few days, this newspaper’ – he pointed at the floor beside his feet; ‘this newspaper is part of the news. It has happened before; it will happen again. We will not lose our heads. We will go about our business and we will do our jobs to our usual high standards. We will report Martin’s death in tomorrow’s paper. Sunday staff, you will wait to see how things develop. We will want a feature on Martin’s career and, of course, obituaries in both papers. John and Fiona’ – the cone of his belly turned on Maguire – ‘will fill you in at conference.’
He stood there glancing nervously round. We wondered if he was finished. A phone rang at a far desk and we had started to break up when he spoke again.
‘This is a difficult time,’ he said. We shuffled back into position. ‘A difficult time. For all of us. Martin Moir was – well, you don’t need me tell you what kind of journalist Martin Moir was. He was a great investigative reporter in the finest traditions of this newspaper.’ He looked round sharply at that point, as if he expected someone to contradict him. ‘But be that as it may’ – he wiped it all away with a languid hand; Martin’s death; his standing as a journalist; the words he’d just spoken: ‘Be that as it may, we have work to do. The best tribute we can pay to Martin is to keep making this paper as good as we can make it.’
This time he was finished. He gave a brief, military nod and clipped back to the lift. There were two or three disjointed claps but nobody took them up.
When Niven left it broke the spell, released the grief that had massed in the air. We hugged each other. We wandered the newsroom, patting shoulders and gripping elbows, clapping each other’s backs. It was like the HQ of the losing party on election night. But there was something else. A little flicker in the eyes. A charge of static in the air as we resumed our desks. This was a story. This was our story. What kind of a spike would it give to the sales? Even in death Moir would jockey us one last boost. The Scotsman would take a tanking tomorrow.
Two hours later I was writing the obit. Conference had been short. Maguire raced us through the schedule. The referendum, house prices, the new anti-sectarian bill: Driscoll, the News Editor, flagged up Sunday’s leads. Neve McDonald gave her curt, bored preview of the magazine. Carson, the new sports guy, ran through his roster of Old Firm transfers, manager profiles, flagged up a rumour about the taxman chasing Rangers for using EBTs.
‘EB whats?’ Maguire screwed her face up.
‘Employee Benefit Trusts.’ Carson consulted his notes. ‘It’s an offshore thing. You pay players without paying tax on top. It’s how you afford the big names.’
‘Cheating?’ Maguire said. ‘Financial doping?’
‘Well. Probably come to nothing. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Do that then. Nothing else? Good. Let’s talk about Martin.’
We did. Seven days earlier he had been sitting at this table, eating Marks & Spencer sandwiches with the rest of us. Now he was the news.
As Niven had observed, we didn’t know the facts. We still didn’t know if it was suicide or a drunken accident. But whichever door opened, something nasty would come out. Secrets and sins. The old unforeseeable mess. The kind of stuff we dug up about bent councillors and access-peddling cabinet ministers.
We are the news . I looked round the polished table, the troubled faces. They didn’t like it. The telescope was the wrong way round and it made them uneasy. Working at a paper, you think you’re bombproof. You visit chaos on other people. Chaos doesn’t visit you.
It didn’t bother me. I’d been there before. Four years back a gangster I exposed in a front-page lead turned out to be an undercover cop. I looked a little stupid for a couple of weeks as my failings were rehearsed in a dozen blogs and columns. Even at the time, though, it wasn’t that bad. Disgrace. Obloquy. It wasn’t so
He stood there glancing nervously round. We wondered if he was finished. A phone rang at a far desk and we had started to break up when he spoke again.
‘This is a difficult time,’ he said. We shuffled back into position. ‘A difficult time. For all of us. Martin Moir was – well, you don’t need me tell you what kind of journalist Martin Moir was. He was a great investigative reporter in the finest traditions of this newspaper.’ He looked round sharply at that point, as if he expected someone to contradict him. ‘But be that as it may’ – he wiped it all away with a languid hand; Martin’s death; his standing as a journalist; the words he’d just spoken: ‘Be that as it may, we have work to do. The best tribute we can pay to Martin is to keep making this paper as good as we can make it.’
This time he was finished. He gave a brief, military nod and clipped back to the lift. There were two or three disjointed claps but nobody took them up.
When Niven left it broke the spell, released the grief that had massed in the air. We hugged each other. We wandered the newsroom, patting shoulders and gripping elbows, clapping each other’s backs. It was like the HQ of the losing party on election night. But there was something else. A little flicker in the eyes. A charge of static in the air as we resumed our desks. This was a story. This was our story. What kind of a spike would it give to the sales? Even in death Moir would jockey us one last boost. The Scotsman would take a tanking tomorrow.
Two hours later I was writing the obit. Conference had been short. Maguire raced us through the schedule. The referendum, house prices, the new anti-sectarian bill: Driscoll, the News Editor, flagged up Sunday’s leads. Neve McDonald gave her curt, bored preview of the magazine. Carson, the new sports guy, ran through his roster of Old Firm transfers, manager profiles, flagged up a rumour about the taxman chasing Rangers for using EBTs.
‘EB whats?’ Maguire screwed her face up.
‘Employee Benefit Trusts.’ Carson consulted his notes. ‘It’s an offshore thing. You pay players without paying tax on top. It’s how you afford the big names.’
‘Cheating?’ Maguire said. ‘Financial doping?’
‘Well. Probably come to nothing. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Do that then. Nothing else? Good. Let’s talk about Martin.’
We did. Seven days earlier he had been sitting at this table, eating Marks & Spencer sandwiches with the rest of us. Now he was the news.
As Niven had observed, we didn’t know the facts. We still didn’t know if it was suicide or a drunken accident. But whichever door opened, something nasty would come out. Secrets and sins. The old unforeseeable mess. The kind of stuff we dug up about bent councillors and access-peddling cabinet ministers.
We are the news . I looked round the polished table, the troubled faces. They didn’t like it. The telescope was the wrong way round and it made them uneasy. Working at a paper, you think you’re bombproof. You visit chaos on other people. Chaos doesn’t visit you.
It didn’t bother me. I’d been there before. Four years back a gangster I exposed in a front-page lead turned out to be an undercover cop. I looked a little stupid for a couple of weeks as my failings were rehearsed in a dozen blogs and columns. Even at the time, though, it wasn’t that bad. Disgrace. Obloquy. It wasn’t so
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