Back The Whistleblower
Chapters (34)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Chapter 1
  4. Chapter 2
  5. Chapter 3
  6. Chapter 4
  7. Chapter 5
  8. Chapter 6
  9. Chapter 7
  10. Chapter 8
  11. Chapter 9
  12. Chapter 10
  13. Chapter 11
  14. Chapter 12
  15. Chapter 13
  16. Chapter 14
  17. Chapter 15
  18. Chapter 16
  19. Chapter 17
  20. Chapter 18
  21. Chapter 19
  22. Chapter 20
  23. Chapter 21
  24. Chapter 22
  25. Chapter 23
  26. Chapter 24
  27. Chapter 25
  28. Chapter 26
  29. Chapter 27
  30. Chapter 28
  31. Chapter 29
  32. Acknowledgments
  33. About the Author
  34. Letter from Author

Oh God. Charles on the phone, after the post-mortem results came through: She was six weeks pregnant. We hadn’t had sex since before Christmas.

I am fantasising. Making this up. None of this is true.

But here it is, in her handwriting: He will walk away, protesting his innocence, blameless in his own mind, and leave the country holding the baby.

Just like me.

I feel sick. The blow is physical. I have to get out of here. I run downstairs, into the sitting room where Luke and Sam are flapping around in their bath towels, shouting and screaming ‘Return of the Mack, return of the Mack’, as though it’s the funniest song ever.

‘Are you OK?’ Charles asks. He frowns, seeing the Filofax I’m clutching. ‘You look pale.’

‘I’m all right. It was hard, but I’m fine. But I’ve just noticed the time. I have to shoot. Sorry Charles. I must get to the Commons to start our coverage.’

Charles looks anxious and sad. I hope he doesn’t think that yet again I am putting my career and work before family. I want to tell him everything. But I can’t. Instead I do something I should have done a long time ago. I go up to him and hug him, hard. I don’t look back because I don’t want to see his reaction, or for him to see that my eyes are full of tears.

‘Thanks for having me,’ I shout at Luke and Sam. ‘It was such fun hanging out. Whatever you do, don’t tell Dad about the sweets.’

And then I run.

Chapter 29

Chapter 29

‘WHAT TIME DO YOU THINK Todd will be back in London?’ I’ve rung Jess while walking down Fellows Road towards Chalk Farm, where I’ll get on the Northern Line. The pain in my ankle is a blessing. It distracts from the screaming in my head. As I approach the junction, there’s a black-on-white placard announcing POLLING STATION outside a church hall. There’s a stream of people back from work to vote, and I want to shout, ‘Don’t do it, don’t vote for Todd!’

‘It’s hard to say for sure,’ Jess says. ‘I asked Fisher. They’ve laid on a Jag to bring him from Birmingham to the South Bank just as soon as the returning officer has announced. He reckons he should arrive around two in the morning.’