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Back The Dead Line Save as PDF
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

‘Oh no. Manaton would be furious if we revealed they were doing The Dress.’ Cressida managed to capitalise the words as she spoke. ‘They’d be catatonic. It’s their secret.’

‘Yes,’ said Casey cheerfully.

‘They’re one of our biggest advertisers,’ Cressida bridled.

‘Mmm.’

‘It would spoil the surprise for everyone.’

‘That,’ Casey said, ‘is what we do.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Cressida, I’ll give you a thirty-second head start, or I’m telling the newsdesk and taking the byline. It’ll be tomorrow’s splash either way.’

‘Oh.’ Cressida had kicked out at Casey with her satin heel. ‘Bloody hell. All right, I’ll tell them.’

They contemplated the photograph for a moment longer, Casey surreptitiously admiring Cressida’s glossy highlights, perfect nails, immaculate make-up.

‘What’s your role for the royal wedding?’ Cressida had asked. ‘The newsdesk seems to have a minute-by-minute plan, starting long before dawn.’

‘Miranda and I are on deathwatch,’ Casey said cheerfully.

‘Deathwatch?’

‘If a bomb goes off in the massed cheering crowds,’ Casey explained. ‘We trot towards it and try and work out what’s going on.’

‘To each their own.’ Cressida arched a perfect eyebrow. ‘I think I’d rather be analysing the bridesmaid dresses.’

‘Fair enough,’ Casey grinned. ‘Good to have the experts this time.’

Casey remembered the last royal wedding, when half the fashion team had actually been invited, leaving the 15-stone Home Affairs editor bawling, ‘That’s sodding ecru, I tell you,’ at the television screen.

‘That’s not bloody cream,’ still got chanted at him when he was late on a deadline. ‘That’s sodding ecru.’

The trials of that royal wedding had been compounded by the Post’s lip-reader going rogue and catastrophically misinterpreting a conversation between the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary as they sat among the congregation. Ross had fired the lip-reader halfway through the ceremony with a newly invented form of sign language.

‘It’s all going to go much more smoothly this time,’ Casey said.

‘At least,’ Cressida had sulked. ‘You’ve got a proper splash now.’

Now Casey took screengrabs of Hessa’s footage, sending the clearest shots back to Cressida.

‘Rhapso.’ The message came back in seconds. ‘We’d have to wait for those jeans to reach the shops to be 100 per cent, but that won’t take long.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘The positioning of the rivets.’ Casey didn’t need to see Cressida’s eye roll. ‘The angle on the pocket. The curve of the looped seam. I could go on.’

‘That’s OK.’ Casey hoped the sarcasm came across. ‘Thanks, Cressida.’

She thought about the dusty factory with the beggar outside. And she thought about the red velvet curtains and you-have-a-nice-day of the Rhapso shop.

She turned to the others. ‘We can be fairly sure the message came from that factory.’

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