a face shaped like a rubber stamp. But “Old Cleggy” had thrown himself about a bit. No small-time politico he. The heavyweight issues in Weighton had not been ignored by the new grey-white hope. In a town full of curve balls he’d become a straight hitter.
He spoke out loud to the good folk of Weighton, usually from the front page of the Post, and his unrelenting theme was crime. Or the proliferation of it, more like. In the last decade, Weighton had usurped even Gotham City in crime’s “League of Shame”. But Clegg had become the town’s sharp-suited crusader. Muggers, thieves and drug pushers weren’t exactly on the run, but at least they were keeping their heads down. It was a lone but amped voice that boomed above the broken boulevards of Weighton.
Not everyone was enjoying Clegg’s crusade, though. Some thought it only a matter of time before the infidels opted for an uprising. Because when you run on a ticket like that, you’re bound to cause a reflux, and there’s a belly-full of bile out there. It just needs direction.
And when two tribes go to war, best not be in the middle.
Without looking up, Clegg’s PA asked, ‘Can I help you?’
She was busy scribbling a note from a preceding telephone call. I endured the silence, waiting for her to look up and gaze deeply into my charm-laden eyes. This she did, but I only drew a microwaved smile, rather than the melting type I’d hoped for. Too bad. She was cute.
‘Yes, help you can,’ I said. ‘Help is always helpful. If I could see the Mayor, that would, indeed, be a big help.’
Her eyebrows converged until they resembled a chenille tapestry. ‘You mean … now?’
‘Yes. Now would be good.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Miss – I assume it’s Miss – investigative journalists work in a world where appointments have little place. The people like their news today,not ten thirty the day after. That is why I was so pleased when you mentioned now, just now. If, indeed, now means now. Am I knocking on the door here?’ I gave her the main beam.
Missy didn’t let a smile stray from her bureaucratic face. ‘Can I take your name, please? I’ll ask the Mayor if he’ll see you.’
I took out a crumpled card and passed it to her. It actually belonged to a friend of mine who worked on the Post . It’s all about authenticity in this game.
While she studied the card, I smiled, thinking how it would teach that smug git Mike “Newsround” Wells a lesson for showing-off in The George. I’d heard that his nickname arose from the time he’d had a paper round, rather than him being a closet John Craven fan. But you’d be foolish to rule it out.
She placed the card in front of her and looked up, an unimpressed face in tow.
Before she could speak, I darted in. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but I just want to talk to our crusading Mayor about crime in this city. Especially in view of the dreadful murder that took place yesterday.’
How could our Commander-in-Chief resist that for a hook?
She looked at me sceptically. ‘He gave a quote to the Post yesterday.’
‘I know. A fine one, too. But I’m from features. This is an in-depth, follow-on piece.’ I projected my best smile.
She nodded, then went off to cast a juicy maggot to the big fish in the back office.
~
Clegg sat across the desk from me, looking greyer than normal. The funereal style suit didn’t help. He looked like he’d swallowed not just the bait, but the line, rod, and reel. Clearly, a boatload of bad news had caused the sickness to rise in his gills. One dead mistress and a delicate interview with the Chief Constable of Weighton police could do that to a person. The melancholy of the man was apparent. His face looked like it had been soaked overnight in sadness, though he maintained a dignified façade. Maybe he’d really loved her. If he was acting the part, he had me fooled. And Eddie G was nobody’s fool.
A small voice inside my head told me to
He spoke out loud to the good folk of Weighton, usually from the front page of the Post, and his unrelenting theme was crime. Or the proliferation of it, more like. In the last decade, Weighton had usurped even Gotham City in crime’s “League of Shame”. But Clegg had become the town’s sharp-suited crusader. Muggers, thieves and drug pushers weren’t exactly on the run, but at least they were keeping their heads down. It was a lone but amped voice that boomed above the broken boulevards of Weighton.
Not everyone was enjoying Clegg’s crusade, though. Some thought it only a matter of time before the infidels opted for an uprising. Because when you run on a ticket like that, you’re bound to cause a reflux, and there’s a belly-full of bile out there. It just needs direction.
And when two tribes go to war, best not be in the middle.
Without looking up, Clegg’s PA asked, ‘Can I help you?’
She was busy scribbling a note from a preceding telephone call. I endured the silence, waiting for her to look up and gaze deeply into my charm-laden eyes. This she did, but I only drew a microwaved smile, rather than the melting type I’d hoped for. Too bad. She was cute.
‘Yes, help you can,’ I said. ‘Help is always helpful. If I could see the Mayor, that would, indeed, be a big help.’
Her eyebrows converged until they resembled a chenille tapestry. ‘You mean … now?’
‘Yes. Now would be good.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Miss – I assume it’s Miss – investigative journalists work in a world where appointments have little place. The people like their news today,not ten thirty the day after. That is why I was so pleased when you mentioned now, just now. If, indeed, now means now. Am I knocking on the door here?’ I gave her the main beam.
Missy didn’t let a smile stray from her bureaucratic face. ‘Can I take your name, please? I’ll ask the Mayor if he’ll see you.’
I took out a crumpled card and passed it to her. It actually belonged to a friend of mine who worked on the Post . It’s all about authenticity in this game.
While she studied the card, I smiled, thinking how it would teach that smug git Mike “Newsround” Wells a lesson for showing-off in The George. I’d heard that his nickname arose from the time he’d had a paper round, rather than him being a closet John Craven fan. But you’d be foolish to rule it out.
She placed the card in front of her and looked up, an unimpressed face in tow.
Before she could speak, I darted in. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but I just want to talk to our crusading Mayor about crime in this city. Especially in view of the dreadful murder that took place yesterday.’
How could our Commander-in-Chief resist that for a hook?
She looked at me sceptically. ‘He gave a quote to the Post yesterday.’
‘I know. A fine one, too. But I’m from features. This is an in-depth, follow-on piece.’ I projected my best smile.
She nodded, then went off to cast a juicy maggot to the big fish in the back office.
~
Clegg sat across the desk from me, looking greyer than normal. The funereal style suit didn’t help. He looked like he’d swallowed not just the bait, but the line, rod, and reel. Clearly, a boatload of bad news had caused the sickness to rise in his gills. One dead mistress and a delicate interview with the Chief Constable of Weighton police could do that to a person. The melancholy of the man was apparent. His face looked like it had been soaked overnight in sadness, though he maintained a dignified façade. Maybe he’d really loved her. If he was acting the part, he had me fooled. And Eddie G was nobody’s fool.
A small voice inside my head told me to
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