The Balance of Guilt by Simon Hall Page A

only had Lizzie never entertained, she had erected notices around her personality stating they’d be most unwelcome visitors. Dan only just had time to park when he heard the ominous clicking of fast stilettos striding across the tarmac. Nigel heard it too and ducked back into his car, but Dan was caught in the killing ground of his editor’s machine gun list of demands.
    This was an unpleasant first. Lizzie often sprung her ambushes when a reporter walked into the newsroom, but never before had she been known to come down to the car park to pounce.
    ‘What the hell are you doing back here?’ was her welcoming opening gambit.
    Dan opened his mouth to find some justification, but the growing words were swept away in the breaking storm. Any attempts at defence were as effective as whispering at thunder.
    ‘One of the biggest stories we’ve ever had and you’re slinking back here! Get out there and cover it. I want everything you can give us. I want interviews. I want the injured blubbing at the horror of what happened. I want the cops telling us how they’re getting on with the hunt for the radicaliser. I want it all and I want it good.’
    ‘We’ve just done the Islamic Centre …’
    ‘Bravo. Whoopee.’ A sharpened fingernail began a rhythmic jabbing, her dark hair flying in time. ‘That’s a start. But all the action’s at the Minster. Get back there. Get going. I want a live broadcast for lunch. I want a report. I want tears and shock and outrage.’
    A small group of people had gathered outside the canteen to watch the verbal mugging. Lizzie in full flow was a celebrated spectacle, on the proviso the hapless victim wasn’t yourself. It was pure schadenfreude, a modern day equivalent of going to watch Christians being thrown to the lions.
    He didn’t argue. It was pointless. Dan got resignedly back into his car and drove off.
    As he passed under the trees that surrounded the exit, an unseen bird let loose a dropping, right onto the centre of the windscreen.
    How quickly can news pass into history.
    The Minster was open and as busy as Dan had expected, but around it people came and went, just as they had before yesterday’s bombing and probably would for the next thousand years or more. Some cast glances over at the ruined window, a few stopped to stare, but most just got on with their lives.
    Loud’s sullen face warmed into a rare smile at the sight of Dan and Nigel. ‘You got lumbered with coming back too then,’ he clucked. ‘Me tooth’s still hurting, if you’re interested enough to care.’
    Dan handed him the tape, sat down on the step of the Outside Broadcast van, steeled himself and found Alison Tanton’s name in his contacts book. Like most good journalists, he rarely discarded a number. You never knew when it would be useful again. Early in Dan’s career he’d got into the habit of noting down the names and numbers of all the people he’d spoken to that day in a large, and now very tattered old book. It was filled with memories.
    The phone rang and rang until the answer machine kicked in. Dan briefly debated whether to leave a message, then did so. He wondered if she would call back, given all she must be going through. The chances had to be against it, but it was worth a try. Every hack in the country would be trying to contact her.
    Partly to spite Lizzie, but mostly for himself, on the way over to Exeter Dan had stopped off at his flat to give Rutherford a quick cuddle. It was odd how much he missed the dog when he was forced to spend nights away. Rutherford did his whirling and yelping dance of delight at the appearance of his errant master.
    ‘Promise you I’ll be home tonight,’ Dan told him. ‘And we’ll go out for a walk, no matter how late it is.’
    He closed the door, convinced that Rutherford had put on his smiling face and couldn’t help grinning too. What a fine companion the dog was, always there for him, always delighted to see him, never a hint of reproach nor ever