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TWENTY-NINE

Saturday, 10.26pm, Manhattan

‘This is Jay.’

‘Jay, thank God I got you.’ Newell was the member of Will’s Columbia set who had taken the least likely career route. He was a fast-tracker at the New York Police Department, leapfrogging over all the old doughnut-munchers on his way to becoming a big city commissioner before he was forty. Jay was as resented by the old guard cops as Will was by the aged newsmen.

‘It’s Will. Yeah, I’m fine. Well, I’m in a bit of a jam but I can’t explain it now. I need you to do me a very large favour.’

‘OK.’ But the word was drawn out.

‘Jay, I need you to check out something. I wrote a piece in the paper this week—’

‘About that pimp guy? Saw it. Well done on making the front page, big fella.’

‘Yeah, thanks. Look, I never checked autopsy reports or anything. Do you have access to those?’

‘It’s the weekend, Will. I’m kind of, you know.’

Will looked at his watch. It was late on a Saturday night; Jay was a single guy with a lot of girlfriends. Will guessed he had called at a spectacularly inconvenient moment. ‘I know. But I bet you have the authority to see whatever you want, whenever you want.’ The old flattery manoeuvre. Jay would not want to admit that, as it happened, he did not have that kind of access.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘I want you to see if there were any unusual marks on the victim’s body.’

‘I thought the guy was stabbed like a million times.’

‘He was, but he was still in one piece. I want you to see if there was anything like a needle mark on him.’

‘Some pimp scumball from Brownsville, you kidding? The amount of drugs these guys are whacking into their veins, he probably looked like a pincushion.’

‘I don’t think so. None of the people I spoke to said anything about injecting drugs. In fact, no one said he used drugs at all.’

‘OK, my man. Whatever you say. I’ll check it out. This the right cell for you?’

‘Yeah. And I need whatever you’ve got really fast. Thanks, Jay. I owe you.’

Suddenly he could hear voices, followed by a burst of laughter. It seemed to be a knot of men, walking in this direction. And then, louder than the others, the unmistakable intonation of Townsend McDougal, talking newsroom talk.

‘Can we hold it for twenty-four hours? Do we have this to ourselves?’

Will had no idea why they would be heading towards this barren part of the third-floor landscape: they had no shortage of meeting rooms at their end. Oh God. Maybe McDougal was looking for Will, coming with a posse of senior executives this time, to begin the inquisition right away.

He could not risk that, not now. At top speed, with too little time to check what he was doing, Will shoved the essentials – cell phone, notebooks, pen, BlackBerry – off his desk and into his bag, wheeled around and headed away from the McDougal ambush. The only perk of this faraway corner of the office, Will realized at that very moment, was its proximity to the back stairway. He had never used it before, but now was the time.

Once outside, Will gulped in the Saturday night air. He let his eyes close in relief, leaning backwards against the wall, the Times clock just above his head.

It was late, and quiet. In normal circumstances, Will liked this vibe. Working at a time when the rest of the city was not; leaving a half-empty office and walking into the Manhattan evening. It was such a contrast with the usual throng that bustled down this street. No one around, save a lonely tourist in sleeveless body-warmer and baseball hat peering into one of the Times display windows, doubtless looking at an antique printing press or a framed photograph of the late Mr Sulzberger shaking hands with Harry Truman or something. He must be cold, standing around outside. But Will was in a hurry to get away. He barely saw him.