Vivienne. You're mixing your metaphors.'

‘Again,' someone muttered.

‘We don't have to announce it yet.'

‘We do, before anyone else thinks of it.'

Vivienne pulled down her knee-length skirt. She was wearing black mules and now she crossed her legs, allowing one of them to dangle from her raised foot as though she'd lost interest in the conversation. A lanky feature writer, wearing a T-shirt with ‘Babe Magnet' emblazoned across the front, nudged her in the ribs: ‘A diarist with a conscience, I love it.'

A woman who hadn't previously spoken snapped: ‘Oh shut up, Derek.'

‘She's got a point,' put in the obituaries editor.

‘Does he have family?'

Celia wrinkled her brow. ‘No wife, no children. There may be a mother. Still alive, I mean.'

‘A confirmed bachelor,' someone said and giggled.

‘So what's wrong with being gay?' The comment editor, who lived with his boyfriend, was immediately alert.

‘Was he?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Don't be so touchy.'

‘Stop it, all of you.' The editor turned to Steve. ‘It's your baby, could you check it out? If there's an elderly parent, so much the better, naturally we'd invite them to the ceremony. Better if it's a mother, but... Celia, get on to that obit. I want a big pic of the guy and at least a thousand words.' He lifted his arms above his head in a long stretch, a habit he had acquired since discovering the basement gym.

Steve nodded. ‘Will do.'

‘Of course we'll need a logo. I'll have a word with the art department. Who's his agent, by the way?'

Mark looked blank. ‘He used to be with' — he named a well-known photographic agency — ‘but apparently they don't represent him any more.'

‘Then find out, and while you're at it see what's happened to the pix he took in the Lebanon. If they've survived, especially if Aisha's in them, I want them in this paper. I've already said we got off to a good start this morning — let's keep ahead of the pack. Come on, everybody, give me some ideas.' He flashed them his best boyish grin.

The foreign editor spoke first: ‘Ingrid's writing a backgrounder. The Israeli occupation, Hezbollah, the South Lebanon Army.'

‘The what?'

‘Who UNIFIL's trying to keep apart, basically.'

Vivienne said, ‘Isn't Beirut where they take hostages all the time?'

The foreign editor lifted his hands in a despairing gesture.

‘But I read something about this Irish guy who spent years chained to a radiator.'

‘All right, Michael,' the editor snapped, ‘but keep it short. People are bored with politics, especially the Middle East.'

‘But it's a political story. There's a war going on down there, surely that's worth explaining?' Michael Scott-Leakey shot a hostile glance at Vivienne. He had been on the paper for more than a decade, including a stint as its Paris bureau chief, and now he peered at the editor over his glasses like an Oxbridge don explaining something to a particularly dense student.

‘We've got a piece on landmines.' The editor turned pages rapidly. ‘Here it is, page five. With a very nice pic of Princess Di.' He turned to Simon. ‘Any developments there, by the way? She going nuts or what?'

‘Still on the yacht, I've got Dave keeping an eye on it from St Trop.'

Michael Scott-Leakey ignored the digression. ‘So what am I supposed to tell Ingrid? I told her to file early and get down there, we'll have to pay her—'

‘Fine, Michael, fine. A bit of local colour is great. All I'm saying is let's not go to town on the political angle. I basically see this as a domestic story — tragic death of a much-loved public figure.'

‘Was she much-loved?'

‘She soon will be,' said the feature writer, sotto voce.

‘Don't be such a bunch of cynics.' The editor made eye contact with them again. ‘Steve? Derek? Sita? This is a beautiful woman at the height of
her career, who gives it all up to help kids and dies. Aren't you moved by that?'

‘Actually she was a bit past it in modelling terms.' The women's page editor, who had been sent home early in a taxi the previous week, after a long lunch to celebrate her twenty-sixth birthday, saw the reaction from her colleagues and said hastily: ‘Fashion is a sexist industry. I'm not saying it's right.'

The editor leaned back again, this time with the palms of his hands braced against the edge of his desk. ‘Let's not get into a discussion about sexism, Sita. I'm talking about the sort of personal stuff Amanda did for us yesterday and trying to come up with a new angle. Simon, Mandy, how do you rate the chances of getting an interview with the husband?'

Amanda shook her head. ‘No luck so far. I've been calling him, but all I get is his answering machine. He hasn't changed the message and it's Aisha's voice, which is a bit weird, actually.' She flicked a hand towards the stack of rival papers on the editor's desk. ‘At least he isn't talking to anyone else, as far as I can see. There's something about one of his kids flying home from Chile, but no first-person stuff.'

The editor raised his eyebrows. ‘Not even the
Mail?
Their chequebook is usually big enough.'

‘Not this time,' Simon confirmed. ‘They've talked to some woman who used to clean for her, but it's hardly riveting. Frankly, whatever people want to know about Aisha Lincoln, it's not which brand of toilet cleaner she used.'

There was general laughter, relieving the tension. Then the editor leaned towards Amanda. ‘Come on, Mandy, you've met the husband. That must give us an edge.'

‘I don't exactly know him. I spent a day at her house and I liked her. I spoke to him for maybe five minutes.'

‘Surely he'll want to talk to someone?' It was Sita again. ‘People say it helps when someone dies, talking to a stranger. I could run it across two pages in his own words. You know — as told to Amanda Harrison.' She glanced in Amanda's direction. ‘You'd just have to edit it a bit.'

‘Come on, it's a review front,' someone else protested. ‘We could trail it on the skyline.'

‘We haven't even got an interview yet,' Amanda protested.

The editor sounded triumphant. ‘Exactly, so how do you propose to get one? Shouldn't you get yourself down there to Dorset or wherever?'

‘Somerset.' She hesitated, glancing across at Simon. ‘I'll go if you really want me to, but did you see the scrum on TV last night? I was thinking of writing him a note and getting a messenger to deliver it. Saying how sorry I am about Aisha, and he can do an interview in his own time.'

‘Christ, Amanda, this is a newspaper, not a counselling service.' The editor looked at her as though she had gone mad.

‘Hang on,' Simon said unexpectedly. ‘She has a point. I mean, the mob-handed tactic isn't working, is it? Tim Lincoln seems to be holed up in his house not speaking to anyone. So if Amanda tries the softly-softly approach—'

The editor's eyes widened in astonishment. ‘What is this, an outbreak of truth, decency and fair play? We're journos, for God's sake. We — you — are paid to get stories.'

Amanda and Simon exchanged looks, but the editor was already moving on to another victim.

‘Mark, you still here? What are you waiting for? Find out what's happened to those pix. Find out who owns them. Amanda, you talk to — I don't care who you talk to. Check the cuts, find out who her friends are. Get to the husband fast, before anyone else does. It may have escaped your attention, everybody, but I have a paper to get out.'

Mark went first and Amanda followed, carefully avoiding catching anyone's eye. She was at the door when the political editor excused himself and came after her, closing it quietly behind him.

‘Don't take it personally.'

Amanda rolled her eyes.

Sabri Yusuf said, ‘He's like that to everyone.'

‘Is he? I've never been to conference before.'

‘Listen, I don't know if this is any help but I ran into her, Aisha Lincoln, at the House not long ago. She was having lunch with a couple of MPs — Stephen Massinger and that guy who's been on the Foreign Affairs Committee for years. Jack — God, what's his second name?'

Amanda shook her head.

‘Porter, that's it. He made a big thing of introducing us — he's a decent bloke, but tactless.' Sabri grinned. ‘Makes a point of being nice to brown faces. He might be worth a call.'

‘Thanks, Sabri.'

The door opened and the features editor peered out. ‘Sabri?'