The Publisher looked completely baffled now. Poor man, thought Blacklock. Perhaps this one will last even less time than the previous chief executive had.
“What do you mean, precisely?” the Publisher asked.
“The police will make his life misery for the foreseeable future, his competitors will be busy trying to knock down his story and of course, I will mention in a completely unofficial capacity my displeasure at his disobedience. And then there’s Mister Grant.”
“Grant? He’ll be sulking, won’t he? He thought he was getting the front page.”
“Oh, I suspect that once Mister Grant gets over his power-pouting he’ll rise to the occasion and excel,” said Blacklock smoothly. “Revenge is a fine motivator.”
“More negative energy at work?”
“Precisely, sir.”
The Publisher’s intercom buzzed. The voice of his secretary, electronically disembodied, floated across the desk.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but you asked me to remind you about your luncheon appointment for today.”
“Thank you, Jackie,” said the Publisher curtly.
Blacklock looked at his boss and dared to raise an eyebrow.
“Luncheon appointment?” he said archly.
“Yes. The first of my new community outreach luncheons. Get to know various pillars of the community, local interest groups, that sort of thing…”
Blacklock tuned out as the Publisher outlined his ambitious plans to give the Tribune a kind, caring face and a higher community profile. Every publisher Blacklock had ever known started out in this manner, wining and dining the local arts council or the heritage foundation, making contacts and receiving helpful story suggestions. It had taken a full two years for the previous publisher to be cured of his illusions. Blacklock was just dreading the prospect when he noticed for the first time that the Publisher’s face appeared to be just a fraction too small for his head — almost as if it was inset in a frame. He was so distracted by this he failed to register the fact the Publisher was standing and the interview was over. Blacklock hurried to his feet.
“And which vitally important local interest group are you meeting with today, sir?” he asked, feigning interest.
There was something about the set of the Publisher’s mouth, the tightness in his voice and dismissiveness of his tone that disturbed Blacklock and ruffled his previously calm demeanour.
“The Vancouver Police,” said the Publisher in a firm voice Blacklock had never heard before. “I’m lunching with the Chief Constable and several of his superintendents.”
Blacklock muttered something about luck and best wishes and scurried from the room. For the first time, he felt threatened by this ad salesman. He hurried down the stairs to the third floor as fast as his bulk would permit. It was vitally important that Grant come up with a story that would eclipse Jinnah and appease the police. Not for Grant’s sake, of course. For Blacklock was already anticipating the meeting he would have to attend when the Publisher finished having his ears chewed off at lunch with the Chief Constable. And loathing the prospect.
But Grant wasn’t at his desk when Blacklock, breathless, arrived a few minutes later. He had been called out of the office to follow up on an extraordinary tip and no one but Grant knew where he was. Grant himself could scarcely credit it. It had started with a phone call a half hour earlier. The voice on the other end of the phone was unfamiliar but there was no denying the authenticity of the number displayed on the tiny screen of Grant’s telephone.
“It’s about that specious front page story of yours on Sam Schuster —” the voice began.
“Listen, I didn’t write the bloody front page story —” Grant started.
“Did I call to complain?” the voice interjected. “No, I just want to put you on the right path, that’s all.”
“The right path?” Grant had said, idly opening his notebook. “What path is that? Space aliens murdered Sam Schuster?”
“As a matter of fact, no. But I can tell you that I have proof of an extensive police investigation into Schuster’s business dealings and one other piece of information that you will find most intriguing.”
“Oh yes?” said Grant, now taking actual notes. “Look, if you’re going to continue to be off the record —”
“For obvious reasons, I can’t have my name or department associated with this.”
It was at this point that Grant looked at the number on display and did a double-take. He checked it in his phone book. He sat up straight and lowered his voice.
“Listen, I’m not doing any lame ‘sources say’ story,” he said. “Jinnah may like that shit but I don’t. I need live people. Quotable people.”
There was only the slightest pause before the voice resumed.
“I think I can put you on to someone,” it said. “Come down to my office. Now.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Grant. “But this better be good.”
“Oh, I think you’ll be pleased with the results,” said the all-too-happy voice of Staff Sergeant Graham of the Vancouver Police.
Jinnah was completely unaware of Grant’s location or what he was working on. He didn’t have time to think about it. Between angry phone calls and tracking down Mister Puri, he had his hands full. It was the call from Graham that upset him most.
“I just called to let you know I have nothing further to say to you regarding this case,” Graham said coldly. “You will get no further information from me.”
“Come on, Sarge!” Jinnah tried to jolly Graham. “Look, it’s all out now, so you may as well co-operate, hmm? Now, you’re looking for a white male, I presume — any age or other description?”
“Jinnah, your selective deafness is affecting you again. But I will tell you this: as far as we’re concerned, there is no suspect to look for.”
“What’s this bullshit?” Jinnah demanded.
“We have good reason to believe that Robert Chan’s eyes were playing games with him. What he saw was likely a trick of the light.”
“Come off it!” Jinnah cried. “What trick of the light?”
“You know — shadows, smoke, and mirrors — ingredients you should be intimately acquainted with, Jinnah, since most of your so-called stories are composed of all three.”
“You son of a bitch! You’re not going to tell everyone this … fiction! Are you?”
“Our release quotes Chan’s doctor. Patient is slightly delusional at this point due to trauma suffered. You might have learned that if you had talked to the doctor instead of stalking the poor man —”
“Stalking! Since when —”
“Since now and from now on. Good-bye, Jinnah.”
Graham hung up and Jinnah cursed. Another spell in the Vancouver police dog house, a situation that only time would heal. But time would prove Jinnah right, of that he was certain, although he knew he couldn’t count on the police to follow this lead. There was only one thing for it. Jinnah would launch his own investigation. He had his coat on and an unlit cigarette in his mouth before Sanderson noticed the activity beyond his newspaper barrier.
“Going somewhere?” he asked idly.
“Ronald, I’ll be out of the office for some time. I want you to do me a favour —”
“No, I won’t tell them you were summoned to a personal audience with the Aga Khan or that your tests results for