Chapter 4


Investigative reporter Janice Porter stepped out of the lift and strolled into Henry Chapman's office.

As she entered, Henry lifted his head. "I thought you were working from home today."

"Why do I get the impression I'm not welcome?"

"Sorry, it's been one of those mornings."

She placed a large folder on his desk. "I've been investigating this on and off for over a year."

He managed a smile. "Grab a chair." He opened the folder and began to read. "Nice title, 'Who Picks the Cabbages? – Slavery Exists in England'. Who's the whistleblower?"

"A nice farmer in Lincolnshire, who I can't name, but hates the way others treat illegal immigrants. You'll see some pretty awful photographs in there."

He let out a small sigh. "Leave it with me. I reckon we can deal with a national, and no doubt they'll use it to hammer the government. What are you working on at the moment?"

"Henry, you understand. I smell a rat in the most doubtful of places. I'm checking out student accommodation. Some people are letting run-down properties at inflated prices and not telling the taxman."

He looked at her and saw a determined woman. "Keep me informed. I like to know what fire my staff decide to jump into."

Janice strolled into her office. From a black-leather shoulder bag, she removed a pale pink lipstick and painted her lips with the aid of a small mirror. The blue, short-sleeved dress, its colour matching her eyes, embraced her neatly-proportioned five-foot-six figure. Today she wore her natural blonde hair in a French plait, revealing her high cheekbones that enhanced her looks. Satisfied and ready to face the day, she sat at her desk.

As a freelance investigative journalist and part-time Assistant Editor of the Southampton Gazette, she had freedom. At a little after nine o'clock, she readied herself to examine the pile of national newspapers in front of her. Janice glanced casually at them as she kicked off her high heels and slid her feet into a pair of well-worn but comfortable sandals. Doggedly she began searching for the uncovered but significant angles. There was a steady pattern to her logic as she scribbled notes of the stories her paper had disregarded and checked them against agency feeds.

Janice worked on the premise that something important always appeared. Each paper-covered stories on terrorist attacks and the present teenage knife culture. In the seventies, it had been the Italian Red Brigade. Later, the drug barons of South America.

She asked herself what was happening to the world. Long ago, freedom fighters became politicians. Now political correctness resulted in intractable problems, more than the world could solve. She shook her head. It was time people woke up to the fact that they can't be tolerant of everyone. One day, she thought, terrorists, will bring this country to its knees.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Anne, her secretary, entered, balancing a steaming coffee cup on top of a full mail tray.

Janice grimaced. "Thanks, I need that." Her mind returned to The Scotsman as Anne left. The headline, Royal Navy Loses Three Sailors on River Forth, had her pulse racing. The pictures of the men lacked detail. Bitter memories reminded her of when her husband Adrian, a Commander in the Royal Naval Reserve, went missing. Thank God it had been a misunderstanding, but the thought of it still haunted her. A few columns gave details of a daring bank robbery in South Queensferry on the River Forth. The report mentioned two men wearing day-glow waterproofs held the bank staff at gunpoint whilst a third waited in a boat. A smile crossed her face as she read that the police, having sealed off the two exit roads from the village, waited for the thieves. It appeared, no one mentioned a boat to the police officer in charge.

"Is that so?" she asked herself aloud. "I wonder? How many men were on the river that morning?"

Discarding the other papers and using a red marker pen, she circled the two articles, placing the pages on one side. Janice began shuffling through the pile of work on her desk. She opened a folder and started reading. The harder she tried, the more the three missing sailors and the bank robbery confused her thinking.

She picked up the pages and concentrated on both stories. What she was thinking was unbelievable. One name came to mind: Hamish McCaig, a freelance reporter. She tapped the Edinburgh number onto the telephone keypad and waited. "Hamish, how are you?"

"That sounds like me, old pal, Janice. I'm fine. What can I do for you?"

"I need a favour. What's the score on the robbery at the Clydesdale Bank in South Queensferry?"

For a moment, the line went silent. "Oh that, the local plods cocked-up and really couldn't give a toss. Most of the money turned up on the beach at Joppa. Lothian Police are overworked and understaffed. As far as I can make out, it was an amateur robbery, and unless someone blabs, it's unsolvable. In reality, they have no clues, no reliable witnesses and no bloody idea."

"Can you send me copies of the local papers for the next few days? Cash on delivery will do."

"What are you looking for?"

"Hamish, I don't know. It's a gut feeling. If there's anything, I'll give you a call."

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