Dead Secret

By Richard Milton

Hard–nosed journalist Tony Gabriel inherits the research papers and books of a long-dead Cambridge historian - and a human skull. Tony uses his years as a reporter to investigate this mysterious legacy - and is stunned by what he uncovers.

The Chadwick Foundation is a wealthy and politically powerful institution whose beliefs in the paranormal both repel and attract him. Are they just rich, powerful people playing an elaborate game, or have they truly gained powers to penetrate the mystery of the future?

Eve Canning is the keeper of The Foundation's secrets, a powerful woman whose regal beauty turns Tony’s search for the truth into a very personal quest - and his life and beliefs upside down.

When Tony is initiated by Eve and her paranormal cult into the ultimate terrifying secret, he has a decision to make that can cost him his life: he can achieve a form of immortality but only by risking everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Milton
• Release date: Feb 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463814543

Richard Milton

Richard Milton is a journalist and writer who writes stories most sensible people wouldn't touch with a bargepole. His best-selling critique of Darwinism as an ideology, Shattering the Myths of Darwinism, caused a storm of controversy. His study of Anglo-German relations, Best of Enemies, has been turned into a film for German and British television. His latest non-fiction title, The Ministry of Spin, reveals how the Post-war Labour government used the facilities of the wartime Ministry of Information in secret for propaganda purposes. His book about corporate misbehaviour, Bad Company, was chosen by The Sunday Times as its Book of The Week.

Book preview

Dead Secret

RICHARD MILTON

This edition © Richard Milton, 2017

Reviews of Dead Secret

"Dead Secret will ensnare your senses and lead you down a path from which there may be no release." Star

"Dead Secret is a unique and clever story that provided an entertaining and at times thought-provoking read." BigAl, Books and Pals

"Following the convolutions of this novel requires as close a focus as chasing a coiling anaconda along the jungle floor, but is far more exciting and entertaining." Mallory Heart

"Set in present day London, the action switches from the here and now to Revolutionary France to post World War 2 London and back to the present. Our hero, an investigative journalist, researches a mystery that involves his own family, a psychic, a media mogul, high finance, the intelligence service, a secret society, politicians, murder, science and erotic sex. An interesting mix with plot twists and turns throughout, with the final twist saved until the very last page. It sounds complicated, but the plot flows very well with lots of surprises to keep the interest up all the way through." Bill Leach

One

Bad news is good news, when you work on a newspaper. Even death is a welcome caller – as long as it's someone else's death.

Tony Gabriel got back to his desk just in time to answer the insistently ringing phone. Noise in the newsroom was rising to meet the rapidly approaching afternoon deadline and Tony raised his voice as he snatched up the receiver, identifying himself more brusquely than he intended.

'Gabriel.'

There was a moment's hesitation before a man's voice asked, guardedly, 'May I just make sure I've got the right person? Is this Anthony Gabriel? Son of Queenie Gabriel?'

Every newspaper gets its fair share of crank callers but the guarded voice sounded more like someone being professionally careful, someone official.

'OK. Now how about telling me who you are?'

'Please excuse me, Doctor Gabriel. I have to be circumspect. My name's Rupert Ward. I'm an attorney. I've been instructed to ask you to attend a meeting of the Trustees of the Weston Estate at our offices today. We're in Lincoln's Inn Fields, not far from you.'

The lawyer sounded sure of himself but Tony was mystified. He was about to demand some sort of explanation when Ward offered it without prompting.

'The meeting is consequent on your mother's sad death . . .'

Tony didn't hear the rest of it. He sat down while the routine words of condolence flowed past him, unheard. He knew the shock must be showing on his face because Ellie Jordan stopped typing and looked up, her curiosity spreading like a ripple through the newsroom as other reporters forgot deadlines and turned from their screens to stare.

He found he was clutching the phone too tightly and deliberately relaxed his grasp, as the icy fingers of shock eased their grip on his mind, but something darker slid into their place. Tony had neglected Queenie and Baz for more than two years now. He'd heard Mum was in hospital but he'd found excuses to delay visiting her. The truth was he couldn't bear to see her like that. He just assumed that she would get better, as she always did. Or that Baz would call him if she got worse.

By now, Rupert Ward had stopped speaking, understanding the nature of the silence, realising his blunder.

'Please accept my sincere apologies, Doctor Gabriel. I naturally assumed that you would have heard . . .'

'That's OK. You caught me by surprise.' Ellie and the other eavesdroppers resumed their typing, their curiosity overcome by a temporary sense of decency.

Tony recovered his wits. 'What exactly is it you want from me?'

'A meeting today, sir. At our offices. With the trustees of the Weston Estate. I realise this may seem intrusive but my instructions have always been clear that when one Trustee passes away, his or her nominee must be contacted . . .'

'I still don't understand. Are you saying my mother was a Trustee of something?'

'She didn't inform you then?'

'But it must be a mistake. She was just an ordinary housewife. She wouldn't know a trust from a hole in the ground. You've got it all wrong somewhere.'

Ward was silent as though re-thinking his strategy. He was silent for so long that Tony began to think he would hang up altogether. But eventually he simply said, 'If you could attend our office this afternoon, I'll discuss the background with you. Would two o'clock suit?'

Tony's instinct as a reporter took over. This was no routine invitation. He told Ward he'd be there at two, took the address, and hung up.

Ellie dropped all pretence and stopped typing immediately. The real life case she'd got unfolding in front of her was far more interesting than the divorcing pop singer she was fitting up for the hate-mail slot on page two. 'Trouble, honey?' She asked, cocking her head archly to one side and smiling innocently.

'Just private stuff. I've got to go out for an hour or two. If Don wants me, I'll be back later.'

'He wants you already. He's been asking since this morning.'

Tony ignored her bait. 'I said I'll be back later,' he snapped.

He hurried out of the Insight office, avoiding the unreliable lift, and took the stairs down to Soho Square. He hailed a black cab and heard himself distantly ask the driver for Lincoln's Inn. It wasn't a long walk but he still felt cold with shock.

For Tony, the worst never happened. Now the worst had happened, and all he could think of were the most banal trivialities. As Fat Jeff was always saying in his 'Miranda Writes' column, you think you're prepared for bereavement but you never are really. When it's you, it's different.

Number 299 Lincoln's Inn Fields was an impressive modern building, taking up most of one corner of the square. Spiers & Gough was no crusty legal relic, but a thriving, modern practice. The reception area, however, was window-dressed to inspire confidence with a Victorian leather-topped table displaying the day's newspapers, and some comfortable leather club armchairs from an earlier incarnation of the firm.

A middle-aged receptionist with sensible pearls and a professional smile asked him to take a seat while she announced him but his mind was racing and his feet couldn’t keep still. He paced the reception, inspecting the fading sepia photographs on the walls of former generations of partners in the firm. Old Mister Charles Spiers, pompous in Edwardian frock coat, young Mister Charles in Second World War captain's uniform, a 1950s photograph of bespectacled Hubert Gough, broadcasting on BBC Radio's 'Brains Trust'.

The receptionist returned to show him through a dark oak screen door to a much earlier paved corridor and into a high-ceilinged Regency reception room, elegantly furnished. Law books now filled shelves once devoted to literary editions. The room was occupied by a balding man and a woman in her forties, both standing and staring at him curiously as though expecting someone with a single eye in the middle of his forehead.

The balding man held out a flaccid hand. 'I'm Rupert Ward, Doctor. This is my colleague, Christina Gough.'

Ward offered him a seat and took his place behind an ornate Second Empire desk. The woman, though, continued to stand, like a witness at a wedding. There was something pallid about them both.

'Have I understood you correctly?' Ward asked. 'You know nothing of the Weston Trust?'

'The first time I heard the name was today, when you called.'

'But presumably you've heard of Kingsley Weston?'

Tony nodded. 'The historian? Of course. Everyone has.'

'When he died in 1988, Professor Weston left certain research materials in trust. The original trustees were my father, Miss Gough's father, and your mother. You could say we three have something in common. Have had for some years.'

Ward looked at Miss Gough as though seeking feminine guidance on how best to proceed in so delicate a matter, but the lady looked blank. She had a faint moustache and wore shoes with no heels, Tony noticed.

'I think we'd better view the materials first so you know what it is we're talking about,' he said.

They led Tony to the rear of the building, down a cast iron staircase to a series of basement vaults, legal catacombs, with black tin deed boxes and piles of mildewed documents instead of skeletons. At the end stood a large table, its leather top almost worn away. The surface had been cleared and on it was piled an assortment of books, papers and, like some forgotten Christmas present, a cardboard hat box.

Tony expected some explanation from them, but the pallid couple simply stood back respectfully and left him to examine Weston's materials. He felt almost as though it were a test of some kind and approached the table cautiously, hardly daring to open a book or turn a paper, much less open the box. The feeling of expectation and curiosity that had driven him to Lincoln's Inn quickly evaporated as he found himself turning over what looked like the contents of a downmarket second-hand bookshop.

There were copies of Weston's own books, including several editions of The Last Days of the Third Reich, bundles of old papers in French, a few old postcards of Versailles in an album. And the hat box, tied with string. It was a bunch of junk, a waste of time. Tony wasn't quite sure what he had been searching for; perhaps the shock of Queenie's death had made him reach out for anything that was hers and could now be his. But none of this was Queenie's. It was more like the contents of a child's treasure box, abandoned, meaningless and without value to anyone but its long dead collector.

Tony looked helplessly at the two of them and appealed for some kind of explanation. 'I don't get it. What is all this stuff?'

Ward exhaled deeply and Tony realised he must have been holding his breath for a long time. Perhaps as long as twenty years. The exhaled breath was expertly disguised with decades of legal training but was unmistakably a sigh of disappointment.

'I'm afraid we were hoping that you would be able to tell us that,' he said.

'What's in the box?' Tony asked.

'Feel free to examine it yourself,' said Ward, with a trace of grim humour.

Tony untied the string and pulled off the lid of the hatbox, now intensely curious to see what was inside. Ivory bone gleamed malevolently from the dusty paper shroud in which it lay. It was a human skull, picked clean of flesh and sinew and all trace of humanity except for some gold teeth and a knowing kind of grin that seemed to be trying to tell him something. Something like, 'You too, one day.'

'It's real, as far as we know.' Ward volunteered.

A dark thought crossed Tony's mind. 'It couldn't be . . .?'

Ward finished the sentence for him. 'Weston? No. He was buried in Worcester cathedral – in one piece.'

Suddenly Tony found it hard to breathe in the musty old cellars. He wanted to get out in the open air, away from the smell of mildewed books, away from these pale lawyers, away from the grinning skull. The reality of Queenie's death was starting to sink in and he needed a large brandy.

'I don't understand any of this,' he told them bluntly. 'I can't believe that my mother was involved in any way with Kingsley Weston of all people. None of this stuff means anything to me. I just can't help you.'

He started to leave but Christina Gough adroitly stepped in front of him with unexpected firmness of purpose. 'It's not quite as simple as that,' she said. 'You see, the duty of the trust Weston set up was to keep the materials safely for the benefit of future historians, but there was one other provision – that on the death of Queenie Gabriel, these materials should pass to you, Doctor. You own all of this, now. It's yours. Where would you like us to send it?'

 When he got back to Soho Square, 'Don' Donovan had returned and was in the glass walled cubicle he called his office. Ellie helpfully pointed out, 'He's still looking for you, honey . . .'

Tony said quietly, 'Look, don't make a big deal out of it, but it's my mother. She died in hospital yesterday.' Telling her was like pinning up a notice, but quicker.

Ellie started to say, 'Aw, gee. I'm sorry . . .' But Don spotted him and waved him in with a frown.

Tony stuck his head through the door, a few words prepared, but Don gave him no chance to speak. 'Where the fuck's my cover story, you tosser?' He said, jerking his thumb behind to a wall chart showing a long row of pages filled in red felt tip but with an early spread missing, white as surviving teeth in a prize-fighter's jaw.

'I need a couple more days, Don,' Tony told him in an optimistic tone of voice. 'It's coming together, but I have some interviews I need to . . . '

Don picked up a board showing the cover artwork and flourished it. It showed a crystal ball on a table in a darkened room with the question, Is anybody there . . ?

'This was your idea,' he accused. There was mockery in his voice but it had a hard edge. 'Let's blow the lid off phoney psychics, you said. Great idea. So where's the copy?'

'Don't worry, Don.' Tony assured him. 'It's in the . . .'

'Oh no. Don't tell me it's in the fucking pipeline. My nerves won't stand it. You've got until Friday. Then I'm putting the test-tube quins on the cover and you can explain to the sixth floor why your byline hasn't appeared for two months.'

When he got back to his desk, Ellie held out a hand-delivered envelope. 'This came for you while you were out.'

Tony tore it open with a finger while Ellie slid shamelessly round the side of the desk to get a peek. It was a black-edged invitation card. Along the top a hand-written addition was scrawled; 'My sincere condolences on your very sad loss. Please feel free to attend my meeting tonight.'

The card it was written on was a printed advertisement for a psychic meeting at Conway Hall at seven o'clock. It said, Maria Munday. Weekly Spiritualist Readings. Words of Comfort for the Bereaved.

Even Ellie was taken aback. 'Jeez, Tony. That's tacky.'

Tony's face was white with anger. 'I'm going to nail that phoney bitch to the wall.'

Two

'There is someone here this evening who wants to speak'. The plump woman's voice was both tentative and questioning, probing her audience for willing acquiescence.

Tony dug his fingernails into his palm to prevent himself from leaping up and shouting something – anything – to stop this twisted bitch and her cruel performance.

The brief moment of pain distracted his anger and filled him again with icy determination. Not yet. Not yet. Sit here and wait for the moment. Wait for the Munday woman to stick her pudgy neck out, and then get her.

Tony sank back into the seat, his tense fingers relenting on the hard metal grip he held concealed. He'd carefully chosen an aisle seat in a secluded part of the small hall. Munday always worked in dim artificial lighting, curtains drawn – camouflage for her act. Well, that was fine with him. Tonight he was camouflaged, too – just another face in the crowd.

It was the ignorance and cruelty Tony hated most: cruelty to the innocent, the bereaved, the desperate, like the young mother two rows in front of him, on the edge of tears, being comforted by a decent-looking young man, her husband, probably.

Before them, on the wooden dais from where generations of charlatans had told their lies, Maria Munday stirred restlessly in her trance and spoke again in her dreamy voice.

'I'm getting the name.' There was the faint trace of a Scots accent under the Southern sophistication. 'It's Amy. I'm getting Amy.'

Tony clenched his fists as the young wife half rose in her seat, gently restrained by her husband.

'Yes. Yes. It's for me. It's my little Amy. Amy darling?'

'It is a young child who has passed over.' Munday murmured.

It was a classic cold reading technique – taking information volunteered by the victim and replaying it as a clairvoyant message. The young wife shrugged off her husband's protective hand and rose to her feet, gripping the back of the chair in front for support.

'Yes, Amy. It's Mummy darling. Mummy's here.'

Munday's voice rose uncannily to a childish whine, afraid, lost. 'Where are you Mummy? I can't see you. Is Daddy with you?'

Tony could see the young mother's knuckles, bloodless as she wrung the chair back. 'Amy. Amy. I'm so sorry, darling. So sorry. Please forgive me . . .'

Everyone in the hall stared sympathetically at the young woman as her grief surfaced and she broke down, sobbing.

Again, Munday spoke in the eerie childish voice. 'Mummy, Daddy. I think I can see you. You're all faint.'

As Tony looked at the stage now he sensed a numbing coldness spread over his face and hands, as though the chill of the grave had found its way into the cracks of his mind, paralysing his limbs. He watched in stark disbelief as in front of him, in front of all of them, the faint figure of a young girl in white began to form on the stage beside Maria Munday. It was so indistinct that he couldn't be sure it was even there, yet it was obvious that others in the room were witnessing the same sight. Tony was so mesmerised by this apparition that he almost forgot why he'd come. Then, collecting his wits, he leapt to his feet, knocking over the surrounding chairs, and raised the metal grip with both hands. Almost before he could act, the hands of alert stewards standing in the aisles came groping at him in the half darkness.

Faces began to turn in search of explanation as the commotion rippled throughout the small hall. Figures appeared out of the darkness on all sides of him. He shook them off, raised the motorised camera again and fired a stream of shots covering Maria Munday and the whole stage area around her.

He fired the heavy-duty flash again and again, blinding the audience, sending stewards reeling. Munday sat stunned and blinking, fending off the intrusion with pudgy jewelled hands.

When the hall lights were switched on, no more than five seconds had passed since he had risen to his feet, yet the white apparition had vanished. It had gone as quickly as it had appeared – unless it was captured inside his Nikon.

In the light, all pretence over, Tony spat out ferociously the anger he had held onto all evening. 'Hasn't this gone on long enough?' He shouted at her. 'Don't you have any feelings at all for these people?'

She sat immobile and replied in a voice that was used to meeting hostility with oily calm. 'On the contrary, I have too much respect for the spirit world to interfere in a manifestation. You have no respect at all for anyone.'

She rose and spoke reassuringly to her audience, confused and disintegrating. 'I regret that tonight's meeting has been interrupted in this way but I do hope we shall all gather again to seek truth on a future occasion.'

The young mother looked at Tony with bitter reproach. The rest of the audience shunned him as they broke up – true believers who had been denied a glimpse of the spirit world by a crazed heretic.

Tony shouted pointlessly at them, restrained by the stewards. 'Don't you see what she's doing? This is the oldest scam in the book. Look outside in the street. Her new Bentley is parked out there.'

Munday stood her ground, hands clasped in front of her like a headmistress addressing morning assembly. She spoke in a pained voice. 'Why are you doing this Doctor Gabriel? What have I done to hurt you?'

As the stewards gripped him roughly, he spat the words at her. 'Exposing people like you is my job. I'm going to give you all the fame you want – on the cover of Insight Magazine this week.'

Munday looked shocked at this. 'I don't understand,' she said. 'I invited you. You're one of us.' The Glaswegian tang was now stronger in her voice.

'I'm not one of you,' Tony yelled as he left. 'I'm a scientist. You're a crook. And you've conned your last audience – I'll make sure of that.'

By the time he got back to the Insight office and got

production to print out the pictures, it was gone eight o'clock and there was trouble waiting. Editorial was deserted but Maria Munday was sitting in Donovan's office with her press agent, Larry Woods.

Don beckoned him in from the newsroom to join them. He was on his feet, behind his desk – always a bad sign. Larry Woods was standing too, but Maria Munday sat in dignified silence, as though protest was beneath her.

As Tony went into the editor's office, Woods was letting fly at Don, 'The story is designed to do just one thing – to discredit my client.'

'Crap, Larry.' Tony told him, pulling the prints from his folder and throwing them down on the table. 'The pictures show the truth.'

'They show Tony Gabriel's version of the truth,' he said, bitter as the frustrated believers in the hall. But then Larry Woods believed in anyone who could afford his fees.

Tony picked out the best blow-up and spun it across the table at him. Beside Munday's chair was the faint shape of a child's foot, apparently disappearing behind some kind of concealed screen.

'Are you telling me you're defending this?' Tony asked, his voice rising in disbelief.

Woods suddenly became sweetly reasonable. 'Let me ask you one question, Tony. Why do you think so many people come to hear Maria Munday speak?'

'Simple. People believe what they want to believe.'

Woods folded his arms and grinned. 'So they're all fools? All except the brilliant Doctor Tony Gabriel, who knows everything?'

'Let me ask you one question, Larry,' Tony said. 'Why the hell does Maria Munday need a press agent if she's on the level?'

'To protect her from reporters trying to make a name for themselves!' he spat back. He turned to Donovan. 'Don, are you going to stand by and let this happen? This woman has helped thousands of people and you're crucifying her.'

For one moment, Tony thought Don was going to throw him to the wolves, but he came through. 'Sorry, Larry. The pictures show possible fraud and people have a right to know about that.'

Woods shrieked. 'The pictures show a sock some kid left in the hall. And you're prepared to defame my client with crap like this?'

'I think it's right to let our readers decide for themselves, don't you?'

Maria Munday stood up with a look of incomprehension. 'I can see that you're busy, Mister Donovan,' she said, pointedly ignoring Tony. 'I won't take up any more of your time.'

Woods followed her out, throwing back a final threat at Don, 'I'll be advising my client to take legal action if you print those.'

Once they were out of earshot, Don picked up the photo and tossed it back to Tony. 'That PR weasel was right. This could be an old sock.'

'Don, I swear to you it has to be a scam. That woman's house is worth millions!'

'I know. I know. Of course she's a fraud. We've just got to be as bullet-proof as she is, if and when her lawyers come after us.' He looked evasive and started reorganising the piles of unread press releases on his desk.

'That's why I'm putting Ellie Jordan on features with you for a bit. She can help you wrap up the cover story.'

Tony tried and failed to keep his voice steady. He exploded. 'Jeezus, Don. I've got it all wrapped already. The last thing I need is that American bitch . . .'

He didn't finish, he didn't need to. But the last thing he wanted was that little bloodsucker sniffing round everything he did, and telling tales to Don about every move he made.

Don affected a crocodile smile on his chubby face, trying to appease. 'It's just insurance in case that Munday woman's lawyers come after us. Ellie can watch your back.'

Tony stepped out into the deserted newsroom and was astounded to see Maria Munday still standing at the far end of the newsroom, waiting for him. He walked towards her with every intention of physically throwing her out, but when he got within a few paces she stared directly into his eye with a look of betrayal that stopped him cold.

'I don't understand you', she said. 'You're one of us. Your mother was one of us.'

Tony's anger evaporated in a cloud of uncertainty. 'I've told you before. I'm not one of you, whatever that means. My mother wasn't one of you. My mother was a housewife who lived in a council flat in Greenwich.'

Munday spoke calmly, evenly to him. He knew instinctively that she was completely sincere. 'Your mother, Doctor Gabriel, was a director and trustee of one of the world's largest financial empires – The Chadwick Foundation. She controlled annual expenditures of billions of pounds. And she spoke to those who have passed over, just as I do.'

'That's absolutely impossible,' he shot back. 'My mother didn't believe in anything like that.' He spoke curtly but there was a trace of doubt in his voice.

Munday shook her head and turned to leave. Then she stopped as though remembering something, or as though someone had spoken to her. 'You think my words can be made to fit any situation,' she said, 'but you're mistaken. Soon you will receive a message from the past. A message from a skeptic like yourself. If you won't listen to me, perhaps you will listen to that.'

Three

Paris, 16th August 1768

The young man who called himself Nicholas Flamel stretched and rose from the flagstones, stiff after a night at the Marivaux doors of the Church of the Holy Innocent.

The pale, watery sun of dawn had wakened him as it struck the churchyard and warmed the grey stones and slates of the great sanctuary. The sacristan would be up soon, turning out the beggars and cripples before the friars arrived to sing matins.

He rubbed himself to restore his circulation and, with a smile, gently rubbed the bas-relief figures in the carved oak doors, polished smooth by generations of piety. They depicted a beautiful young woman, kneeling at prayer, an earnest, handsome young man praying with her, and flying above them, looking down with love and compassion, a pair of angels.

The couple pictured in the door seemed a little pale, while the flesh and blood young man who rose from his flagstone bed had a florid complexion. He wore a wig that was popular thirty or forty or fifty years ago, but which, in 1768, seemed eccentric.

Over the years, he had spent many nights sleeping in this doorway, whenever he visited the great city of Paris. It was one constant, comforting thing in a life that was otherwise rootless and without any pattern. Another dawn, another city, and, later today, another show to give. He picked up his canvas travelling sack and swung it over his shoulder.

His hand went again, instinctively, to the carved figure of the young woman, this time in farewell.

'I must leave now, Perrenelle,' the young man whispered. 'Wait patiently for my return.'

There had been many dawn adieus like this, too many to count. It seemed only the day before yesterday that he had instructed the Lombard artists to carve these doors from solid oak.

The doors were his gift to the church in memory of his beautiful young wife.

His hand went to the style halfway up where the master craftsman had carved a church pew and on the pew graved his own symbol, a rose and a cross. Beside the signature he had carved the date of his work, the year of Our Lord 1399.

The sun was getting up now and the young man could feel some warmth on his face.

It was an auspicious start. Perhaps today would be the day.

Four

First thing next morning Tony caught a cab into the office. He needed a couple of hours on the phone before the newsroom got busy and before Donovan started harassing him again for his feature copy.

The cab dropped him at the Insight Publications building in Soho Square and he waited for the lift with an early motorcycle courier and a virginal research assistant. The girl smiled nervously at him, eager to start well. He gave her a week, at the most.

Insight magazine sprawled untidily over three large floors, open-plan offices converted from some Victorian mill to a factory for words. There was no-one in fourth-floor reception yet, just the building's security man standing over the empty desk, reading yesterday's Sun.

The electric wall clocks turned to 8:15 as Tony threaded his coat and bag through the piles of cut-copies and telephone directories that was the artificial chaos of Advertising and into the genuine chaos of Editorial.

Screens blinked patiently at the empty desks like eyes that never sleep: except most of the staff were actually still at home in bed and wouldn't be in for an hour or so. No-one starts early in the media.

Only Shagger McHattie and Fat Jeff were on early turn, subbing copy at the make-up screens. Tony assumed they were concocting letters to 'Miranda Writes', then he walked past their screens and saw they were competing to see who could download the most obscene picture from the Internet. So far they had got a dozen colour print-outs spread on the sub's table.

'Slow day, Jeff?' Tony asked pleasantly.

Jeff spread his arms expansively, 'Someone's got to do the investigative stuff', he said. 'While you and your new girl friend talk to the spirit world.' He nodded towards Don's office where Ellie Jordan's red hair was bobbing away as she took notes on her pad. The pushy little bitch had only started working freelance a few months earlier, but already she was on the staff. And she seemed to spend most of her time in Don's office, kissing Don's backside.

Don spotted him and beckoned him into the office. He watched over his half moon glasses, his hands clasped and elbows on the desk, beaming his cherub smile. 'Well, well, if it isn't the golden boy. What's got you out of bed at this time? Guilty conscience?' There was something about the soft blarney of Belfast that blunted the barbs.

Tony had worked for Terry Donovan at the Guardian and the Sunday Times. When Don became editor of Insight magazine, he'd made Tony science editor. He said it was because he wanted the best people around him, but Tony's explanation was simpler. He could match Don pint for pint and, more times than he could remember, had put him into a cab and sent him home unconscious to Marjorie in Hampstead. Reliable drinking partners are hard to find.

Donovan was just 'Don' to his friends and enemies alike – one day Tony would work out which one he was.

Tony leaned on the doorway and Ellie said 'Hi.' in that way she had. Tony realised they'd been talking about him.

'I've been briefing Ellie on what we want in features.' Don said, unconvincingly. 'I want you to give her free rein. Let's see what she can come up with.'

Tony didn't bother to argue. The bastard had stitched him up. But he knew how to handle her.

They went back to their desks and Ellie flashed her 'I'm just the new girl' eyes. He gave her a stern look but it had no effect. She unfolded her arms and, like a stage magician, held up a pad in one hand and a pencil in the other and wiggled them at him. He wasn't going anywhere unless Ellie Jordan tagged along.

'I saw Munday perform last year,' she said.

'What did you make of her?'

'Common sense says she must be a crook, and a clever one. But she does seem to have something.'

'She does have something. She has a house worth five million pounds and no mortgage.'

She pulled a skeptical face. 'But isn't she helping people even if she's a fraud? I'm not confusing sentiment with reporting but somehow women like Maria Munday always get dumped on. Why exactly are we picking on her?'

Tony shrugged. 'I just write about them. I don't marry them.'

Ellie bit off whatever she was going to say and pushed her notebook to one side, slipping easily into a winning smile. 'So, what's a doctor doing