She skim-read the text, hoping against hope that it was not her story, but it was. The story she had given David about the three escort girls who had brought down powerful men. He’d stolen it, taken it on and, from her quick scan of the feature, managed to find the link between the girls and a ‘Mr Big’ who was taking money from the men’s rivals to set up the stings. Ruth’s palms were damp as she grasped the newspaper, smearing the ink.
‘If only you were bringing in things like this,’ said Isaac, ‘I could definitely justify keeping the London bureau.’
She dug her fingernails into her palm and tried to control her temper. There was no point explaining to Isaac what had happened, how the story had been her idea. How she had seen the link and come up with the theory that it turned out had been true. There was no point because it wasn’t her story any more. It was David’s.
‘I agree,’ she said, struggling to stay composed. ‘It’s exactly the sort of story we need to be generating. In fact, I’ve got something even better brewing for you, Isaac. It’s a good one, a big one. It’s going to make David’s honeytrap story look like a local rag story about a park bench.’
‘Now you’re talking, kiddo,’ said Isaac, a little of the warmth and humour returning to his voice. ‘So when can I expect you to file it?’
‘I’m still working on it,’ she said. ‘But soon, very soon.’
She hung up her phone, double-checked it wasn’t still connected, then took a deep breath and screamed, crumpling up the paper and throwing it across the room.
‘Bastard!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll cut his balls off!’
In her fury, she swept the rest of the papers off the table, sending a coffee mug smashing to the ground. She couldn’t remember when she had felt more angry. She was furious with David, furious with Isaac for being taken in by him, furious with that slut Susie for giving David the excuse to back-stab her. But most of all, she was furious with herself. It was her idea, hers – no one else had seen the link between those escort girls, no one else could have seen it – but instead of pursuing it and taking the glory for herself, she had got bogged down with this stupid Riverton murder story. And right now, that was looking like a bad decision. A very, very bad decision.
She stalked into the bathroom and turned the cold water tap on full, splashing it over her face.
‘Think,’ she said to herself. What was her next move? She couldn’t let David win, not now, not when he’d already humiliated her with another woman – a younger, prettier woman, her mind mocked.
Consumed by rage, she went back into the living room and snatched up the phone, determined to ring David, confront him. She forced herself to calm down. What would it achieve? She’d been right first time: it was David’s scoop now. No amount of yelling about feeding him his entrails would change that fact. In fact, Ruth was pretty sure hearing his voice would only make her feel lousier than she did already. And what if Susie answered? That would really cap her week. She was just about to chuck the phone down when she noticed there was a text message from Chuck. She clicked it open. ‘Urgent,’ it read. ‘Call me.’
She dialled Chuck’s home number.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘I got hold of the CCTV footage.’
‘Fantastic!’ she said, her mood lifting, marginally.
‘Not exactly high-definition, is it?’
‘It’s security film, Chuck, not a Spielberg movie.’
‘Look, I know it’s Sunday and everything, but do you want to come round? I’ve got something I think you should see . . .’
Ruth was dressed and out of the door in five minutes, munching a piece of toast as she ran to the tube station. Chuck lived in a shared house a few minutes’ walk from Clapham Common. It should have been a short hop down the Northern Line, but engineering works and cancelled tubes meant a twenty-minute journey took over an hour. By the time she reached Chuck’s place, Ruth’s patience levels had sunk to zero.
‘I’ll get the coffee then,’ said Chuck as he opened the door, catching Ruth’s mood. ‘I saw the paper. I’m sorry, must be galling.’
Ruth gave a wry smile.
‘Just a little bit. All water under the bridge, hey?’
‘Yeah, right,’ laughed Chuck, leading her up the stairs. ‘After you’ve slashed his tyres and sent his suits to Oxfam. Anyway, I’ve got something that might just cheer you up.’
He showed her into his room, a large sunny space, immaculately tidy – just like Chuck himself, in fact. A Yale pendant was tacked up on one wall, and photographs of Chuck’s family were dotted around the room. There was a d
esk in one corner, set up with a computer. Chuck pulled up another chair for her and they both sat down.
‘So what is it? What did you find?’ asked Ruth.
‘I’ve been through seventy-two hours of footage since eight o’clock this morning.’
He was angling for a pat on the back, but Ruth was going to save it until she’d seen what he’d found.
He clicked on a file and a window opened on the screen.