A Friend in Deed Read online

  He might have the technical expertise to uncover political secrets, but Nigel’s interpersonal skills left a lot to be desired. I had emailed him to arrange to meet at a pub just off Clapham Common which I used for discreet assignations, but that was a non-starter. He didn’t like new places, he told me, and no, he couldn’t suggest another meeting place. The only reason he had ventured out to my talk was that the company he was freelancing with to write AI coding had insisted he attend if he wanted another contract.

  He said he’d prefer to email, video call at a push, but I wanted at least one meeting to be face-to-face. If I was going to trust my investigative journalist credentials to whatever he found out, I had to get to know him better first. It transpired he didn’t go out much, lived his life online, did all his work from home. After a few increasingly fraught emails, we finally settled on me going around to his flat to have our chat. It wasn’t something either of us felt comfortable about.

  It was a long Tube ride up to north London and it was after ten when I arrived. I rang the bell and Nigel almost immediately opened the door, greeting me with a nervous grin, no handshake. I spotted a few tufts of facial hair that he had missed while shaving and a couple of cuts where he’d gone in too deep. I tried not to stare. He was a computer geek straight out of central casting. They say people are the same emotional age all their life. Although Nigel was in his late twenties, he was always going to be a fifteen-year-old boy in emotional and physical development. He had both acne and the beginnings of a bald patch as his two ages fought each other for supremacy. There’s a type of salamander called an axolotl that retains some of its physical tadpole features even when it becomes an adult, like furry gills instead of lungs. That was Nigel. He was an axolotl.

  I had wanted to find out if he was as unhappy as I was that our story had ended up helping Act Now!. He had said he wasn’t doing it for the glory, and he didn’t want to change the world. It was the challenge of the hack that interested him, being the one to solve the riddle the forums were talking about – not the actual content or the repercussions.

  He showed me into his living room, the space dominated by servers, CPUs and goodness knows what other IT equipment assembled in racks all along the longest wall. Not a single painting on the other walls, no ornaments or decorations. A desk with a laptop and three monitors full of coding took up most of the side wall. In the middle of the room was a treadmill, presumably the only way he got exercise. I looked around for somewhere to sit. There was only a single chair, the one by the desk.

  Nigel sat down on it, swivelled into the room and leaned forward, clasping his hands together. It was only when he looked up that he seemed to become aware of me, standing in the doorway. I could almost see the lightbulb go on in his head.

  ‘Ah.’ He looked around the room, almost in panic. Then he stood up and went into the kitchen, returned with a hard, wooden chair and plonked it next to him. He slumped back into his chair, folded up his legs and cradled his knees against his chest.

  I moved the chair a few inches away and sat down.

  Nigel winced and jumped up. ‘It has to be where I put it. That’s where it always goes when it comes in here.’

  I moved it back to where it had been and looked at him for confirmation I’d positioned it correctly. He retreated to his chair again, like a dog returning to its favourite basket.

  I decided to dispense with the small talk.

  ‘So, Nigel, all that stuff about the Saudis. I won’t ask how you got hold of it, but as you saw, it’s had a big impact.’

  ‘Easy-peasy,’ he replied, giving a machine-gun laugh. ‘He-he-he-he. Lemon-squeezy.’ Then that laugh again. I took it as a sign that he was starting to relax. He gave a quick polish to his Buddy Holly glasses, one arm wound with sellotape.

  ‘Want to know where I found it? Department of Energy website.’

  I had assumed, with all the gear in the room, that Nigel had built some ingenious program that had outfoxed firewalls, encryption software and whatever other security devices the best brains in Whitehall used to keep our nation’s secrets safe from prying eyes, and I was a tad disappointed to find out the truth. It turned out that everything in my exclusive scoop had been already posted online. Part of the mandatory reporting protocols that the last government had introduced a few years back, to head off accusations from the nascent Act Now! that Whitehall was too secretive and corrupt. The initiative turned out to be self-defeating, which was probably the intention. Rather than bring transparency and accountability to government departments, the savvy mandarins running the civil service published a tsunami of turgid, prosaic documentation that caused anyone brave enough to try to plough through it to lose the will to live.

  But it turned out that ploughing through hundreds, if not thousands, of disclosure pages on the Department of Energy website was precisely what Nigel had done. Remembering everything, but only truly understanding a tiny part of what he read. What he was looking for, he told me, were inconsistencies, where one report said one thing and another said something else. Where there were inconsistencies, you could find lies. And when you found lies, you found what someone was trying to hide.

  Nigel tried to make it sound straightforward, but I knew there was more to it than that. It was like everything was a giant memory game, where you had to spot which object had been moved. Nigel could detect the variations between what he read in two paragraphs hundreds of pages apart, and seemed to have no problem ploughing through swathes of bureaucratic tedium. It also helped that he had no life outside of his computer.

  ‘So, want to do it again?’ I kept the enquiry casual, to make it sound like coming up with world exclusives was a humdrum event in my daily life. ‘There’s lots of stuff about Act Now! I wouldn’t mind getting to the bottom of.’

  ‘Yes. I knew that’s what you wanted.’ Nigel looked at me as if I was mad. ‘Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. But now you know I can do it, you need to pay me next time.’

  He gave me a grin which was an attempt to make his demand look friendly, but ended up looking more like a cross between Fagin and Dr Evil.

  ‘My hardware needs updating. Everyone keeps saying you can make money selling secrets. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, sort of,’ I replied. I shifted on the uncomfortable kitchen chair, trying desperately not to move it again. ‘I get paid a monthly retainer for my articles, and I’d be happy to split that with you for leads, when whatever you find forms the basis of the story. But it has to be verifiable, and you can’t do anything illegal. Just so we’re clear about that.’

  Nigel’s face lit up. ‘So, I do get paid? You share your retainer with me for stories we work together on. You promise?’

  I promised. And if I was smart, it wouldn’t end up costing me anything. I could use the fact that I’d broken a major story to demand more status at the Chronicle. More cash for the weekly column, the chance to write an article once a month for the weekend magazine, and yes, a budget to cover the costs of investigative reporting. I told him that he’d proven himself, that he’d get well looked after on future stories, and we left it at that. Nothing specific, nothing formal. I said I’d get him a list of topics I’d like him to look into by the end of next week.

  I got back to my flat in Croydon about eleven and knocked off a Mark Jackson piece about how best to explain Doctor Who and other national treasures to non-Brits. Didn’t mention Tanya.

  An email from Bobbie popped into my inbox, suggesting a video chat next week. My oldest and dearest friend, she became a pal at primary school. Always just friends, never dated. After the furore of the Michael Mitchell scandal, we didn’t talk for almost ten years. The bitter recriminations had soured the closeness between us and when we did try to pick up the pieces and stay in touch, there was always an undercurrent, festering away in the background. She was the one who took most of the flak and she blamed me. She was probably right. Things
are better nowadays, we talk more and more often, and we’re slowly rekindling the old magic. I fired off a reply confirming a time next Saturday. I thought suddenly of the seventies, hanging out at her Glasgow flat, having to suffer her dreadful cooking. It made me smile.

  Good times. Before our lives changed forever.

  chapter three

  On Wednesday, I was summoned up to London for a Chronicle columnists’ meeting. It was rare for us to get together and I renewed old acquaintances as we gathered in the meeting room, waiting for Sam, the editor, to turn up. I suspected these hotshot young writers regarded me as a museum piece, an old hippy who used to put flowers in soldiers’ rifles and lead chants to attract visiting aliens during the summer of love. It must have come as a disappointment when they found out that I wasn’t at Woodstock and hadn’t spent my time indulging in free love orgies involving fur coats and Mars bars.

  Sam arrived ten minutes late with some guy in a suit who I didn’t recognise, and he gestured for all of us to sit around the table. The two of them sat together, Sam looking uncharacteristically nervous. I started to feel the same.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, everyone, and at such short notice.’ Sam smiled, as though to suggest we’d had a choice. ‘Look, I won’t beat about the bush. This is Jason Stewart, from ARI, the holding company. They’re having to restructure some corporate debt in the US, and need to reduce operating costs worldwide. We’re going to take a lot more syndicated features from now on, and that means less need to generate our own content.’

  A rumble passed around the table. We all realised what was coming next.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ Sam went on, speaking a little too quickly. ‘No one’s being fired, no one’s getting their word rate reduced. The plan is to restrict our featured columnists to four, one for each of our content priorities – arts, politics, business and sport. They’re going to be Zac, Bryony, Sophie and Mia.’ I glanced at Bryony, a humourless blonde in her mid-twenties, the one who had just gobbled up my job. She was studiously avoiding making eye contact with anyone in the room.

  Sam cleared his throat before continuing. ‘We’re going to big-up our featured columnists with the readers, build their profile, give each of them a clear brand identity. Everyone else continues to work on a freelance basis. You can pitch an idea, take up an assignment that we post, or submit a piece just like before. Same word rate, but on an ad hoc basis rather than a retainer. And from now on, you get a by-line, but no photo, so we don’t clutter out our featured columnists. Any questions?’

  A resigned silence filled the room. The savvier of us had known something like this was coming. Print media was a dinosaur in the digital age, and with so much free content out there it was becoming more and more difficult to earn a crust as a journalist.

  As the elder statesman of the group, it fell to me to ask the first question.

  ‘So … what, Sam – if you’re not one of the chosen few and the paper will be running syndicated pieces from outside, how many crumbs are there going to be for the rest of us to pick up?’

  Sam was already raising his hand defensively.

  ‘Let me put it another way,’ I went on. ‘I’m writing four thousand words a week for the paper now. What can I expect in the future?’

  ‘That all depends, Duncan. It’s in your hands. If you’ve got something good, we’ll run it.’ He lowered his eyes as he spoke.

  I knew what that meant. Sam wasn’t going to say it, but my weekly column was history. The four anointed high profile columnists would keep up the pretence that the Chronicle was still committed to having superstar writers on its staff. It would take something special to get the bean-counters to sanction commissioning anything that paid my word rate when articles could be bought more cheaply from someone jobbing on the internet. Fifty percent of my income came from my work as a journalist, and it looked like it had walked out the door. I thought back to Nigel, and my promise to get him on the payroll now that I’d expanded my power and influence after the nuclear energy exposé. Embarrassing.

  No one else spoke.

  ‘Well, if that’s all, I’ll follow up with everyone individually by email,’ said Sam, eyeing the door. The unnervingly silent Jason shot him a look and began gathering up his papers. Sam took the hint. ‘That is, unless any of you want to have a chat while you’re here,’ he said. ‘Door’s always open.’

  Everyone shuffled off. Whatever Jason was doing there, he hadn’t said a word. I presumed that he’d turned up to make sure poor Sam didn’t say something that would have a bunch of lawsuits flying his way. I made a point of going up to congratulate Bryony; none of the other survivors got the same courtesy from anyone else. As I left, I noticed Sam alone and rather despondent-looking in his office. No one had taken him up on his offer.

  I stuck my head around the door. ‘That went well,’ I said.

  Sam managed a half-smile. ‘Thanks, Duncan. I’ve been up half the night, dreading this. Didn’t help that Agent X made me come in early and go through the dos and don’ts one last time.’ A quick nod towards Jason, who was on the phone in the next office, door closed. ‘Thanks for being gentle with me, mate. I tried to swing it so that it’d be you doing the political column after that great Saudi Arabia scoop, but Bryony ticks all the boxes as far as the owners are concerned. Ah well. You’ve got your blog; you’ll be all right.’

  ‘We’ll see. I was about to come to you with my plan to be the next Woodward and Bernstein, but it looks like that’s not going to happen. Don’t worry; I’m not going to make waves. I’ve seen the way the circulation numbers have been going, so this didn’t come as a surprise. Are you going to be okay?’

  ‘For the moment. But seriously, Duncan, if you want to get something in the paper, do more of that investigative stuff. I keep being told we need something to differentiate ourselves from the rest, and a juicy exclusive on a political scandal is what we’re looking for. I can’t believe there will be a shortage of material with everything Act Now! is doing. Bring me another scoop, give me first refusal, and I’ll make sure we take care of you.’

  I went home to collect my thoughts. Sam was right: coming up with a scoop was the only way to survive. It would be a tricky conversation with Nigel, going back on my promise to get him on the payroll and trying to sell him on taking his chances with me as a freelancer. Tricky, but not impossible.

  I fired off an email, saying we had to meet up. The subject line was ‘Developments’ – I wanted to keep him interested, but also didn’t want to get his hopes up too much. A reply came back straight away, telling me he was locked in a marathon Dungeons and Dragons session and would be free on Monday. I suggested meeting in his flat again and this time he readily agreed. I took that as a good sign, but I was putting my future in the hands of someone who played computer games non-stop for four days. I tried not to think about it.

  I looked around. At least the flat was bought and paid for, snapped up when the royalties were still flooding in. But with not much in the bank and a pittance of a pension, the plan had been to keep writing until I was in my dotage. Now this. It would have to be either find something to fill the hole or sell up and move back to Scotland, my life journey going full circle. There was increasingly a ring of inevitability about just that.

  * * *

  On Friday, I headed off to the National Portrait Gallery to see if the mysterious Tanya was going to show. I arrived five minutes early. She was already there, dressed in a pair of old jeans and an oversized jumper that the wool had balled up on, but still bloody gorgeous. She put her hand on my shoulder and mimed an embrace, stood back and gave me a grin.

  ‘So, professor. Are you going to make tour?’

  I hesitated. ‘A lot of rooms get closed off after six. Let’s head up to the Victorian galleries. There’s usually some jazz being played there on a Friday night.’

  We walked along a corridor between disapprovin
g-looking Victorian gentlemen with impressive facial hair, following the sound of a piano to a gallery room where a crowd had gathered to listen to a jazz combo playing under a large portrait of the death of Pitt the Younger. I looked around. Love was in the air. Sensitive young men and assertive young women, all conceivable gender combinations, holding hands or with arms around waists, listening to the music.

  ‘On second thoughts, let’s go somewhere else. Have you ever eaten here? There’s a good restaurant on the top floor.’ That was more of a commitment, but I’d panicked.

  She looked around, and that made her say yes. Lesser of two evils.

  ‘Da,’ she said. ‘Is good food?’

  ‘Excellent. And a great view over Trafalgar Square. Wait till you see it.’

  We walked up the stairs and I prayed the restaurant would have a table. Luckily there had been a cancellation and one was free, with a decent view over the skyline too. We sat down to order, and Tanya took in the floor-to-ceiling window stretching the length of the restaurant. She whispered something that sounded like ‘O-ho …’.

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  She laughed. ‘No, no, it’s what we say in Ukraine. Here you would say, “Wow!”’

  ‘Ukraine? That was my next question. I know nothing about you, Tanya. What are you doing here in London?’

  ‘I was simple country girl in Ukraine, helping my father grow his potatoes. I know, sounds like cliché! Then this woman came to our town, says she is scout for modelling agency, looking for girls. My mother say her girls would have do more than modelling, but mother was wrong. They pick me, bring me to London, I make portfolio then start working. Been lucky, always had good photographers. So now no more growing potatoes.’