Читать книгу Dead Alone - Gay Longworth - Страница 18

The door of the Portakabin burst open. ‘Well? Anything to say to me?’

Tarek paused. ‘That was a great show, Ray,’ he said timidly.

‘Bollocks. It was crap, another fat bird bleating on about why her skinny boyfriend shagged her best friend. All you have to do is look at the best friend to know why. And as for that hooker whose pimp was her dad – Jesus, can’t you get me some fucking decent guests?’

Tarek chewed his biro. ‘You had Dame Henrietta Cadell.’

‘Whoop fucking whoop. Intellectual snobs, the pair of them. No idea about real life. No wonder her old man sticks his dick in everything; you’d need a ladder to mount her. These are not the sort of people who are going to endear me to the masses. Elitist bollocks, I want celebrities.’

‘Nothing very proletariat about celebrities,’ said Tarek.

‘That’s only because you haven’t met any.’ Ray was staring at himself in the shaving mirror he kept on his desk. He adjusted his gold cross.

‘Listen, Tarek, if we are going to have authors on this show, I want it to be Andy fucking McNab, got it!’

Not very likely, thought Tarek.

‘What are you looking at?’

‘Nothing. Your agent called, Trevor MacDonald is doing a Yardie special, needs an expert, was wondering if you’d do it.’

‘Course I’ll fucking do it, it’s got that Carol Vorderman on it. Now, she looks like she needs a good –’

‘And there is someone holding on line one.’ There was only a line one, but Ray liked the sound of that. ‘He wouldn’t give his name.’

‘Carol Vorderman, now that’s more like it. I’ll show her the joys of long multiplication.’ He picked up the phone and listened. ‘Hang on a second. Tarek, go and get me some coffee, will you? Not that instant shit either – the one from the machine. Put it in a proper mug with a bit –’

‘Yeah, I know.’ It was always the same when Ray wanted to speak to one of his – Tarek searched for a word – associates. Associate was a good word. Hood was another. He opened the door and stepped down the aluminium steps into a potholed and heavily weeded car park. Walking towards him was Ray’s research assistant. Associate. Hood. He was a strange bloke. Somewhere in his thirties, Tarek thought, though it was difficult to tell. He was short and thin, but there was nothing weedy about Alistair Gunner. He was built like a featherweight fighter and showed no fear of the man everyone else shied away from. He didn’t talk much, had no friends and seemed to shadow St Giles. Tarek and Alistair eyed each other. He wasn’t sure who was more suspicious of whom. All Tarek did know was that Alistair had an ability to discover things about people which would make the News of the World weep.

‘Morning, Alistair,’ said Tarek.

‘Ray in?’

‘On the phone.’

As always he just pushed the door open and walked in. No knock. No waiting for the summons. Bold as brass, walked on in.

‘Face down in the mud, eh?’ said Ray before Alistair closed the door on him. Tarek walked round the interconnecting Portakabins to the main studio and office building. Alistair Gunner had appeared one day from nowhere; he had no c.v., no experience in TV and no qualifications. But Ray St Giles had given him a job anyway. Just like that. Gunner had so much information on other people, Tarek found himself wondering whether he’d got something on the main man himself. They were close without being close, like a couple in an arranged marriage. Very occasionally, Tarek caught Ray staring at Alistair with a look of apprehension. It was as if he needed him around but didn’t trust him. Ray St Giles probably didn’t trust anyone.

In the shoddy reception area there was a coffee machine. Tarek put his own money into the slot and waited for it to regurgitate the pale, foamy drink. Somewhere inside the studio real programmes were being made. But not by him and not by the cable company that had put their trust in Ray St Giles and his shadow. Tarek carried the drink back and knocked on the door. Ray and Alistair were leaning over an open file. He’d seen the type of file before. Marked ‘Cadell’. In it, Tarek had glimpsed a photograph of a man in a pinstripe suit checking into a hotel with a young blonde. Shortly afterwards Henrietta Cadell’s agent had rung up out of the blue and offered her for the ‘Mother’n’Son’ slot. Whatever he might say, Henrietta Cadell was the sort of guest Ray would pay good money for. Looking at Alistair’s shiny new leather jacket, Tarek guessed he had.

‘Tarek, get my agent on the line, tell her yes to the Yardie special, and tell her no more fucking supermarkets and cancel my talk at the young offenders’ unit. I’ve had enough of that shit. We are changing gear.’

‘Ray, you’ve got to –’

‘Just do it, Tarek. Who is paying your salary?’

Tarek picked up the phone. ‘This shitty cable company,’ he whispered.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

Alistair Gunner was staring at him with his cold eyes. Tarek needed another job. This one was killing him.