Free Bad Press by Maureen Carter

along the walls. And what was with the candles and sitting in the dark?” Light probably hurt her eyes.
    “Nah,” he scoffed. “Old bat’s away with the fairies.”
    Bev shrugged. “Maybe.” The confusion could’ve been genuine or was there method in the madness?
    “Meaning?”
    “It doesn’t add up.” Instinct? Intuition? Either way inexplicable. Eyes creased, mouth twisted, her thoughts had clearly moved on.
    “Share.” Powell said, pointing at her face. “That’s an idea you’re having – or a stroke.”
    She hunched forward, elbows on table. “Assume whoever visited Gladys was lying, right?”
    “Goes without...”
    “He’s not from the social or the probation. And he’s definitely not out to give Marsden a make-over.”
    “Life Swap?”
    Incredulous frown. “Anyway, moving on... what sort of drongo goes round with a fistful of cash asking people questions?”
    If he said Chris Tarrant, she’d bop him. There was a dip in the surrounding buzz. She could almost hear the DI’s mental cogs clicking. Then it dawned.
    Two minutes later they were in the car park at the back of McDonald’s. Given that the DI’s Matt-Snow-copybook was well blotted, they’d decided Bev should have a go this time. Gentle probing – nothing heavy. Tintin wasn’t the only journalist with a fat chequebook. Just the only hack who’d arrived at the crime scene before the cops.
    “Shame Mac’s not around,” Powell said. “I hear he’s good at tossing in the odd googly at an interview.”
    “No prob.” She paused, key in the MG’s door. “I’ll pick him up on the way.”
    “From Matlock?” She frowned. The DI elaborated. “He took off like a bat out of hell before lunch. Got a bell from his ex. One of the kids was rushed to hospital this morning.”
    “Kids?” Mac Tyler? Talk about being decked by a feather. “Mac’s got...?”
    “How long you worked with him?” The criticism though tacit was cutting. Four months they’d been partners, he’d not breathed a word about having brats. Worse than that, caring sharing Mother Superior Morriss hadn’t even asked.
    The Evening News building is as central as it gets. Listen hard outside and Bev reckoned you’d hear the city’s heart beat. Hemmed in by towering structures, the austere grey 1970s fascia was broken up by huge gleaming panes of glass. Catch the light right and it was like a wide-screen showing Cityscape the Movie. Right now, bits of blue sky acted as backdrop to the plush law courts opposite, the foreground was criss-crossed by streams of extras. Having left the Midget in a multi-storey, Bev had a walk-on part herself. A glimpse of her ruffled reflection – the look was hedge-backward not wind-tossed – meant a hasty digital comb-through as she lingered a few seconds taking stock.
    She loved the buzz here; most of the second city’s cultural, legal, financial and commercial gems were within walking distance of where she stood. She grimaced; bummer if you were a journo on expenses. Mind, Shanks’s pony’d be a damn sight faster than horsepower given the traffic. Bars of music blared through gaping windows as cars crawled by: hip-hop, heavy rock, Hank Williams. Exhaust fumes vied with fried onions, hot fat, vinegar. Pavement traffic was chocker too: shoppers, office workers, a Big Issue seller with purple dreds, a pencil-skirted Blackberry Woman clacking along barking orders saving at least one planet, a couple of briefs on the corner having a smoke, Rumpole wigs tucked under their arms. When a tourist with a branch of Jessop’s slung round his neck asked in shattered English the way to the beach, Bev reckoned it was time to move on.
    The news agenda had moved on too. Billboards sandwiching the paper’s main entrance screamed Killer Winter. Killer Winter? How’d that work? Yeti axe murderers storming Broad Street? Christ, it was early October, barely autumn, and the rag was full of reports forecasting the Big Freeze and freak blizzards. And