Simon’s.
Ken emails back within twenty minutes. ‘Nice read,’ the message says. ‘We’ll hold it until the week of the appeal. Good pix too.’
If we were on the phone, I’m sure he’d add ‘She’s bang tidy!’ On email, he’s a politician: never get caught out by the reply-instead-of-forward faux pas, never leave electronic record.
The photographer calls me to check the spelling of the twins’ names. ‘Weird she didn’t have any photos of her husband out, wasn’t it? She had to go searching for one we could use.’
‘Probably too painful for her to look at,’ I say, and cut the conversation short.
Every job has its small perks and mine comes with the occasional burst of free stand-up comedy or, to give it its formal title, contempt of court. Whenever an unhinged or flamboyant character takes to the stand, word goes round. And it’s not just journos – solicitors and court ushers join in with the whisper. ‘Get in 2, quick’ spreads like wildfire – and suddenly the court fills up with people pretending they have a reason to be there. The favoured pose is sliding into a seat at the back, vaguely scanning the room as if you have an urgent message to deliver to someone you can’t immediately locate and don’t want to disturb proceedings.
Among the greatest hits have been a streetwalker who flashed a tattooed boob at a judge and told him he ‘looked like a client’ (Gretton was absent for that one, off for root canal work – I don’t know which was more painful for him, the teeth or the missed tit), a man with a multiple personality disorder which caused him to answer every question in a different accent, and a drum’n’bass DJ who solemnly took off his shirt in the dock to reveal a t-shirt saying ‘Only God Can Judge Me’. (In front of a dry circuit judge, who lowered his spectacles and said crisply: ‘Unfortunately for you, He delegated discretion in sentence to me.’)
So on Monday lunchtime, when a gangly lad from a weekly paper pops his head around the press room door and says breathlessly: ‘Have you heard …?’ I assume that someone’s happy-slapped a QC or informed a packed courtroom that they’re a high-ranking Scientologist and thus privy to most of the secrets of our puny human universe.
I break off typing up my quotes from the Natalie Shale interview.
‘No, what?’
Instead of issuing directions about where it’s taking place and charging off again, he comes in and spreads a copy of the Evening News on the desk. He thumbs through to the classified adverts.
‘Here,’ he says, jabbing at an extra large announcement in 16pt font, blocked off in a thick black border.
‘Desperately seeking Dick,’ it reads. ‘Zoe Clarke of the Evening News is looking, without success. If you have any information about where she can find Dick, please call –’ and a mobile number follows. ‘She will pay extremely well for information leading to Dick.’
‘Ingenious. What a way with words. Who did this?’ I ask.
The gangly lad sniggers, shrugs. ‘She’s got on someone’s wick, obviously.’
‘It’s really unnecessary,’ I say, and all of a sudden I know why Gretton was so unnaturally buoyant. ‘How did you know about this?’
‘It’s all round the office at yours. Someone called with a tip-off.’
I flip through the rest of the paper and see a double page on the liposuction story, which yielded two guilty verdicts for the doctors, though the nurse got off. It uses the backgrounder and it all bears my byline, no Zoe, despite the first eight paragraphs being solely her work. I scan the ad a second time and go in search of Zoe in court, coming up empty until I spy her through the front windows.
‘Please don’t laugh, I’ve been piss-ripped all day. I’ve had heavy breathing calls and I’ve had enough,’ she says, dragging on a fag with the hunger of a former expert who’s fallen off the wagon with a thud.
‘I’m not going to laugh, I think it’s horrible. Have you complained to news desk? It shouldn’t have gone in.’
‘Yeah, Ken said it made us look like tools and called ad services to have a go about how they should’ve put their brains in gear when it was booked, but that’s all. And what’s the point anyway? We all know who’s to blame.’
‘If it was Gretton, I’m going to kick his whiskery arse into Stockport for you.’
‘It’s got to be him.’
I nearly say ‘Unless you’ve annoyed anyone else?’ and think better of it.
‘Very likely.’
‘It’s nice to speak to someone who doesn’t think it’s funny.’
‘It’s not. Gretton’s a vindictive sod. And thanks for putting my byline on the lipo case. You should’ve made it a joint byline, you did loads.’
Zoe looks surprised, mind still elsewhere.
‘Sure. The backgrounder was really thorough. You can tell you’ve done this a while.’
‘You’re not wrong. Drink with an old lady, later in the week?’
‘Yes, please. I’ll email you my new number, when I get it.’
‘New number?’
‘I can’t keep this one, every freak in Manchester’s calling me.’
I grasp at something to cheer her up. ‘Will you come to my flat-warming party next weekend? Only a small do.’
Zoe perks up. ‘Yeah.’
Leaving Zoe sparking up again outside, I go looking for Gretton inside. It must be the first time I’ve been pursuing him around court.
‘Can I have a word, please?’ I say, tugging on his jacket sleeve as I catch up with him, rounding a corner.
‘Woodford?’
‘What you did to Zoe was completely over the top and nasty.’
Gretton gives me a vampiric grin. ‘She sowed, she reaped.’
‘She’s good at her job, and younger than you, and female, and that triple whammy is more than your ego can cope with.’
‘How come we’ve never fallen out then?’
‘Because I put up with you. Zoe put up a fight instead and you’ve gone too far with this retaliation.’
‘Let me tell you something, you may have been walking around in a daze since your love life went kaput …’
I fold my arms, purse my lips. Impertinent git. I haven’t been in a daze. Have I?
‘… She’s done more than put up a fight, she’s on the attack, and people like her need slapping down. You should’ve seen her at the end of the blobby bird trial, elbowing me out the way to get
