Hellbound: The Tally Man by David McCaffrey Page A

Daily Éire’s resources in order to make it feasible. Margaret Keld’s agreeing to an interview was the first step. Victoria Carter would be the second, but he was going to keep her to himself for the time being. Ciaran and the paper had no monetary gain from the book deal and, if working on it infringed on his actual reporting duties, his editor could intervene and stop him pursuing it. So far, it had not come to that, and his editor had gone out of his way to be helpful. Therefore, Joe knew he had to show his appreciation.
    “Thanks Ciaran. It means a lot. I won’t let it get in the way of my job.” Joe meant what he had said, but knew that it would require a lot of work in his own time. Still, fortune and glory are never supposed to come easily.
    The ringing phone on Ciaran’s desk broke the moment. Joe thumbed back towards the door, indicating his query to leave. Picking up the phone, Ciaran nodded and greeted the caller with his surname. As Joe left, he heard his editor sigh before the door closed behind him.
    The office was now in full flow, every desk and cubicle diligent with ambitious individuals, eager to be the next candidate for Sky News or the BBC. Many of the people he worked with made no secret of the fact they were using the paper as a proverbial stepping stone to something better, at least in their eyes.
    He looked around at the various outcroppings of monitors, noting the numerous pairs of eyes and flurries of hair which were all that was visible above the many terminals. Alison remained busy scrolling showbiz copy in her corner, the financial team of Wilson Graves and Mike O’Hare could be heard talking about the most recent Bank of England interest rate cut, their voices just audible above the low murmur of the television above them. All around, the snicker of keyboards filled the air, suddenly sounding to Joe like the loneliest sound in the world; the sound of monotony. His book was sounding like a more promising idea with every passing minute.
    Placing his hands in his pockets, Joe casually weaved his way between desks until he arrived at his own. He fished the card out of his pocket and began to dial Victoria Carter’s number. The call connected on the fourth ring, putting Joe through to a messaging service. The brief message, detailing that Victoria was currently away in business and would be back on the 18th September, provided Joe with a melodic tone and perfect diction; quintessentially English.
    “Hi. My name is Joe O’Connell. I work for The Daily Éire. I received your parcel this morning, offering your services regarding my book. I’d like to take you up on your offer, so please ring me back when you get this message. Cheers.”
    Hanging up, he found himself imagining the face that went with the voice. She sounded like she would be a slight, fragile specimen, but he knew well enough that a perception of someone rarely matched the actuality of their appearance. Still, the English voice of hers had sounded damn sexy.
    Checking the time, he decided to prepare his notes for his meeting with Margaret Keld. Her cooperation was important, not only for his actual narrative, but also for potentially ensuring the cooperation of other relatives. Joe knew he had to treat any interaction with them sensitively. Even though Margaret Keld’s daughter, Obadiah’s second victim in Ireland, had been murdered over seven years ago, he knew that feelings, both personal and political, still ran strongly regarding the Gardaí’s lengthy investigation into the murders.
    Though eager to pursue an alternative career and hopefully secure a financial deal, it was important to Joe that the book be taken seriously by his peers as a point of reference for the Obadiah Starks of the world. His time covering the murders had given him an insight afforded to few others. And though it had taken him to dark places and provided him with images in his head he would much rather be without, they had also provided him with a