Where There's Smoke

She looked across at him again, expecting him to turn away. He didn’t. He was leaning against a street lamp with his hands in his pockets and his collar turned up against the morning chill. As she approached he straightened, breath steaming from his mouth, not taking his eyes from her.

Kate looked away. All at once she was conscious of how empty the street was. She began walking a little faster, hoping Clive had already arrived, and pulling the keys from her bag in case he hadn’t. The young man started across the road. She reached the door. It was locked. She fumbled with the keys, trying to appear calm, and as she got the door open he came up behind her.

“Kate Powell?”

She turned, hand still on the door, poised to dart in and slam it. “Yes?”

He looked in his early twenties, with long, reddish hair and a thick leather jacket. His eyes were very pale, a non-colour.

He gave her a grin. “Glad you’ve turned up. I was starting to freeze over there. My name’s Stu dark. Been waiting to have a few words with you.”

“What about?”

He nodded towards the half-open door. “Be warmer talking inside.” His grin seemed a permanent fixture.

“Talking about what?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you. I think you’ll be interested.” His brashness grated.

“Tell me what it is, and I’ll tell you if I am or not,” she said, her arm still barring the doorway.

“It’ll sound better over a cup of coffee.”

“I’m not letting you in, so either tell me what you want or go away.”

There was something about the way he looked at her that made his grin seem mocking. “Have it your way, love. It’s about certain posters that have been popping up all over the place.”

Kate felt the shock run through her. She tried to brazen it out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the ones with you on them.” His gaze flicked down her body. “Well, your face. I don’t think the rest is you. Not unless you’ve lost weight.” He held up his hands. “Only joking, love, no offence.”

She stared at him. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”

“Journalist, if you don’t mind.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I’m freelance. I work for whoever’s paying. But I’m telling you, there’ll be so much interest in a story like this that they’ll be queuing up for it.”

“There isn’t a story.”

“Oh, come on, Kate — can I call you Kate? A nasty poster campaign accusing a pretty young woman of all sorts of things? It’s a great human-interest story.” He cocked his head to one side. “Specially when I’ve heard it’s the nutter who murdered that psychologist who’s doing it.”

The look of triumph in his eyes told her she had made a mistake.

“So it is him, then?”

“I’m not saying anything.” She made to go inside, but he put his hand on the door, holding it.

“There’s no need to get upset. I’m on your side. All I want to do is give you the chance to tell your version.”

“Move your hand.”

“If it’s a good enough story, there might even be a fair bit of money involved.”

“Are you going to move?”

“Look, it’s going to get written, anyway. It’s in your own interests to co-operate.”

She pushed on the door, barging his arm out of the way. He stood in the doorway, preventing her from closing it.

“So why’s Timothy Ellis so pissed off with you, Kate? What’s your relationship with him?”

The grin hadn’t slipped from his face. Kate went to where the fire extinguisher was clipped to the wall.

“Did you get rid of his kid, is that it? Is that why he flipped and killed the shrink?”

Kate tugged the extinguisher free and turned with it. His grin dropped when he saw what she was holding.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” He stepped backwards onto the pavement as she advanced, pointing the nozzle, and almost bumped into Clive. Clive looked from him to the fire extinguisher in Kate’s hands.

“What’s going on?”

The journalist held up both his hands, edging away. “Nothing, just having a chat. It’s cool.” He reached the pavement edge. “Thanks for your help, Miss Powell.” Grinning, he walked across the road. Clive watched him go, then turned back to Kate. He nodded at the extinguisher.

“You’re getting pretty handy with that.”

“I’m getting plenty of practice.” She moved aside to let him in.

“So what was it all about?” he asked.

Kate dumped the fire extinguisher on a desk. “He’s a journalist. He’s managed to find out who the Kate Powell on the posters is.”

“Oh, shit. How much does he know?”

“I don’t know. He was digging, but he already knew who was putting up the posters. Shit! I could do without this.”

“Which paper was he from?”

“He wasn’t. He said he was a freelance.”

Clive took off his coat and began preparing the coffee. “That’s not so bad, then.”

She looked at him. “Why isn’t it?”

“Because freelances are ten a penny. He’s still got to sell the story, and you know how hard that is.”

Kate did, from the numerous press releases she’d had ignored by editors herself. But it was difficult to be objective when she was so intimately involved. It fogged her thinking.