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sealed.’
    ‘They’d bloody better be.’
    Helen’s Norton’s newspaper ran a front-page lead story about the Riverside tender. It stressed the need for openness and transparency during the bidding process and the importance of getting the very best deal possible from the sale of publicly owned land. Next to it they printed the photograph she had taken, with the caption, ‘Council leader Joseph Lynch enjoys lunch with Camfield PLC owner Alan Camfield and well-known-local-businessman James McCree in a high-class, city centre restaurant.’ The hyphens in McCree’s title were her editor’s idea. They were not quite as blatant as punctuation marks but they ably highlighted the ironic nature of their description of the local gangster
    For anyone outside the region, that photograph would have seemed innocuous. However, if you were from Newcastle the image would have been shocking. The leader of the council was sitting down to a cosy and expensive lunch with a multi-millionaire and one of the city’s best-known criminals.
    Councillor Lynch used his right to reply to offer a flustered and angry response, which Helen’s editor included at the foot
of the article. ‘I absolutely deny I had lunch with Mr Camfield and Mr McCree. I was there to meet someone else. Mr Camfield was already at his table. I went over to say hello to a prominent local businessman I have known for many years. While I was speaking to Mr Camfield, Mr McCree arrived at the restaurant to discuss opportunities for his security business, should Camfield Offshore be successful in their bid for the Riverside development scheme. At that point I left both the conversation and the table.’
    ‘I should have waited till the food arrived,’ said Helen, ‘I’ve given him an out.’
    ‘Do you think anyone is going to believe that?’ asked Graham. ‘The people of Newcastle have legendary bullshit detectors. Lynch has been banged to rights. We have done some serious harm to his credibility.’
    ‘Was he angry?’ Helen asked.
    ‘No,’ said her editor, ‘he was apoplectic.’
    ‘So will he try to …?’
    ‘Ruin our lives? Oh yes. If I know anything about Councillor Lynch he will not rest until I’m fired, this paper’s closed down and the building we are standing in demolished, but do you know what? Fuck him. That’s journalism. Sometimes you just have to roll the dice and print the story, otherwise what’s the point?’
    Helen Norton may have been a reporter but right then she would have struggled to put her admiration for her editor into words. ‘Print and be damned, eh?’ she managed.
    ‘Print and be damned,’ Graham repeated firmly.

Chapter Seven
    ‘Tom
Carney?’ The prison officer called his name and Tom, having waited for what seemed like an eternity, was suddenly snapped out of his private thoughts. He got to his feet and followed a burly man in a blue jumper with epaulettes on his shoulders.
    He had expected to be fobbed off. He figured there would at least be a number of bureaucratic hoops to be navigated before he was able to come to the prison. Instead it was almost as if they were expecting him and, to his genuine surprise, he was given an appointment that same day.
    Tom was led into the visiting area. He had assumed he would be among the friends and families of dozens of inmates but instead of a crowded room full of wives and children at visiting time, he found himself alone in a room filled with empty chairs and small tables. Tom chose one and sat down. He didn’t have to wait long for Richard Bell to appear.
    The heavy metal door at the opposite end of the room swung open and the murderer stepped inside. He smiled broadly at Tom and there was a disconcerting excitement in his eyes. Tom was glad of the presence of the barrel-chested prison guard who took up a position a little way from the table Tom had selected. No one else followed Bell through that door. It seemed they really would have the room to themselves.
    Bell walked