I looked over at the TV. Countdown was on — the early-morning repeat. It was about half an hour before the tubes started running so I watched the last fifteen minutes, waiting for the nine-letter conundrum bit at the end. I wanted to see if it would be BLACKMAIL. I had a feeling it would be. It wasn’t.
At that time of day, it only took thirty minutes to get from Kentish Town to Chancery Lane, where Monroe’s chambers were. I slipped the letter through the mailbox and went back to the flat to get some sleep.
It was 2 in the afternoon when the alarm woke me up. Wednesday. I shaved, took a shower, put my suit and overcoat on, and headed back Chancery Lane to the Printers Devil. I got there at 3:30 and the place was about half full, which was good. Bought a G&T and found a table with a clear view of the door. While I waited I went over what I was going to say to Monroe. He would walk in alone; I’d gesture for him to come and join me at the table and offer to buy him a drink. He was bound to be nervous and I wanted to keep it friendly. When I’d brought his drink back from the bar I’d say my piece: Well, Mr. Monroe, I think we both know why we’re here, don’t we, so let’s get down to business, shall we? He’d probably just nod, I figured, be happy for me to do the talking so he could get the fuck out of there as soon as possible. After the exchange we’d shake hands and I’d leave him there and go and see Vanya to give her her five grand.
Except it didn’t quite happen like that. For a start, Monroe was late. Very late. So late in fact that he didn’t actually fucking bother to turn up. I phoned his office and was told he was in meetings all afternoon but would I like to leave a message. Would I like to leave a fucking message? What the fuck was going on here? Monroe was in no position to fuck with me. I had the tape; I was in control of the situation. My instructions were clear. The letter. He couldn’t just ignore this. It wasn’t going to go away. I had him by the balls and he had to deal with it. He had to. The arrogance of this cocky fuck — I couldn’t believe it. Like I was some prick of a client he could keep on hold while he plays golf or gets finger-fucked or whatever else the cunt does in his spare time.
I needed to calm myself, so I had another drink and considered my options. There was only really one. Dominic. We’d been at Ampleforth together and had kept in touch since. Dom had taken up journalism and was working as a news sub-editor at the Sunday where his dad had worked. I’d sell the tape to them. It wouldn’t fetch quite the same price, but what else could I do? If this cunt thought he could ignore me, he could think again. He’d been warned. It was all in the letter.
I phoned Dom from the pub and set up the meeting, a drink after work at the Prospect of Whitby in Shadwell, near the Sunday’s offices. I got there at around 6:30 and he introduced me to his workmate.
“Jon, this is Stuart,” Dom said. “He’s up for the Young Journalist of the Year award next month.”
Really? Looks like a cunt to me.
“Nice to meet you, Stuart,” I said. He looked in his late twenties. Had a shaved head and wore a black suit with a dark shirt, no tie. And his handshake was too firm.
“I’ve brought Stu along cos this is more his kinda thing,” Dom explained. “I’m more on the editing side of things, not really a reporter, but Stu here—”
Is a cunt. “Brilliant,” I interrupted, keen to get things moving. “Can I get you guys a drink?”
They both wanted lagers.
When I got back from the bar I launched straight into it. “So, what do you know about Nicholas Monroe, the QC?” I threw the question firmly at Young Cunt of the Year.
“Monroe, yeah, mate, what about him?” Shave-head said, picking up his pint for a gulp.
“Well, what if I were to tell you I have a video of him getting finger-fucked by a £60 whore in Shepherd Market?”
He put his pint down. “What — have you?”
“How much would the Sunday pay for it?” I asked.
“Have you got it with you?”
I played them the tape. A minute in and I could tell he was impressed — with the tape and with me. Once he’d seen Monroe’s face on the vid, he shot me a look that said: Okay, cunt — I can do business with you. When it was over I pressed STOP and put the camera back in my overcoat pocket. Stu spoke first.
“It’s good but we’d need the girl,” he said bluntly.
“The girl? Why? It’s all there...” I looked at Dom for some backup. It didn’t come.
“It’s all there, yeah, yeah,” Stu said, “but it’s more complicated than that. He’s a very powerful guy, old Monroe. He knows half the fucking cabinet. Probably worked with them when they were still practicing.”
“Stu’s tried to do pieces on Monroe before, Jon,” Dom chipped in.
“Yeah, but they always get spiked,” the cunt continued. “He knows everyone. His old flatmate from law school is tipped to be the next DG of the Beeb.” He took another gulp and held my gaze. My move.
“But he couldn’t sue you when you’ve got him there on tape, clear as day,” I said.
“Look, the guy likes to take chances, likes to think he’s a bit dangerous. But he’s smart, he’s fucking smart, covers his tracks. As I say, friends in high places. He’s supposed to be on the Queen’s birthday list for a knighthood.”
“So what? He’s untouchable?” I said. I could feel it slipping away.
“Mate, I’m not saying it’s impossible. But I know Neil and he’s going to be very wary of this.”
“Neil’s our editor, Jon,” Dom said.
“And he wouldn’t even consider it without the girl,” Stu continued. “We’d need her, on the spread, telling her story — and prepared to testify, if necessary.”
“I see. But how much — What’s the story worth if I get her?”
“That’s not really my call. Dunno, probably five figures though,” he said.
Five figures, that’s at least ten grand. It was still good, I thought. I downed my G&T, then made my excuses and left, as the tabloids say. Cabbed it to Shepherd Market, up the wooden hill, and pressed Press.
Rita answered the door. But this time there was no cheery hello. She would only keep the door ajar, wouldn’t let me in. She just said: “Vanya’s gone. She won’t be back.
You’re not to be let in.” And then the door.
What the fuck?
“What do you mean gone?” I said through the door. “Rita? Gone where? Rita?”
“Go on, hop it now or I’ll have to call him,” she said.
She meant Davor, the guy who owned the place.
I walked slowly back down the stairs, trying to make sense of what just happened. I’d never seen Rita look stern before. It was odd. And to threaten me with Davor or one of his thugs...
I went home and spliffed myself to sleep. Woke up in my clothes around noon the next day and started getting ready. The camcorder was still in the pocket of my overcoat. I put it on and left the flat to find a pay phone. Dialed the number.
“Put me through to Nicholas Monroe,” I said.
“Mr. Monroe is in a meeting with a client at the moment, he can’t—”
“It’s urgent. He’s expecting me to call.”
“Sir, Mr. Monroe hasn’t mentioned a—”