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Back The Dead Line
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

Casey bent over her notes, biting into a stolen apple because it was all she could find to eat in the newsroom. Years ago, she remembered some distant aunt warning her, Don’t eat the seeds or they’ll grow in your head. She imagined the rustling leaves, the rosy apples, filling her brain like a story. And her head drifted down to the desk.

‘Casey.’ It was the night editor, shaking her arm. ‘Time for you to go home. Have this.’

Blearily, Casey looked up. Cory was smiling down at her, a horrible coffee from the machine in his hand. Behind him, the newsdesk was a pool of light in a dark room.

If a big story broke after hours, it was Cory’s job was to assess the importance of the story. He decided who should be kicked out of bed: the reporter, or the specialist, or the head of news.

A dead MP meant the political editor got the call. If a plane crashed, the transport correspondent was jerked awake. ‘But only if it’s filled with Brits,’ the transport correspondent had bawled once. ‘If it’s thirty-five Indonesians into the South China Sea, leave me to fucking sleep.’

For the biggest stories, Cory called the editor himself. No one wanted to be the editor who got a call at 2 a.m. to say that Princess Diana had been in a car crash in Paris, and shouted, ‘So what?’ and crashed the phone down. That episode had taken years to live down.

‘Sorry, Cory,’ said Casey. ‘Must have drifted off.’

The night editor pulled her to her feet.

‘Passports,’ Casey said.

‘What?’ Cory looked at her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘They would need passports, to get the babies back.’ Casey was speaking almost to herself.

Cory stared at her, and almost laughed. ‘Go home, Casey.’

‘I will.’ She was scribbling herself a note, on her keyboard for the next morning. ‘I will, now.’

3

3

The first daffodils were bobbing in the park as Casey walked towards the office, the snowdrops shy beneath the trees. There was a shimmer of frost on the grass, fading as the sun crept over the skyline.

‘Casey.’ Tillie leaped up as she walked into the newsroom.

‘Hello,’ Casey started.

‘I went all over that Rhapso near Liverpool Street last night.’ Tillie’s voice was breathless, as if she had been rehearsing the words. ‘And finally, just as they were chucking us all out at ten . . . Anyway, here.’

It was the same white silk, the words embroidered in the same pale blue thread. Casey stroked it flat.

They take the babies for the English women.

Well, at least that meant it was happening in London. Probably. Someone must have smuggled them into a whole consignment of clothes, destined for London, or who knew where?