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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

Casey opened her satchel, and pulled out a long, detailed letter. An R-2-R – a right to reply – giving the target every opportunity to respond. All the allegations, in careful legalese. It was hard to fight when it was all on tape, but people still gave it a go sometimes, their lawyers rubbing their hands in glee.

I knew she was a journalist. Every time.

Almost casual now, Casey posted the letter through the door and turned away.

‘Did you get him?’ Dash was waiting as she walked through the door.

‘No denial.’

‘He’s had every opportunity to respond?’

‘I’d say so. Give him a few more hours.’

Dash stood there, eyes narrowed. Then he pushed back his hair with a sharp gesture. ‘Let’s get him.’

58

58

The Post swung into action, Ross lashing his team along. He crouched over a desk in the conference room, red pen in hand.

‘Xav, I’m going to need another hundred and fifty words for the leader,’ he shouted across the room. ‘We’ve been given more space. And Graphics, where the fuck are you on that Bangladesh image?’

Anthony, the Post’s head lawyer, was reading through Tess’s piece in despair. ‘We’re admitting we know the identity of some of Greystone’s clients,’ he protested. ‘What if the authorities demand to know who they are? I can’t keep up with how many laws they’ve broken. They could all end up in jail.’

‘They’re sources,’ Ross growled. ‘We protect our sources.’ As he spoke, Ross was proofreading a map of Bangladesh. ‘Why the fuck’ – he crossed out a word with a red slash – ‘can’t any of these morons spell Chittagong?’

‘Archie.’ Dash rang his political editor, based over in the Post’s scruffy office in the heart of Parliament. ‘We need some strong words from the Opposition about the dangers of surrogacy. Inquiries, questions in Parliament, you know the sort of thing. Paul Heyworth should be up for raising it in Parli. He’s always useful.’

As he put the phone down, Dash shouted across the office. ‘Sadie.’ Another of the feature writers appeared at the door of the conference room. ‘Can you pull together eight hundred words on slebs who’ve opted for the surrogacy route? There are loads of them, aren’t there? Lots of pics for that one please. Talk to Stan.’

‘That’ – Ross rubbed his hands as Stan, the picture editor, scuttled to find the photographs – ‘will really do the numbers online.’

‘But for the love of Satan,’ Anthony howled, ‘don’t imply they’ve all been off to Bangladesh with Greystone!’

They all gathered round Ross’s computer to send the story live, faces lit up by the screen. Dash stood a step away from the desk, almost laughing at Anthony’s despair. Just one click of a button, genie from the bottle, and they watched the story sweep around the newsroom.