Читать книгу Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 21

CHAPTER 17

Although only ten days had passed since the news of the Commissioner’s appointment, everyone in town already knew all there was to know about him, where he was born, who his father and mother were, his financial position, what sort of student he had been at school, if he had a weakness for women, if he drank and how much, his likes and dislikes, every single thing.

Yașar Kemal, Anatolian Tales

Now to write the story. Today’s story for the Trib. I assumed there would be one. First, I had to review the wire copy. It seemed a long time since I’d first gone out as a novice reporter. Senior editing, which I’d been promoted to some time ago, isn’t the same thing.

When Bayram handed me back my now-orderly file, the note reminding me of drinks with Lawrence Andover lay on top. Bayram had clearly seen it, though he gave no hint. Clearly, he was the soul of discretion, well-trained by Peter as a reporter’s assistant.

By one o’clock I was famished and suggested we eat lunch together. The young man’s earnest face beamed with pleasure—something that always stirs up my demons for no good reason. I gave him a warning: “I’ll need to get some information from you, Bayram.”

Down we went to street level, in the same cramped elevator. There were two Turks (male) and another foreign woman riding with us. Most were journalists. You can just tell. Maybe it’s the up-front ego that’s a prerequisite for going into a news career; maybe the resigned look that says, “I’ve seen it all.” Or maybe it’s just the tense look that says, “I’ve got a deadline and I don’t have any idea what I’m going to file.”

Bayram nodded to the dark-suited young woman. Her red hair was sticking up in a style that was trendy but easy-care.

“Elizabeth Darcy, this is Miss Mollington, Faye Mollington of the London News. Ms. Mollington, ma’am, this is Ms. Darcy, who has come to take the place of, uh…to cover for the Tribune for a month or so.” Bayram blushed.

My opinion of him went up a notch. He had cared about Peter and he didn’t want to hurt my feelings.

Faye Mollington met my eyes with no-nonsense gray ones, stuck out a firm hand, all the while looking preoccupied. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. Why? I sneaked a peak around the elevator.

Besides the three of us, there were the two Turkish men, who looked more like television types than newspaper reporters. One had a look that screamed “executive,” spiffy all around. The other was well-dressed from the top of his head to the bottom of his jacket, declining in impressiveness past trousers that had a couple of spots and shoes run-down at the heels. Shoes never show on television. Must be an anchor. The men were conversing in Turkish, and neither Bayram nor Faye introduced them.

On the sidewalk, Faye Mollington took a hasty leave, saying she had to meet someone for lunch. She strode up the street, her raincoat sailing out behind her, a reporter’s notebook tucked under her arm.

Bayram’s gaze followed her, a slight smile on his face. “She and Mr. Franklin were good friends.”

“Indeed,” I said. “I must get to know her better, then.”