Free Thunder in the Blood by Graham Hurley Page B

fucking piece was about their business. That’s why they were were shitting themselves. Jesus, there we were with this monster story, about to go public, MI5 caught with their knickers down, smuggling all those tons of dope. No wonder they gave you a bell, shit…’
    Wesley cackles again. There’s nothing from Aldridge for a bit. Then you get the scrape of a chair, and Aldridge’s voice, more distant. ‘Listen, mate, this job—’
    ‘Isn’t as easy as it looks? Yeah, I know.’
    ‘Don’t be so fucking smart.’
    ‘I’m not. I’m trying to do a fucking job. The one you pay me for. Remember?’
    ‘OK, OK, OK, you’re disappointed, I can understand that. OK, so yes, they did. They were on … and yes, there was pressure,lots of it, round the clock: them, the board, the bank, our city friends, you name it, so … You’re right. I bottled.’
    ‘You bottled.’
    ‘Yeah.
Mea
fucking
culpa.
And now you’re upset about it.’
    ‘Yeah. And you know why? Because next Sunday it’ll be in print anyway.’
    ‘Where? Who?’
    ‘The
People
.’
    ‘You
know
that?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘All of it?’
    There’s another pause here. It’s Wesley’s turn to be slightly hesitant. ‘No … not the whole thing.’
    ‘The MI5 bits?’
    ‘No, not them. But the rest, the Micks, the dope, all the stuff about the betting shop and the laundering scams… it’s all there. Believe me, I’ve talked to the bloke who’s doing it. He’s pissing himself. They all are. Can’t understand why we, you, never—’
    ‘But they’re not running the MI5 bits?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then what’s the story?’
    At this point, Wesley goes barmy. The tirade lasts for several minutes. At the end of it, unusually, he apologizes. Aldridge accepts the apology and mutters something about not playing a blinder himself. Then the conversation changes course completely. Aldridge is taking Wesley into his confidence. Two old mates. The tape still running.
    ‘Listen, Wes, things have been happening. Stuff you don’t know about…’
    ‘You’re sacking me.’
    ‘No, on the contrary—’
    ‘You want me to do your job.’
    ‘God forbid. You’d never forgive me. Who’d fucking want it?’
    ‘What, then?’
    Here, there’s the sound of blinds rattling down. Then Aldridge again. ‘Just you and me? Off the record?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘I’ve had an offer.’
    ‘Surprise me.’
    ‘Seriously. An amazing offer.’
    ‘Doing what?’
    ‘Heading up a defence magazine. Specialist weekly. Leader in its field … C’mon, Wes, you know what I’m talking about…’
    ‘Defence Week?’
    ‘In one.’
    Another pause. Wesley sounding slightly shocked. ‘They want you to edit
Defence Week?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And you want to do it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why?’
    Aldridge takes his time answering. His voice has the tone of someone contemplating a good meal: excited, pleased with himself, anticipatory.
    ‘It’s authoritative. It’s the best in the field. It’s read in the right places. It’s … shit, a real opportunity.’
    ‘To do what?’
    ‘To move out a little. Spread my wings. Get some profile.’ He pauses here. ‘You know the way it goes, Wes. The embassy drinks circuit. The odd
Newsnight
invite. The odd consultancy. Seat at the top table. The high and the fucking mighty.’
    ‘And you.’
    ‘Yeah. And me.’
    ‘What are they paying?’
    ‘A lot.’
    ‘More than you get now?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘How much more?’
    ‘I told you. A lot.’
    There’s another silence. I can imagine Wesley brooding, that pose of his, head down, eyes half closed, a cigarette hanging from his long fingers. He doesn’t say a word. Aldridge picks up the conversation again. The size of his new salary remains a secret but it’s still party time, and he’s plainly sending out at least one invitation.
    ‘I want you on it, Wes,’ he says, ‘which is why I’m glad you’re here. I’ve told them I need to expand on the staff side. I’ve got it in writing. Five