No Place For Love

‘No—go away,’ she protested, her voice choked with angry tears. ‘I’m not going to speak to you.’

‘Ah, come on—be a sensible girl. We’re not from the Beacon—that’s just a comic anyway, no one’s going to believe what they print. We’ll give you a chance to tell your side of the story. And we’ll pay you. Come on, what do you say?’

‘I said no,’ she reiterated raggedly. ‘Go away.’

‘How much did they offer you? Fifty thousand? Sixty? We’ll give you eighty. That’s eighty thousand quid, right in your hand. And you can tell us whatever you like.’

She didn’t even deign to answer, grasping hold of Khan by his collar and dragging him back to the kitchen.

‘A hundred thousand, Lacey,’ followed her as she walked away from the door.

Hugo had woken too, and came storming out into the hall, his temper close to snapping. ‘You get away from that door,’ he bellowed, ‘or I’ll come out there and really give you something to write about, you lying bastards!’

There was a muffled scuffle outside, and it seemed the reporters had decided that discretion was the better part of valour. But they didn’t retreat far. The next call was from downstairs, outside the window. ‘Lacey...? What are you afraid of? If you’ve got nothing to hide, you’ve got nothing to lose by coming out and talking to us.’

‘Oil What’s going on down there?’ Lacey sighed, and sank her head into her hands. Mrs Potter was awake, and not best pleased about it. ‘Go on, be off with you—waking decent people from their beds in the middle of the night. If my George—God rest him—was still alive, he’d give you a piece of his mind. Now get away with you, before I come down there with my broom!’

‘My lord! They don’t know what danger they’re in!’ chuckled Hugo, strolling into the kitchen and putting on the kettle. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to this, love—lord knows how long they’ll be camping out there. We might as well have a cup of tea.’

CHAPTER THREE

BY TEN o’clock in the morning, there were more than a dozen pressmen hanging around at the foot of the steps. A small crowd of neighbours had gathered, agape with blatant curiosity, and a couple of policemen had arrived to keep the peace. The telephone had been ringing all morning—there had even been calls from a couple of public relations people, offering to act as her agent; in the end they had had to unplug the telephone from the wall.

Besieged in the flat, Lacey was pacing up and down in restless agitation. ‘Oh, God, I can’t go on like this,’ she ground out. ‘How long are they going to stay out there? I’m not even going to be able to go to work tomorrow—I can’t have them trailing me down to the day centre and hanging about like this there!’