Free The South Lawn Plot by Ray O'Hanlon

was being summoned the short distance to Henderson's desk.
    Henderson did not stay seated, however. He rose and walked towards the small office that was his own private preserve, rarely used, but occasionally pressed into service, usually to threaten an errant reporter's health or marriage prospects.
    Bailey allowed anyone who was looking to see his eyes roll to heaven. He was one of the few in the newsroom not intimidated by Henderson. Or so he liked to think. One of the young gossip page reporters was staring at him as if he was walking to the gallows. Bailey gave her a smile, a wink and the once over. She was dating material for sure.
    But all thought of such pleasures quickly evaporated when he entered Henderson's keep.
    â€œSit down, grab that pen and notebook,” Henderson barked. “And write me a headline and first line for a story that links the death of two priests in the same order, and at the same time speculates that there might be more bodies littering this blessed isle.”
    â€œHow many bodies?”
    â€œPick a number.”
    â€œJesus Christ,” said Bailey.
    â€œHe's not on the list,” Henderson said with a snort. “But he might end up being unique in that respect.”
    Bailey reached for a blank piece of paper and plucked a pencil from Henderson's pewter beer mug.
    He scribbled a headline and began to write the first line of a story that was based on suspicion.
    â€œLet me see,” Henderson demanded.
    â€œI haven't bloody finished,” Bailey said testily and without looking up. But Henderson grabbed the page anyway.
    â€œGood,” he said. “And do you know what's good about it?”
    â€œThe alliteration?”
    Henderson leaned back in his swivel chair. “No,” he said. ‘Clergy Killer’ is okay, but frankly I prefer to be more specific. Vicar or priest, in this case priest, which is the better of the two anyway. The Catholics are more mysterious to our readers and downright threatening to some of them. ‘Priest Killer’ would have been better, but that's not it, Nick.”
    Bailey shrugged.
    â€œIt's the question mark, you nitwit,” said Henderson.
    Bailey looked again at the page. He had indeed finished his headline with the symbol.
    â€œThink about it,” said Henderson. “We're still short of most of the facts, but we have a theory. There may be a nut job out there who likes popping off padres. Now there's a line, must remember that.”
    To Bailey, it seemed that Henderson was reasoning with himself and that he was only filling a seat.
    â€œYeah, but we only have two of them, time and miles apart and both looking like suicides even if the coppers might be thinking different. Hardly a big line to hang the washing on,” Bailey said if for no other reason than to remind Henderson that he was only a few feet away, across a desk piled high with newspaper cuttings. Henderson's cubbyhole was the final nail in the coffin of the theory that computers would eliminate paper in the modern office.
    In fact, and as Bailey was taking note of yet again, this hole in the wall that passed for the chief news editor's command bunker didn't even possess a computer. It was rumored that there was manual typewriter buried under papers on the floor somewhere, but nobody had ever tried to find it.
    But there was one thing about Henderson, and all in the Post acknowledged it: the man had instinct. He was like an animal on the scent of raw meat. And more often than not he found his prize. Henderson, quite simply, wasthe best that the town had to offer. Even so, Bailey was less than convinced about this one.
    And he was suddenly conscious of a role reversal at very close quarters. Henderson was the reporter, and he had become the doubting editor. This odd state of affairs would not last for very much longer. Soon enough, Henderson would issue a specific direction to check this, or find that. And sure enough, it came.
    â€œI want