Free Bad Press by Maureen Carter Page A

on that hot topic, she’d not called Snow before turning up. Forewarned was forearmed. Seemed to her, Tintin had enough people tipping him the wink.
    “He’s out. Sorry.” A blowsy middle-aged receptionist lifted an indifferent glance though a long scarlet fingernail marked her spot in a Cosmo article on multiple orgasms. Bev had heard more sincere apologies from Bill Clinton. She cast a withering glance at the athletic poses illustrating the centre page spread: that’d be the G-spot the talon was covering. Bev’s testiness could just as easily have been targeted at the Marge Simpson lookalike relishing every word. Bev stared in awe at the woman’s wobbling lilac beehive. It defied every known law of gravity. Must be some serious underpinning going on in there. “Any idea when he’ll be back?” Polite, friendly.
    The woman licked a finger, turned a page, held an imaginary piece of string between outstretched hands. Bev wouldn’t have been surprised to see her take off given how the bingo wings were flapping. Rocket up the rectum would do the trick too. She was half-tempted just to go find the newsroom, but even a cursory glance registered the high-level security: turnstile, swipe cards, CC cameras recording every blink. She tapped a foot on the tiles; Marge still didn’t pick up the cue. Maybe she’d forgotten her line. “P’raps you’d like to ask someone?” Bev’s tone was dangerously sweet.
    “Been there, done that. No one on the desk knows where he is. And he’s not answering his phone.”
    Bev frowned, wondered who else had been sniffing round. Marge reached to flick another page found a hand in the way. “Who else has been asking?”
    The woman stared at the hand; Bev slowly retracted it. “People are always after him. He’s a reporter. Certainly not my job to keep track...”
    “’Xactly what is your job lady?”
    “Is there a problem, Rita? Perhaps I can help?”
    Bev took her elbows off the desk, turned to find a young woman – early- to mid-twenties – hovering at her shoulder. The face was pleasant, the voice placatory but Bev’s hackles had yet to fall. “And you are?”
    “Anna Kendall.” Wide smile. “I work here. I’m a writer. On features?”
    Bev shrugged. “Good for you, love. How about getting Rita here to pull her finger out and...”
    Anna quelled the flow with a raised hand. And was that a wink? “Let’s find somewhere to talk.”
    Somewhere was round the corner of the L-shaped foyer where four chunky faux leather armchairs were arranged round a glass-topped coffee table. Anna Kendall hauled a seat out for Bev, before sinking into one herself. Rita was out of sight and earshot, if not mind.
    “Don’t mind her. It’s not personal. She’s a pain in the bum to everyone.” The young woman arched a conspiratorial eyebrow. “I reckon she knows where the bodies are buried or she’d have got the boot years ago.”
    The laughter was infectious; Bev was immune. Didn’t appreciate the rare feeling of being wrong-footed. She studied Kendall closer. Gamine was the word that sprang to mind. The delicate features, almond-shaped eyes, small bones didn’t amount to great beauty but the apparent warmth and openness was appealing enough. If you liked that kind of thing. The woman seemed vaguely familiar. Was it just the matey attitude or had they met before? “Do I know you?”
    Slight twitch of the lips. “Aren’t detectives supposed to remember faces, names, that sort of thing? Sergeant Morriss?” However gentle the tease, Bev didn’t appreciate it. Kendall cottoned on to that fast. “Sorry. It was a couple of months ago. You were giving a talk at Hillside Comprehensive?”
    Bev nodded. Balsall Heath. There’d been a string of complaints from people living near the school: rival girl gangs fighting in the streets, intimidating passers-by, swearing, spitting, flashing blades. Bev had gone along to give a bud-nipping motivational talk. Motivated one of the little buggers