The Weasel took great delight in showing April and Connor their new Special Investigations office, which had until a day ago been a broom cupboard where the cleaners kept their mops and Hoovers, and by the smell of things, also enjoyed illicit cigarettes.
‘Here we are – the hub,’ the Weasel sneered. ‘The ideas factory, call it what you will, but the company has gone to a lot of time and effort to set this up, so we expect results.’
The Weasel had been rehearsing his sarcastic little speech after snorting up a thick five-inch line of cocaine through a rolled-up twenty-pound note. He’d never normally needed such a big hit so early in the morning. This new job of his was the loftiest position of his career, however, an impartial observer may have concluded that he was way out of his depth. But such ambitious people never realise it.
April’s instincts had been right about the Weasel. He did want rid of her. Part of his long-term game plan was to find a job for his mistress, who was presently working for a struggling Edinburgh news agency. That way he’d be able to co-ordinate their affair more effectively. At present, he struggled to recall the last time they’d ‘done it.’ He couldn’t even remember when they’d shared a line of coke.
But staff jobs these days were hard to come by. Even when a journalist retired or was fired, desk heads struggled to replace them as the newspaper circulations continued their terminal downward spiral – especially if the outgoing staff received huge pay-offs. The Weasel had pleaded a very convincing case to his editor Nigel Bent to install his lover in April’s place and promised to get rid of the ‘old dear on the cheap’. With his mistress in place this would also allow him to spy on Connor, who, as far as the Weasel was concerned, needed bringing down a peg or two. He’d been the blue-eyed boy for too long.
The Weasel’s real name was Gordon McGillivray. Throughout his career he had been the complete antithesis of a blue-eyed boy, with his greasy lank hair, skinny frame, red and perpetually dripping nose, sharp facial features and unfortunate halitosis, which his staff would get an unwelcome lungful of whenever he stood too close or bollocked them.
He’d always resented Connor’s type – the show ponies of newspapers – and instead had connived and backstabbed his way into power. It also helped that he knew something about his editor that no one else did. He’d hinted as much to Bent, who received and understood his news editor’s intentions when the topic had moved to retaining April’s staff position for a ‘newer, younger, cheaper … and more attractive female reporter.’
So, April Lavender was not being paranoid. Her days were numbered. Soon the Weasel would be back in the arms of his lover – the only person he knew who enjoyed cocaine as much as he did.
‘I’ll leave you two to get to know each other – but no shagging in here, please, we’ve just had the place cleaned,’ he added with needless crudeness.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ Connor said after the Weasel had left with a smirk on his face. ‘I’m getting claustrophobic.’
Connor ordered two lattes, only to be corrected by April, who wanted a skinny latte with skimmed milk. Connor looked his new co-worker up and down, from the blouse straining to contain her cleavage to the two-tone shoes. This old bird was certainly a character, he thought to himself.
Just as he was about to pay, April blew her healthy lifestyle cover by asking for a blueberry muffin, too. ‘I’m bloody starving,’ she explained. It had just gone 10 a.m.
Connor dispensed with the small talk and got down to the nitty gritty. ‘So our new editor doesn’t like crime stories?’
April said, ‘That’s strange, I heard it was human interest stories he didn’t like. Well, that’s explains a lot – like why we’ve been lumped together in a converted broom cupboard.’
They sat in silence, sipping their coffees and contemplating their situation.
‘I’d rather they just paid me off,’ moaned April.
‘If newspapers can get out of paying you off they will. Gone are the days when they waved goodbye to you with a big fat cheque. What they do now is piss you off so much you leave. But where to? No one’s hiring … well, not quite true, they’re taking on kids for a third of our wages.’
‘Hmmm, so what should we do? Get in touch with the union?’ April said.
‘The NUJ’s toothless, bloody toothless,’ said a frustrated Connor.
‘Well, I’ve still got bills to pay,’ added April needlessly.
A long period of silence followed.
‘Well, I’ve never given up without a fight,’ said Connor.
‘Me neither,’ said April, ‘and I ain’t about to go with a whimper.’