‘You bastard!’ Marcus Easterby seethed into the receiver of his mobile phone. ‘You vile little leftie, back-stabbing bastard!’
He was thrashing his copy of the Guardian through the misty High Street air as if he had the journalist there in front of him within prodding range. Heavy raindrops were tearing into the gruesome close-up photo of his father’s face, along the top of which ran the headline, The Executioner of Ramliyya followed by the sub-headline, Colonel Orders Former Sergeant to Face the Sword.
‘Now hold on a minute,’ Chapman defended himself above the hurly-burly of the busy newsroom. ‘It’s nothing personal, Marcus. You can’t blame me if the facts of the story don’t suit you or your father.’
‘Nothing personal! Nothing personal, you miserable little toadie! Then why is your name sitting at the top of this miserable pack of lies with your ugly little mug shot staring me straight in the eyes?’
‘We haven’t printed any lies,’ Chapman continued, calm but riled, ‘and I can prove that to you, if you like, Marcus, by sending you copies of the audio and video files I sourced the story from.’
But Chapman's steady, methodical delivery only incensed Marcus further. He swiped furiously at the stray locks of rain-soaked blond hair that bobbed in front of his eyes, mocking his rage with their abject limpidity.
‘Oh, I see, video files, eh? And where did your bloody video footage come from, then?’ he shouted even louder. ‘Don’t think I can’t guess who helped you. I suppose you had this planned all along, you and that bloody raghead prince. Yes, I can see it all now: you’d get your scoop, and he would make a huge killing off the Frogs or Yanks, or whoever else he’s got lined up to replace Dad’s lot in Ramliyya.’
‘Now hang on a minute,’ Chapman protested hotly, his personal animosity getting the better of professional caution. ‘You know I can’t disclose my sources, Marcus Easterby, but let me tell you one thing…’
He was about to explode down the phone, but found himself suddenly checked by a restraint he couldn’t explain. Was it a natural deference to the pageant of the dutiful son fighting for the honour of the disgraced father? No, something else. Just a feeling that this Al-Ajnabi, or Bailey, or whoever he was, might be leading him a little too easily to the water he was drinking from.
Chapman scratched his head and sighed:
‘You know, Marcus,’ he continued, staring distantly across the newsroom. ‘If your father has got anything to say in his defence, then we’ll certainly give him every chance to have his say in print.’
But Marcus only snorted back at the concession.
‘Don’t you worry about that, Mr Gutter-slime! You’ll find to your own cost that my father has still got plenty of friends in the right places. No, I didn’t call you to beg for any favours; I just want to know where the hell that Ramli bastard has taken Sophie.’
‘Taken her?’ Chapman’s surprise sounded all too genuine, and Marcus could tell the journalist wasn’t lying.
‘Out of the country, you mean?’ Chapman stammered.
But he was talking on an empty line. Marcus Easterby had already terminated the call and was heading down the High Street at a brisk trot, through the Botanical Gardens and on towards Folly Bridge.