‘I think so. Go on.’
‘I can’t speak for Mark, who may wish to approach you himself. ’
‘And what the fuck does that mean?’
‘Ken, Ken,’ he said, holding up both hands. ‘Don’t get upset. It means just what it says. It’s not a threat.’ He gave what was probably meant to be an encouraging smile. ‘Mark is not… he’s not the physical sort, know what I mean? That’s why we make a good team. He’s very good with money, and contacts, and charm, and… Well. But with us washing our hands of the case, the direct action side of things is pretty much off the agenda.’
‘Good,’ I said. I thought. I pointed a finger at Glatz. ‘Just in case he does get any ideas, you tell him there’s a man called John Merrial who owes me a favour, all right?’
Glatz looked very surprised for a vanishingly brief interval of time. Then he looked slightly surprised. ‘Mr Merrial?’ he asked. ‘Really?’
‘Really,’ I said. ‘And if he doesn’t know who John is, I think maybe you ought to enlighten him. Don’t you?’
Glatz was looking away from me, nodding. We were back almost under the big guns again, which felt like a shiveringly appropriate place to be when invoking the name of Mr M to another, palpably lesser, villain. ‘I see, Ken,’ he said, still nodding, glancing at me. ‘Well, that is interesting. I’d no idea. A favour, eh?’
‘That’s what he said, last time I saw him,’ I told Glatz.
He looked at me and nodded. ‘I can rely on your discretion here, can’t I, Ken? Off the record, as we agreed. Obviously all of this is strictly between you and me.’
‘Obviously. Providing your friend Mark doesn’t do anything stupid.’
‘I’ll have a word.’
‘That’d be nice.’
He smiled. ‘Right. Well, I think we’re finished here, Ken, would you agree?’
I grinned. ‘I think I would, Chris.’
‘Okay.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Let’s get you back to your radio station. Do you want to drive, or shall I?’
‘Allow me,’ I said. We started walking back to the car.
Mr Glatz nodded at my left wrist. ‘By the way; nice watch.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
Oh, the sheer bliss of it; when we arrived at Capital Live! I got to do the old Ronnie Reagan thing, cupping my hand to my ear, pretending I couldn’t make out what the press were saying. Of course, rather than doing this across the White House lawn on the way to my helicopter with the press fifty metres away behind a rope, guarded by marines, I was about ten centimetres away from the journos, separated from them only by the thickness of a window I could have lowered with a single click of a button. This made it all the more fun.
‘Ken! Ken! Is it true you kicked this guy?’
‘Ken! What’s the truth? Tell us what happened.’
‘Ken, is it true he hit you first?’
‘Ken! These pliers; did you throw them intending to hit him?’
It was great seeing so many journos here; I’d expected one or two, but this was real celeb stuff. Must be a quiet news day in the capital. I did the hand-ear thing, shook my head, smiled broadly and mouthed, I-can’t-hear-you as I nudged the car slowly forward and angled it towards the car park ramp. They were trying the door handles but I’d locked all the doors somewhere round Trafalgar Square. Two snappers were standing right in front of the car, aiming straight through the windscreen; I let the car trickle forward in Drive, brakes creaking, slowly forcing the photographers backwards.
In the passenger seat, Mr Glatz had looked puzzled when he’d seen the small crowd of reporters gathered round the office entrance. When they’d spotted me driving the car through the traffic towards the underground car park, and come running over to hammer on the windows, tape recorders aimed, flashes flashing – heck, there was even a TV crew there – he’d been horrified, but by then it was too late. He’d picked up his newspaper and hid behind it. This was, of course, entirely the wrong thing to do, because now the ladies and gents of the press were starting to think, Hold on, who’s Mr Shy in the passenger seat? A couple of the snapperistas took photos of Mr G’s hands and the Torygraph they were clutching.
‘Sorry about this, Chris,’ I said.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What the fuck’s all this about?’
‘Oh, I was on a telly programme with this guy who deserved a good slap, so I duly whacked him one. Bit of a fuss about it for some reason.’
‘Did I not need this,’ Glatz breathed as I nodded at the security guy in the booth at the top of the ramp; the striped pole rose and we roared away down the slope. I stamped on the brakes and got a very satisfying squeal out of the tyres at the bottom.
Mr Glatz left looking unhappy, resigned to facing down the crowd of muttering rotters still milling at the top of the car park ramp.
I bumped into Timmy Mann in the lift.
‘Timmy,’ I said cheerfully. ‘You’re in early.’
‘Uh, yeah, ah, hi, ah, Ken,’ Timmy said, displaying the incisive wit that has made him such a hit on the lunchtime show. He looked down as the lift doors closed. Timmy was something of a throwback; older than me, an ex-Radio One Breakfast Show presenter, dark hair worn in a style dangerously close to being a mullet. He was short, even for a radio DJ.
I felt my good mood evaporate as the lift whined into action and my stomach seemed to drop. ‘Oh, yeah, of course,’ I said. ‘You’re here to do my show, aren’t you?’
‘Ah, just half,’ he said. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well, don’t forget to apply for overtime.’
‘Um, yeah.’
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘Talking to a man about a fucking death threat,’ I told Station Manager Debbie, throwing myself into a couch. The couch was on the far side of Debbie’s redecorated office, a pale mauve oval carpet away from her new ash and chrome desk, where Producer Phil and Guy Boulen, Mouth Corp’s legal geezer, were sitting. ‘Hi, Phil, Guy.’
‘I didn’t say you could sit over there.’
‘Good, Debbie, because I didn’t fucking ask to.’ The sofa was big and plump and cerise without actually looking like a pair of lips. It smelled very new.
‘What’s this about a death threat?’ Phil asked quickly, while Debbie was still opening her mouth to say something.
‘It’s been resolved. It was all a hideous mistake; an overreaction. I know what it was all about and it’s almost certainly been taken care of.’
Phil and Boulen looked at each other. Boulen cleared his throat. ‘You met whoever it was who’s been behind all this?’
‘It was an organisational thing, Guy; I met the guy whose desk this landed on after people below him didn’t get the results they’d wanted. And arguably took it all too far.’
‘Who was it? Who is it?’ Phil asked.
‘Can’t tell you,’ I said. ‘Sworn to secrecy.’
‘Is this-?’ Boulen began.
‘Can I just point out that we’ve a decision to make about a radio show due to start in twenty minutes?’ Debbie said loudly, swinging our attention back to her.
‘Debs,’ I said. ‘The Breaking News, Lawson Brierley thing; I’m denying everything. It didn’t happen. It’s all a lie. They made it up.’ I looked at Boulen and smiled. ‘That’s the line I’m taking.’ He nodded, then smiled too, uncertainly.
‘But you’ve been charged,’ Debbie said.
‘Yup.’
‘We can take you off air.’
‘I know. So; going to?’
Debbie looked at me as though I’d just crapped on her new couch. Her desk phone warbled. She glared at it, grabbed it. ‘Don’t you fucking understand English? I said no-’ Her eyes closed and she put a hand to her brow, making her glasses slip down her nose. She took them off and stared at the ceiling with tired eyes. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, Lena. Put him on.’