Hot Pursuit. Gemma Fox

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      Stella Conker-eyes was proving no exception. Snuggled up beside him in a quiet corner of the lounge bar in the Lark and Buzzard, compassion was her middle name. She had delicately teased out of him the full story of his poor dead wife, wiped away a tear as he spun her a long and complicated yarn with many thoughtful pauses – which Stella took to be grief, but which were actually Bernie trying to think up something heartrendingly tragic. It was only halfway through the evening and already Bernie had successfully wiped out his wife, the family Labrador and his sex drive. Not bad going for a slow night.

      And now, after four large gin and lemons and something greasy in a basket, Stella’s little leather skirt was riding higher up her thighs than Bernie thought physically possible. Her dark eyes glistened as she leant towards him, her floral perfume so strong it was making his nose run.

      ‘Oh, James, you poor, poor man,’ she purred, easing herself closer still so that they were sitting thigh to thigh. ‘Life really hasn’t been very kind to you at all, has it? No wonder you’re always on the move. I can understand it. It must be so hard to put down roots after everything that’s happened; you’re afraid of getting hurt all over again, aren’t you?’

      Bernie sighed theatrically. ‘Not everyone sees it like that. You’re a very perceptive woman, Stella,’ he said, damp-eyed. ‘You’ve made me realise just…’ he paused for added emphasis, ‘…just how empty and pointless my life has been for the past two years.’ He let his hand rest lightly on her knee.

      Stella let out a strangled throaty sob. ‘Oh, James,’ she said softly and guided his head down into the cleft between her expansive breasts.

      Bernie shivered, drinking in her warmth and the scent of her skin as she held him tight against her. Shit, the way he was going he’d have her knickers off before closing time.

      Meanwhile, in the Gotcha production office, now that the creative kindergarten had all gone home, Robbie Hughes was pitching his story to the show’s producer. He had waited patiently for this moment. Bernie Fielding was far too important a pearl to be cast before the rest of the Gotcha swine. Robbie was hoping, if he played it right, that his boss would let him have that magic one-off special – a whole programme devoted to the machinations of Mr Bernie Fielding. She had given him ten minutes.

      ‘Double glazing,’ he said, stabbing a pile of brochures with one doughy finger. ‘Conservatories, pyramid selling, security alarms, pension plans, time-share. Jesus, what more do we want? What more do we need? He’s quiet at the moment – probably regrouping, going for the big one. I think now is the perfect time to get him. Bernie Fielding has been into every money-grabbing, stitch ‘em up cowboy con trick you can think of, and more besides. The man is a real menace, a social evil, he needs putting away. We have to put him away. We’ve got complaints, affidavits, reports, letters, photographs. We’ve got all the evidence we’ll ever need to nail him.’ Robbie picked up a letter at random from the pile. ‘Eighty-year-old pensioner lost her entire life savings in one of his pyramid scams. He took her for every penny she’d got and then backed over her cat in his Jag –’

      His boss leant back in her swivel chair and peered for a moment or two at her long scarlettipped fingernails. He could sense that she was deliberating; Robbie held his breath.

      ‘We’ve been here before Robbie so I’ll cut right to the chase. This isn’t research; it’s a personal vendetta. It’s an obsession. A hobby gone bad. I have heard this damned story dozens of times. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Robbie, but it’s old news, darling. Stale. Let’s face it, these days everyone is bored shitless by all this sort of stuff. It would be different if you could prove that this guy had actually killed somebody. Even maiming is better than nothing –’

      The smell of her perfume, the odour as memorable as sulphur, permeated the entire room. She picked up her pen and pointed at the rows of hessian-covered pin-boards that dominated the office walls. Each one was a précis of a story that they were currently working up for broadcast.

      ‘Organs. That’s really hot at the moment. Unwashed proles being hoicked in to have their tonsils out and waking up to find someone’s whipped out a kidney. Nineteen-year-old mother of four goes in to have her appendix out, wakes up with an eye gone – emotive stuff.’

      She swivelled a little further round on her chair, pen aimed at the pin-boards like the staff of Moses. ‘What have we got – toxic teddies, some guy poisoning toddlers, that’s always a good angle. Family pets into fun furs, tabby tote bags. Dodgy doctors, a nun selling smack outside an orphanage. It’s all ground-breaking stuff. Pyramids are very passé, Robbie, very passé. Does your man do organs?’

      Robbie looked down and closed the bulging dossier he had on Bernie Fielding.

      ‘Just give me a little bit longer,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can come up with.’

       4

      Once he had been dismissed Robbie hurried back downstairs to his own office. The lights were still on although the rest of the floor was in darkness. Inside his assistant looked up expectantly.

      ‘How did it go?’ she asked, and then the words and the smile faded as she saw Robbie’s expression. ‘Oh no. Was it that bad?’

      Robbie threw out his chest and stapled on a happy face. ‘No, no, not at all. Don’t worry. Just a little set-back. It’s nothing that can’t be sorted out.’ He made an effort to sound brisk and businesslike. ‘What we need is to find the focus, the hook for one good Bernie Fielding special. Madam Upstairs was worried that the thrust of our programme was perhaps a little too broad – maybe even a little dated – but as I told her it’s nothing that can’t be put right with a bit of old-fashioned dedication, research and midnight oil. We just need to find out what Bernie’s up to now.’

      Lesley smiled. ‘It sounds quite promising then?’

      Robbie nodded. ‘Absolutely,’ he said, not quite meeting her eyes. ‘Now, I know it’s late, but I want to pull out everything that we’ve got on our Mr Fielding: old addresses, old haunts, old ties, any little clue that we can come up with as to where he is now and what he’s up to. This is all-out war. I want to get that bastard put away before Madam Upstairs decides to pull the plug on the whole bloody project. You know how fickle she can be at times,’ he added hastily in answer to Lesley’s startled expression. ‘I can’t believe that Bernie isn’t up to his old tricks somewhere. We just have to track him down and nail his hairy little arse to the mast, and we have to do it soon.’ There was just a hint of Winston Churchill in his delivery. As Robbie Hughes spoke he stared up at the pictures and notes on the pin-boards above his desk. Some had been there so long that they were brittle and yellow with age. He and Bernie Fielding went back a long, long way.

      His entire office wall looked like the presentation of evidence for a serial killer. Passé; he’d show that bloody bitch passé. Still mumbling to himself Robbie started rummaging through the filing cabinets pulling out great wads of paper, photocopied sheets and all manner of advertising fliers. ‘Right, let’s see what we’ve got –’

      ‘Oh God, I love it when it’s like this, Robbie,’ said Lesley breathlessly, taking down a row of box files from one of the stationery cupboards. ‘It feels like we’re at war, you know – like we are really making a difference.’

      ‘But we do, Lesley, we do.’ Robbie smiled indulgently in her direction and opened the first of the box files.

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