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The Dead Line

Holly Watt
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. By the Same Author
  3. Dedication Page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Also Available by Holly Watt
  87. The Hunt and the Kill

Cover

HOLLY WATT is an award-winning investigative journalist who worked at the Sunday Times, the Daily Telegraph and the Guardian. Her first novel, To The Lions, won the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger. The Dead Line is her second novel.

By the Same Author

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

To the Lions

Dedication Page

To Jonny

1

1

The junior reporter was losing the battle with the news editor.

‘But Ross,’ Tillie was shouting as Casey walked past the newsdesk, ‘it might actually kill you.’

A couple of desks away, the home affairs editor looked up. ‘How?’ he asked hopefully.

‘You know how Ross takes his coffee?’ Tillie was holding the newsdesk phone, finger on the mute button.

‘Half and half.’ Casey paused. ‘Granules and hot water. It’ll kill him one day.’

‘With any luck’ – a mutter from the home affairs editor.

Ross was ignoring them all, head down over his newslist.

‘Ross’s wife is on the line.’ Tillie turned to Casey.

‘A brave woman,’ the home affairs editor said thoughtfully.

‘I do not,’ Ross snarled, ‘have time to speak to anyone right now.’

‘Mrs Warman says’ – unconsciously, Tillie put on a perfect imitation of Ross’s wife – ‘ “I put descaler in the kettle overnight, Tillie, and he’s boiled it up and made coffee this morning. I think he might actually die.” ’

‘Didn’t he notice when he was drinking it?’

‘Apparently, no.’

‘Will the descaler finish him off altogether?’ Casey asked. She couldn’t remember the home affairs editor smiling before.

‘I had to look it up,’ said Tillie. ‘Quite possibly, yes. I’ve told Ross he has to go to A&E.’

‘Ross.’ Casey tried to sound firm.

The news editor looked up. ‘Listen.’ Ross spoke with unusual patience. ‘If I’m dead in an hour, I’ll go to the doctor.’

Over Ross’s head, Casey was distracted by most of the fashion team clattering down the glass staircase in the middle of the Post’s open-plan office. For a moment, they reminded Casey of racehorses – long legs, glossy manes, jewel silks.

Casey sighed at her jeans. But that might mean . . .

She left Ross and Tillie to it and headed up the stairs.

‘Hello, Casey.’ Cressida, the fashion editor, blocked her path, sunny and knowing all at once. ‘What are you after?’

Casey’s eyes flickered. ‘I saw a navy top in the fashion spread this morning. It would be perfect for . . .’

‘The Juniper one? No.’

‘I just want to borrow it.’

‘And put a few holes in it for your secret cameras? Absolutely not.’

Week after week, the fashion team called in outfits from designers, photographed them in unlikely scenarios and couriered them 
back. Occasionally, Casey, the Post’s investigations reporter, diverted them.

‘Please.’ Casey extended the syllable. ‘I have to be a suave businesswoman.’

‘And that’ – Cressida looked her up and down – ‘is going to be quite the stretch, is it?’