In mid-afternoon, a flash message from Baby-face had been received and the editor’s reputation as a newshound with the nose of a St Bernard was recalled. ‘Inspired’ became the favourite characterisation. A sycophantic repetition of ‘Nic’ and ‘inspired’ was so frequently uttered that the entire building seemed to have acquired echo. An instinct to anticipate disaster was considered the greatest of all journalistic gifts, a black serendipity.
News of twelve dead at the farmhouse, with hard hitting photographs of the surviving six, had decided a Wednesday morning headline portraying the fire as a result of wilful fire raising. It kept the Daily News well clear of the field. Circulation was about to climb steeply. Several photographs would go global, appearing in newspapers worldwide. From Gulf News to Sydney Morning Herald, shocked expressions on six blackened faces on a background of flaming conifers made reading redundant. ‘ARSON’ was headlined in horrified upper case and journalists everywhere envied a triumphant humility in the Baby-face storyline.
That night Nic called Assistant Director at the exclusive restaurant where he dined on lobster meuniere, it being his custom to eat out each Tuesday evening on crustaceans. The Daily News offered its most sincere apology for the intrusion, then came to the nub.
“Perhaps you have not yet learned of the tragedy in Lochaber,” the editor spoke with measured diffidence, then tolled a funereal tone in confirming the death in Lochaber of twelve of the Commission establishment, each a Badenoch man.
“My God,” Assistant Director said. “Twelve men dead. What is going on up there?” His dining companion, a City Councillor, gasped noisily and Assistant Director impatiently waved him silent.
“Information is still coming. We had people in place and were covering the wildfire when the tragedy occurred. I should advise you that there is strong evidence that an arsonist started the original outbreak. We will be leading on this tomorrow. Thought it best that we speak,” Nic smiled. He enjoyed cloaking himself in a businesslike persona. The response was in predictable form. Assistant Director relied upon emotion to gain time.
“How appalling,” Assistant Director made a choking sound, then, after a pause. “I do appreciate your calling me tonight. But arson? Are you quite certain?” He raised his free palm to his brow, aware that his conversation was now attracting attention. Waiters and diners eyed him discreetly. The City Councillor leaned forward impressively.
“Quite certain,” Daily News affirmed. “My team are following events. Apologies for bearing bad tidings.”
“Dreadful news, dreadful! But my people!” Assistant Director fumed. “Vertical communication has clearly broken down. I need newspaper editors to keep me abreast of what is going on.”
“Read our rag in the morning,” Daily News said. “Full account given. At the moment we are alone in covering the story. Mainstream media, BBC, Sky, and all the rest, are all over me for updates. No names as yet, next of kin still being informed. News is breaking hourly. Expect a media storm tomorrow.”
“Dear God,” Assistant Director said distinctly, aware that every reaction would later be recalled by staff and fellow diners. He was now in control and giving the impression of a strong man who disdained public display. He stood and beckoned for the bill, lobster unfinished on his platter. The City Councillor rose respectfully and several tables silently watched his backing into a gaberdine overcoat held by Mario himself.