‘It’s weird, isn’t it? It doesn’t feel real.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Who’s to say that they aren’t actors? Don’t you think it’s all just too perfect? It looks like an episode of Silent Witness.’
‘What would you expect it to look like?’ she says vaguely, and refuses to bring her eyes away from the screen. She chews on the cuff off her coat absently. It’s an old habit, that.
‘Do you remember when we did our interviews?’ I say. ‘They filmed us, didn’t they?’
Emma screws up her nose. ‘Not for the telly though.’
‘No, but it’s creepy to think of it, isn’t it? What we said still being on record somewhere. Some tape in an archive. Don’t you ever wonder what they’re going to do with it?’
She finally looks at me. ‘I never think about it.’
‘I do,’ I say, and swallow. ‘I wonder, sometimes, if they were asking you and me the same things, and comparing our stories.’
Emma coughs decisively and pulls her tobacco out of her pocket. The movement is enough to declare the topic of conversation closed.
‘I think it’s disgusting,’ she says, hunched over the packet, ‘all those people. This is Chloe’s night. We’re her friends, not them.’
‘It’s not that,’ I say, half-amused when it strikes me that she could just as easily be talking about party crashers at a birthday or wedding reception, ‘it’s Terry. There’s always a crowd like this when he does on-location stuff. He’s not been able to do his own shopping for years.’
‘They should be sent home,’ Emma says. ‘It’s disrespectful.’
The men carrying the stretcher disappear between the trees. The police return to move the tape back and the crowd gathers to fill the space. The shot cuts to a view from above – they’ve got the helicopter out. There’s a wide red van in the car park – as big as a tour bus, and the paintwork is so clean and glossy it is almost glowing. This van is painted with the logo of Terry’s programme on the side of it and it has a set of aerials and dishes sticking out of the top. It looks like it’s had acupuncture. They’ve set up a mobile studio, and Terry is settling in for the night.
There he is. In front of the van, in his furry hat, with bags under his eyes. He’s been there hours. Got to do something to break up the monotony.
‘We’re busy taking calls,’ Terry says. ‘We want to know what you think. The number is on the bottom of your screen right now. Dial that number and tell me what’s on your mind. We know you’re keen to share, and we’ve already got our first caller. Paul?’
‘Terry, I just wanted to say that I went out with the dog tonight, just to give him a walk, and that big poster of you on Blackpool Road – you know the one on the billboard with your thumbs sticking up?’
‘I do, Paul, yes.’
‘Well, someone’s gone and torn it down. Or it wasn’t stuck up properly in the first place. There’s bits of it all over the road.’
‘A spot of anti-Terry vandalism, or should we say, community-based direct action?’ Terry says, and smiles, right through the television screen. There’s a beat or two of silence, and then the smile turns into a slow laugh that doesn’t get to his eyes.
‘Well, whatever you want to call it, I think it’s a disgrace, and come the bit of rain we’re forecast tomorrow morning, could turn out to be a health hazard. What if some young couple skids off the road on some mashed-up paper? Do you think it’s going to be any comfort to their kids that the accident happened because of a picture of your face?’
‘Quite so, and I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Terry says. ‘And anything else, Paul, on this evening’s main topic? What’s your opinion about the events of the past ten hours? What are your feelings?’ Terry touches his ear and leans into the screen. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, it’s just like this, isn’t it, Terry? How long’s it been there? They’re never going to find out who did it, until they find out when it was done, if you catch my drift. That’s what they’ve got to set about first, isn’t it?’
‘You’re speaking about the unfortunate – the body?’
‘Sure,’ Paul says, and his voice is warm again – amused and friendly. ‘My kids play in that park. I take the dog out there. What I want to know is, how long has it been there, and how long till they get it shifted?’
‘Forensics are working on that right now, Paul,’ Terry says. There’s a twitch in his left nostril. ‘In fact, they are shifting it, as we speak, and I’ll personally pass on your thanks for their sterling efforts tonight. The forensics team is very possibly the least visible and most under-appreciated echelon of our police service, and I know for a fact they’d be grateful you’re thinking of them at this time.’
He sighs, too visibly, and reads out the number at the bottom of the screen again. ‘Remember,’ he says, ‘while we want to hear from you all, we’re particularly interested in those of you who knew the deceased personally. Those of you with a story to tell about what he might have been doing with himself in these woods when he died.’
Paul is still speaking.
Suddenly, the camera snaps back to the studio. Fiona is there – working a double shift but looking as fresh as she did when she stepped out of Make-up yesterday afternoon. Not a hair out of place and her eyes are as bright as ever. She smiles and it is perfect and blinding.
‘Later,’ she says warmly, ‘we’ll be interviewing the men who run the forensics department at the hospital. Real-life CSI, and bringing you the facts in small words that you’ll understand.’ She squints slightly, her hand moves to her ear. I bet Terry or one of his lackeys is shouting at her. ‘But for the time being,’ she says, ‘back to Terry, who’s still on location at Cuerden. Terry?’
Terry’s red in the face and his mouth is twisted – he’s apoplectic, in fact, at the interruption. For a moment the screen is split like a Lynda La Plante adaptation and we at home can see the two of them – him outside in the mud and the cold, and her curled up on the couch in the studio wearing a suit that is perfectly coordinated with it. He does not acknowledge her on the other half of the television but makes a snapping gesture with the flat of his hand – she disappears, and he carries on as if she never existed.
‘Remember, Paul, Rome wasn’t built in a day and perfection takes patience!’ He jerks his jaw to someone off screen. ‘Next caller, please! We’ve got Peggy, here, from New Hall Lane. Peggy – what do you want to say?’
There’s a pause – too much dead air for a live broadcast, and they are seconds away from moving on to the next call when there’s a crackle on the line and Peggy starts to speak. I can’t hear what she’s saying because she’s sobbing, and the catarrh is rattling in her throat and her own telephone, as well as the equipment in the portable news studio, is amplifying the bubbling, popping sound she is making between every word.
‘Peggy,’ Terry says gently, ‘take your time. I’m listening. We’re all listening. This is a hard night for us all. Did you – do you believe you know the deceased?’
He’s hoping for an exclusive and not a lonely crackpot who’s had too many Babychams and managed to dial the studio’s number. He’s hoping she’s going to make some kind of confession, live on air – you can almost see the awards and the plaudits glittering in think-bubbles over his head.