All the same, the boyish clothes-horse had more than a decade in tabloid journalism behind him, culminating in a year as Editor of the Sunday Witness (dubbed ‘the Sunday Witless’ by rivals). After raising the circulation by more than half a million copies, which was no mean feat in the desperately tough weekend-newspaper market, Shelbourne had surprised colleagues and critics alike by crossing over to the dark side and becoming a PR man. Even more surprising was his choice of new employer. Rather than making a killing working for some American investment firm or Chinese technology company, he had joined the police force, signing on as spinner-in-chief for Sir Chester Forsyth-Walker.
Amongst other things, Forsyth-Walker’s predecessor as Commissioner, Luke Osgood, had been deemed politically unacceptable and therefore ‘unsafe’ when it came to handling the media. Sir Chester, on the other hand, was expected to keep a low profile and, with Shelbourne’s help, say and do nothing that would contradict or embarrass the Mayor.
‘Let’s continue.’ The Commissioner glared at both of them in turn. ‘We have Horatio Mosman, who was murdered by a bomb. And we have Mr. .’
‘Marc Harrington,’ Shelbourne said quietly. ‘Marc with a c. No k.’
‘Mr Marc Harrington,’ said Sir Chester, through gritted teeth, ‘no k, who was shot in the face presumably by the same person who later blew up young Horatio.’ He paused, waiting for another interjection. When none was forthcoming, he ploughed on. ‘Needless to say, the media are all over this.’ Shelbourne nodded solemnly. ‘And the good people of London need some reassurance that this. . this crazy person is going to be caught quickly and with a minimum of fuss.’
‘We have a press conference scheduled for an hour’s time,’ volunteered Shelbourne.
‘So,’ Sir Chester now gave Commander Simpson his most no-nonsense stare, ‘what have you got for me?’
Now it was Carole Simpson’s turn to shift in her seat. She picked up the sheet of paper on the Commissioner’s desk. ‘The basics are contained in this initial summary report. Our investigation is currently underway, but it is still at a very early stage. We will begin interviewing the family members later this morning.’
A grim expression crossed Sir Chester’s face as a spasm of pain shot across his lower back. Bloody slipped disc. Not that anyone gave him any sympathy. At last he was going into hospital to get it sorted next week. ‘One thing that is not in the report,’ he remarked, once the pain had passed, ‘is why those bomb technicians didn’t manage to stop the bloody thing going off?’
‘We won’t be going there in the presser,’ Shelbourne said hastily.
‘No, but the bloody journalists will,’ Sir Chester huffed.
‘Don’t worry,’ Shelbourne reassured him. ‘I will jump in if it gets tricky.’
Which it will, Simpson decided.
‘It’s just us two?’ Sir Chester asked, glancing at Simpson.
‘Yes,’ Shelbourne replied. ‘I don’t think we need the Commander to be present at this time.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Simpson. She felt more than a little relieved at not having to face the assembled journalists. There had been a time when she liked nothing more than parading in front of the media. Not any longer. Ever since her husband’s conviction for fraud had stopped her career in its tracks, her need for a public profile had evaporated. ‘By the way, Horatio wasn’t blown up by the bomb fastened around his neck,’ she explained. ‘Indeed, there wasn’t a bomb around his neck. There was, however, a bomb that had been placed under the sofa.’
‘And how, in the name of God, did we manage to miss that?’ Chester’s face began turning pink. ‘What were your officers doing?’
‘They were on the scene merely by accident,’ Simpson said quietly, ‘and tried to assist the victim at great risk to themselves.’
‘Didn’t get blown to smithereens though, did they?’
You make it sound like you wish they had, Simpson thought angrily. ‘This was a terrible act of violence,’ she said, ‘culminating in the tragic loss of a young life. However, we are very fortunate that there were not any more fatalities.’
‘That’s great,’ said Shelbourne, scribbling furiously in a spiral notebook. ‘The tragic loss of a young life — we can use that. And add something along the lines of the public can rest assured that we will be devoting all necessary resources to catching the perpetrator — no, the evil perpetrator.’ He grinned at his boss. ‘That’s really all you need to say.’
‘Fine,’ said Sir Chester wearily.
‘After that, I’ll give them the tip-off hotline number, and then we can quickly move on to the rest of the agenda.’
The Commissioner groaned. ‘There’s more?’
‘Besides the exploding teenager, we’ve got the garlic-bread killer and the feral youths.’
Simpson raised her eyebrows. ‘Sounds like quite a briefing.’
Sir Chester shot her a dirty look before returning his attention to his Comms Director. ‘Go on, tell me.’
‘Good news and bad news.’ Releasing his inner hack, Shelbourne jumped from foot to foot like an excited five year old with a bursting bladder as he flipped through his notes. ‘Good news,’ he said, finding the right page. ‘Jordan Perry, aged twenty-five, walked into the Elephant and Castle police station and confessed to the murder of his girlfriend, Sally Ellis. Apparently, he stabbed her thirty-eight times after she complained that he had not made garlic bread for tea.’
Sir Chester cleared his throat. ‘A man who makes the tea?’
‘One thing I have learned since I joined the Met,’ Shelbourne beamed, ‘is that real life is stranger than fiction. On being arrested, Mr Perry told officers: “It’s not that I am a horrible person, but shit happens”.’
‘Quite,’ said Sir Chester, struggling with the various concepts that had just been raised by this sordid tale of everyday woe.
‘Sounds like an episode of EastEnders,’ Simpson observed.
‘What?’ The soap opera might have an audience of millions every week, but Sir Chester wasn’t one of them. He genuinely had no idea what his colleague was talking about.
‘Nothing.’
The Commissioner drummed his fingers impatiently on the top of his desk. ‘Simon, why are we featuring this incident?’
‘It goes to our anti-domestic violence agenda,’ Shelbourne clarified. ‘Plus, partially at least, it should help offset the bad news.’
‘Which is?’ In search of some much-needed divine assistance, Sir Chester lifted his eyes to the heavens.
‘Which is the continued fall-out from your remarks about the so-called “feral underclass” blighting the inner city.’
‘But they are,’ Sir Chester whined.
Shelbourne smiled sadly. ‘You are correct, of course, but articulating that view in an uncontrolled environment — that is, by making the observation at the Young Busker of the Year Awards ceremony — was unfortunate.’
‘Tsk.’
‘And it was unfortunate in the extreme that a bleeding-heart journalist from the Guardian happened to be standing next to you when it slipped out.’
‘But some little sod had just put a cobblestone through the window of my Jaguar at the time.’ Sir Chester glanced at Simpson, hoping to elicit a little sympathy but none was forthcoming. ‘My driver got a terrible shock. He was off sick with stress for a week.’
Poor dear, thought Simpson.
‘Even so,’ Shelbourne mused, ‘both the Mayor and the Prime Minister have publicly disowned the term “feral underclass”. You’re on your own, so there will definitely be a question or two on it.’