Laurie zapped her car shut and headed towards the front door underneath the letters that spelled ‘DAILY RUMPET’, because the T had long since dropped off as if falling in with the character of the place. Its frontage was crumbly and quaint, belying the chaos that went on within its walls. A chaos that had become incredibly profitable over the last few years, it had to be said.
The Daily Trumpet had started off as a barely breaking-even periodical pushed to the edge of bankruptcy by incompetence. Glaring editorial errors brought more complaints than the leanly manned postroom could manage. Either the reporters or printing presses must be possessed, deduced the executive management board – it turned out to be both. Then something very odd happened. The figures started to improve, as low troughs in the sales statistics began to invert to high spikes. The owner of the paper (the Trumpet being one of only a few privately owned newspapers in Britain) commissioned market research which revealed that people were buying the Trumpet for its hilarious blunders and ensuing apologies more than they were for the news. The money that it was forced to pay out in compensation became less than the gain in revenue. In short – it made good business sense for the Daily Trumpet to print crap.
That was not to say that the top brass was happy with this. Sir Basil Stamper, the owner, was initially mortified that his pride and joy had become a laughing-stock. Money was second to prestige in his world so out went all the inept equipment and personnel and he set on a proficient editor – Alan Robertson – who shared Sir Basil’s vision to restore the newspaper to its glory days.
This caused the sales to dip again.
People complained that the Trumpet had become stale, uninteresting, unentertaining. Sir Basil realised that he had to sacrifice his integrity on the altar of cash because pride was one thing but he very much enjoyed living a privileged lifestyle and driving an Aston Martin. He tried to swallow it by forcing himself to accept that the Trumpet had acquired a singular reputation and he owed it to the public to pursue a new legacy. Alan Robertson was sent for ‘retraining’, at least that was the official line. He was actually given a month off to let the idiot deputy editor bring the paper down to its optimum shocking level. Alan was told to either permanently shove off or manage the beast without blunting its claws and teeth. He had rejoined the team hoping to limit some damage if nothing else, but he despaired continually of what he had been reduced to – the man had standards, after all. It was the journalistic equivalent of a virtuoso pianist being forced to tinkle the ivories on a priceless Steinway in the style of Les Dawson.
The façade of the Daily ‘Rumpet’ offices indicated it was no bigger than a large double-fronted shop, but it was labyrinthine inside. Once upon a time it had stood on its own at the edge of town, but a sprawling angular industrial estate had grown around it like the architectural version of Japanese knotweed. It remained the last bastion of ancient building among the new boys.
The sensor on the heavy front door registered Laurie’s presence; it groaned open and she walked into the cool pool of the ground-floor reception. There was a small waiting area to the right and to the left was a long counter. An old lady with a dowager’s hump was standing there dictating a classified ad to Mo, a woman who had been in charge of reception since God’s dog was a pup and who, to extend the canine imagery, made Cerberus look tame.
‘Do you want a box around it?’ Mo was asking, slowly, enunciating each word at volume.
‘No, I want it flat on the paper.’
Mo grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and began to demonstrate what she meant, as patiently as she was able.
‘Oh, I see. No, I don’t want one of those,’ said the old lady. ‘What can you do to make it stand out, though?’
‘Put lines around it.’ Mo’s exasperation was seeping through her words now.
‘Yes, I’ll have those. Four lines.’
‘A box then,’ said Mo. ‘Great. Glad we got there in the end.’ She gave Laurie the sort of smile that said, I wish I could put this old bat in a box, then pressed the button under the counter desk that released the lock on the door into the main building. ‘Go up,’ she said to her.
‘Thank you, Mo.’
‘Oy, does it cost more?’ asked the old lady, tapping a gnarled finger on the paper.
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t want it then.’
Laurie left them to it, walked through the door and along the passage. Up eight steps, turn right, down three steps, turn left, up a flight of twenty-two steps. Whichever architect had designed the building must have done so after a blow-out drinking session. The most that could be said about it was that visiting the editorial department was a great workout for the calves.
She entered the busy newsroom where immediately hands were raised to wave to her or smiles appeared on faces or welcoming nods animated heads. One of the reporters, Flo, was on a call and stuck up her thumb as a hello.
‘I’m so sorry you’ve had that terrible experience, Mrs Hasselhoff . . . sorry, Mrs Hashcroft.’ She held the phone away from her ear and Laurie could hear Mrs Hashcroft screaming from Doncaster.
‘Rest assured we will be in touch with our legal department as soon as humanly possible,’ said Flo, replacing the phone to her ear. Her tone couldn’t have been sweeter. ‘Yes my name is Florence Carter and I’m a reporter. Goodbye Mrs Hassss . . . shcro— oh, you’ve gone, have you? Stroppy tit.’ She put down the phone, turned to Laurie and said, ‘And that’s another one for your five-foot-tall tower of complaints this week, Laurie. Go and bring Alan’s blood pressure down, for heaven’s sake, before I raise it even higher by adding to the pile. We got Mrs Hashcroft’s copy wrong. We printed under their anniversary picture that it was their diamond wedding not their ruby and that she was married to David Hasselhoff not Dustin Hashcroft.’ She sniffed. ‘No pleasing some folk. She’s attempting to sue us for a million pounds for hurt feelings. My guess is that she’ll take a meal for two at the Royal in Dartley as fair recompense.’ She grinned and Laurie grinned with her. The newsroom of the Daily Trumpet was a perfect tonic. At least it was for a visitor.
Alan’s office was a glass pod in the far corner. He was on the phone when Laurie approached and he waved her to come in before she had the chance to knock. He was just finishing off a call to Sir Basil who governed them from his manor house in Penistone.
‘Yep . . . yep . . . got that . . . two hundred quid donation and free advertising for a month . . . Yep . . . yep . . . Cheers, Sir Basil.’ He put the phone down none too gently.
‘God save me from that old fucker. Just because he owns the newspaper, he thinks he owns my soul as well. I’m surprised he hasn’t demanded we’re all branded “Property of Sir Basil Stamper” on our buttocks like cattle in cowboy films,’ he said to Laurie. Alan wasn’t one to mince his words. ‘Boy, am I glad to see you. Has it only been a week since you were here last?’
‘Exactly a week, Alan.’
‘How come I’ve got another five hundred grey hairs, then?’ he said in a voice that sounded as if it was fresh out of a cement mixer. ‘Coffee?’ He slotted a pod into his overworked Nespresso machine, presuming that yes would be the answer.