With the weekend had also come the impatiently awaited resurgence of celebrity misadventure that a great National Press exploits in chorus to scandalise a delighted public. Forest fires were demoted from front page columns to fifth page paragraphs. The shoal of media piranhas moved on to feed on other flesh than was charred in Lochaber.
Having started the hare, Daily News was obliged to pursue it not to have its lead hijacked by a rival, particularly if the touted suspicions of arson were realised. Baby-face and his baby sitter were instructed to continue with an investigation, to be patient, but with gloves firmly on. Thus, the two Daily News journos had their backs clapped by successions of rival reporters summoned to immediately assist newsrooms and be ready for transportation thence to as yet unknown sites of future calamities. “Bye now,” was the usual parting shot, accompanied by a dismissive wave.
“Noisy lot,” the photographer motioned to the barman for another drink. “Never see a story through. Dipsos, most of them.”
Baby-face sounded rueful,” at least I met the great and the good.”
“No you didn’t,” his mentor said, lifting a glass to his lips.
Saturday was quiet and the pair paid a visit to the severely burned man under intensive care at Belford. His heavily bandaged head was thought to be ideal for use in the montage of dramatic photographs illustrating a follow up story on page two. The sight of a uniformed policeman next a bedside, however, aroused the interest of both journos. That interest was sharpened by the non-reporting everywhere of whatever had befallen the occupant of the bed. Baby-face, in cub reporter persona, conversed with two pretty nurses. He quickly became intrigued.
“You mean you’ve seen cops writing down whatever this guy mumbles in his sleep? Either you’ve got an insider trader in that bed or someone who can prove the CIA stitched up El Mehgrahi for the Lockerbie bombing. Do you have any idea who this bloke is? Did you say he fell off a bike?”
“That’s right,” the prettier of the two confirmed, “he was brought in by ambulance on Monday morning.”
“Hell’s Angel, maybe?”
“A Hell’s Angel? Who knows? The police removed his clothes before he was transferred from Emergency,” the other nurse said, then leapt upon a hobby horse. “These bikers are a menace to themselves and to other road users as well. The number of them that we see in here…”
“So he came off a motorbike,” Baby-face mused later. “Wonder what the police presence is all about, and all this police notebooking of whatever he says. Its not as if he’s going anywhere. His head was wrapped in more bandages than the burned bloke.”
“There is tittle tattle in the pubs,” the photographer added. “A rather odd bod has been sniffing around, talking to the local Rurales. A high captain of the Commission got himself killed going off the road somewhere near here, this was a few weeks ago, and odd bod went wandering around the scene. I have a sneaky that he’s Special Branch, or whatever it is they call themselves these days. He’s a Londoner. South of Luton, anyway.”
Baby-face regarded his colleague. “The Commission are not doing overly well in these parts,” he remarked. “what with arson and what happened at that farmhouse. Put it all together and what do you get? Destruction and death! Conspiracy and murder! Oh, come on…a suit spends a few hours with the Mounties so he can claim expenses for his jaunt north. What of it? We don’t want to start banging the drum about something silly.”
The photographer shrugged, “maybe, but the suit introduced himself as Detective Inspector Smith.”
“Christ, people are called Smith, you know. It’s only the most common name in the bloody country.”
“Surely is,” was the laconic reply.
“Look, we have to find the arse that started a major fire. He is somewhere among us. With all the dead at the farmhouse, the fire raiser is a big news story. For the chopper involvement, who knows when that might get out? We can’t be distracted by a diced hat taking in the scenery or whatever.”
“Just as you like,” the photographer said. “No pictures in it for me. So no sweat if we miss a trick with this stray from the deep south.”
But a seed had been sown. Baby-face germinated it as an afterthought. He filed an imaginative piece with his newspaper under the enigmatic heading; ‘Detective Inspector Smith – The Mysterious Wandering Suit’.
Deciding that his article should be garnished with whimsy, he amused himself in this pursuit for the remainder of the weekend.