Bad Press by Maureen Carter Page A

knew – was the only person who’d used the word congratulations in relation to the pregnancy.
    When Matt Snow threw back his duvet and discovered the note, he knew skin-crawling fear for the first time. His bowels quickened, heart raced, hands shook as he held the paper. Sleep had hardly come at all, let alone easily. The reporter had wrestled with theories, each less likely than the last. Facts were these: the Disposer had been in Matt’s home, driven his car, knew his private number, tipped him off about a murder, observed him at a crime scene. It scared Snow witless. Had he been singled out by a nutter? A crazed fan of his column? Or a killer?
    Twelve hours on, the reporter’s overriding emotion was fury. He was back in the real world, a vast crowded newsroom, cocooned and comforted by the familiar paraphernalia of his professional life. No joker was going to jerk him around. Snow didn’t do puppet. As for the message – who did the arrogant toe-rag think he was?
    Keep the phone with you.
    No cops.
    Burn this.
    The Disposer.
    Yeah right. He’d chucked it in the bin. Not the phone. That was in his breast pocket. May as well hear the sad sack out before telling him to sling his hook. Anyway... Snow tugged his bottom lip: could be a story in it.
    There was sod all in the one he was working on now. He glanced at his shorthand; the mugging details he’d gleaned off the police press office voice bank weren’t doing it for him. Kids snatching an old biddy’s handbag didn’t have the same clout as the thoughts whirling round Snow’s head. The Disposer crap had to be a wind-up, didn’t it? But there was a niggle that wouldn’t go away.
    There’s more where Marsden came from?
    What was that all about? More paedophiles? More murders? More exclusives?
    “How’s it going, Scoop?”
    Snow lifted his glanced, dropped the scowl. “Great. Great.” Even managed a smile. Anyone but Anna Kendall would have got a mouthful; calling him Scoop was so old. But Snow had been trying to get into Anna’s thong for weeks. He ogled as she sashayed towards the features desk, took her seat just past a column covered in prize-winning front pages. Snowie rubbed his chin, imagined the pert little bum under the shapeless orange frock. With her cheekbones and that hair, he reckoned she’d look a million dollars in a classy suit, stockings, suspenders, stilettos...
    “Grow up!” Snow ducked. The paper missile could’ve been launched by anyone on the subs’ desk; they all had their heads down, butter wouldn’t melt. They were jealous; everyone fancied their chances with La Kendall. Snow had already had a couple of goes. He strolled over, casual hand in trouser pocket. “What you working on?”
    “A woman in Selly Oak.” She rolled her eyes. “Writes to guys on Death Row.”
    “Why?” Her irises were a blue-grey shade he’d not seen before.
    “Cause she’s barking?” Snow liked a woman who made him laugh. He watched as she twirled a strand of shiny caramel-coloured hair. “I think she’s hoping one of the sickos will propose so she can make a packet flogging the story. You know the kind of thing...” Anna adopted the urgent tones of a telly ad for the Sun. “...I married a serial killer...”
    “...now I can’t sleep at night.” God, she had beautiful teeth. “Fancy a drink tonight?”
    “Sure. Why not? As for Mrs Barking Mad – I suppose it’s human interest, isn’t it.” She licked her top lip as she opened her notebook.
    Personally, Snow had more interest in the bottom of a colostomy bag. But at that moment, he’d have agreed with every word Anna Kendall said.
    Highgate. Mid-morning. The early brief had been exactly that. No developments, no leads, not even close. Powell was angling to do another telly appeal, but the media weren’t biting. Darren New and Sumitra Gosh were still trawling doss houses and soup kitchens. Mac was on the Churchill with the rest of the squad mopping up outstanding door-to-doors. Bev