Conflict of Interest

Chris knew he had to go. Black bin liner still in his hands, he about-turned, running out of the porch and on to the pavement outside. Mingling with the crowds, he rushed to jump on to a number 49 bus that was pulling away from the kerb. He permitted himself to glance back, once the bus was well away. All he could see was the priest’s face, an angry speck, at the entrance to St Stephen’s.

As he turned to the conductor to buy his ticket, he reckoned he’d had as many answers as he could stomach for one day.

Judith sat on the District Line, heading home to Earl’s Court. She’d been working late, till nine-thirty p.m. As she glanced about at her fellow travellers – four Irishmen in muddied builder’s dungarees, a gang of drunken Chelsea supporters, a couple in elegant evening wear, frozen in the corner like scared rabbits – she wondered, not for the first time, what on earth had induced her to choose an antisocial job like journalism. It wasn’t only the long hours, though they were bad enough. It was also the constant stress of it. And today, more than most, had been a high-stress day.

The more she thought about her pay rise, the odder it seemed. Was Carter really rewarding a few weeks of editing press releases and a change of wardrobe with a twenty-five per cent increase? If that was how it worked, Alison MacLean should be driving a 450 SLC by now. She still didn’t know how Carter had found out about her Starwear investigation. It was something that worried her – but there didn’t seem any way she could discover how he knew, and certainly no one she could mention it to. But one thing she was sure of was that she was going to get to the bottom of this story. She’d already assembled enough evidence for a major piece that would have the business press chattering for weeks, though she still needed to prove her most explosive theory of all – that Starwear was running child slave factories in Jaipur. And how was she going to do that from London?

She didn’t think there was a hope in hell of her getting a trip out to Jaipur courtesy of Carter, even though, in a moment of wild optimism, she’d applied for an Indian visa – just in case. She’d wondered if she might set up something long-distance; The Herald had stringers in India. But she didn’t know any of them personally. Could they be trusted to keep schtum? Whatever else happened, she didn’t want to lose control.

She’d racked her brains for avenues to pursue, and had even called her former tutor from Oxford, Dr Ellen Kennedy, a well-known figure in the campaign against child labour. Although their conversation had been very cordial, Dr Kennedy had been unable to provide any special insight into which companies were believed to be the current offenders. Precisely this kind of monitoring, she said, needed to be done – though she confided that she was hoping to be able to set up a monitoring panel with a grant from a new organisation, GlobeWatch.

During the course of the day, Judith hadn’t had time to think about things much farther. Carter, taking advantage of her gratitude for his great munificence, had asked her to do him a ‘small favour’, and dig out comparative international data on economic cycles. The small favour had taken most of the day, as he well knew it would. On the basis of the figures she’d pulled out, he’d write some insightful analysis for which he’d be showered with compliments. It went with the territory, she supposed, but it meant she was no further on with her own investigations.

She got off at Earl’s Court and began walking the familiar route home, past the exhibition hall across the road, and down in the direction of J. P. Patel’s. She needed to get a few groceries. Loo rolls had become an urgent requirement and no doubt Simon had been too busy today with his cadenza to buy any. Since the break-in he’d been on the phone almost permanently, wailing about the precious camcorder he’d failed to insure.

Judith stepped into the shop, and picked up a few items from the shelves and fridge before heading for the till. Sanjay was on duty this evening, standing behind the counter while his nephew, Sohan, sat perched on a high stool beside him, poring over an arithmetic exercise. Seeing Sanjay again, she recalled the last piece of advice he’d given her: ‘Sometimes, the answer you seek is right beneath your very nose’ had been his homespun wisdom. But remembering it now gave her sudden pause for thought.

Pretending to be interested in different brands of cat food, she waited till the two other customers in the shop had left before she went over to the counter.

‘This fish quota business is just too terrible,’ announced Sanjay as she put her groceries on the counter. Evidently he’d read her piece that morning. ‘Those bastards in Brussels,’ he continued, keying in the prices of the various items she’d bought, ‘how dare they criticise Britain all the time when they let the Spanish get away with blue murder?’

‘It is dreadful,’ she agreed, handing over a ten-pound note.

‘I never realised what was going on till I read your piece.’

‘Thanks, Sanjay.’ She took her change as he began putting her groceries into a plastic bag.

‘Fro

nt page of the business section. You must be in Carter’s good books.’ He loved feeling he had the inside track on office politics at The Herald.

‘I’m doing my best to distract him while I work on another, very big project.’

She lowered her voice, feeling somewhat theatrical, as she leaned across the counter towards him, ‘It’s the biggest thing I’ve worked on in my whole career. No one knows about it. But I need help.’

Sanjay met her eyes with a look of conspiratorial enquiry.

‘You see, I’m researching a piece on child slaves in India.’

‘Here is one.’ He squeezed Sohan’s shoulder.

‘I know. That’s why I think you may be able to help. You see, I’ve got to get hold of kids who’ve worked on sports clothes.’

‘Not carpets?’ He was disappointed.

‘No. It’s got to be sports clothes. I thought that maybe, when you were trying to get the kids out of India, you met other people who also knew about children going missing?’

‘Thousands of them are used as slaves.’ He was expansive. ‘Tens of thousands.’

‘But have many been rescued and brought to London?’

‘Without a question. You know, Judith, we Indians are a very close community. If I put out the word, I soon find out.’

‘It all needs to be—’

‘Of course.’ He held a forefinger to his lips. ‘Hush, hush. I won’t mention your name.’

‘But you can say that if I get to interview these kids it would lead to publicity.’