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Authors: Richard Madeley
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hand. ‘We’ve just got the
Carlisle Evening News
to agree to put a warning against swimming on every edition’s front
page. All the weeklies are doing the same. Lake District FM have started broadcasting alerts after every news bulletin, and the poster campaign rolls out across the national park from
tomorrow.’ She shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t think there’s much more any of us can do.’
The policeman nodded. ‘I agree. Obviously my men have stepped up foot patrols along the shorelines, offering advice to people who look like they’re going into the water. It seems to
be meeting with a generally positive response.’ He looked down the table towards the coroner. ‘Timothy? What’s your verdict? Sorry, no pun intended.’
Timothy Young smiled. ‘Not to worry, it’s not the first time.’ He nodded towards the PR woman. ‘I agree with Janet. It’s hard to see what else we can realistically
do. I must tell you all that I think there
will
be further fatalities but with any luck the frequency will continue to fall, albeit slowly. It’s pretty much the best we can hope
for.’
The chief constable gathered up his papers, a signal that the meeting was at an end.
‘Well, let’s hope you’re right.’ The rest of the room stood to leave.
‘In the meantime, may I suggest that we all say our prayers at bedtime and ask the Good Lord to conjure up a cold front for us, straight in from the Arctic? Old-fashioned divine
intervention would be awfully welcome, wouldn’t it?’ He turned to his secretary.
‘I told you we should’ve invited the bishop.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The post-programme lunch date had not materialised. Meriel went down with a strep throat on Tuesday. Two days later she had developed a mild fever and, much more
inconveniently, almost completely lost her voice. Her show had to be presented by a stand-in, the programme’s producer, Glenda Pile. Glenda was a nice enough woman but Seb, peering at her
through the studio glass, was disinclined to ask her out for a drink. She was twice Meriel’s age and approximately three times her weight.
He was idly wondering whether to buy Meriel a get-well-soon card on his way home when the station manager stuck his head into the newsroom.
Peter Cox was a genial ex-Radio 4 news producer who’d grabbed the chance to exchange foggy, smoggy London for the intoxicating beauty of the Lakes and a new career (and double the salary)
in commercial radio. Former BBC colleagues from the capital who visited him and his ex-model wife marvelled at their stunning Georgian mansion, River House, perched on the banks of the River
Eden.
‘Cost us half what our place in Chiswick went for,’ Cox never tired of telling them. ‘We swapped five bedrooms for nine, and a shitty little garden for six acres of parkland
with the occasional herd of deer wandering through. Must have been mad to stick around in London for so long.’
Now he brandished a fistful of invitations printed on cream-coloured cartridge paper.
‘It’s Sandra’s and my annual summer garden party on Saturday,’ he announced, walking from desk to desk and handing out the cards as he went. ‘I was checking the
guest list this morning and realised I’d clean forgot to ask you newshounds. Dreadfully sorry for the lapse. Do come if you can. At least it won’t be a bloody washout like last year.
Champers and sunscreen on the lawn, guaranteed.’
He paused directly in front of Seb.
‘Ah, Sebastian. Sandra will be most disappointed if you don’t grace us with your presence. She says she’s fallen in love with your voice.’ He winked. ‘Obviously, I
just want her to see what an ugly bugger you actually are.’
In the pub after they’d finished their shift, Seb drained his beer and nodded to the senior newsman.
‘Another?’
Merryman shook his head.
‘Nah. I have to be at a barbeque with the kids in half an hour. Now then, remember I’m off tomorrow and you’re acting news editor.
Carlisle Evening News
to agree to put a warning against swimming on every edition’s front
page. All the weeklies are doing the same. Lake District FM have started broadcasting alerts after every news bulletin, and the poster campaign rolls out across the national park from
tomorrow.’ She shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t think there’s much more any of us can do.’
The policeman nodded. ‘I agree. Obviously my men have stepped up foot patrols along the shorelines, offering advice to people who look like they’re going into the water. It seems to
be meeting with a generally positive response.’ He looked down the table towards the coroner. ‘Timothy? What’s your verdict? Sorry, no pun intended.’
Timothy Young smiled. ‘Not to worry, it’s not the first time.’ He nodded towards the PR woman. ‘I agree with Janet. It’s hard to see what else we can realistically
do. I must tell you all that I think there
will
be further fatalities but with any luck the frequency will continue to fall, albeit slowly. It’s pretty much the best we can hope
for.’
The chief constable gathered up his papers, a signal that the meeting was at an end.
‘Well, let’s hope you’re right.’ The rest of the room stood to leave.
‘In the meantime, may I suggest that we all say our prayers at bedtime and ask the Good Lord to conjure up a cold front for us, straight in from the Arctic? Old-fashioned divine
intervention would be awfully welcome, wouldn’t it?’ He turned to his secretary.
‘I told you we should’ve invited the bishop.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The post-programme lunch date had not materialised. Meriel went down with a strep throat on Tuesday. Two days later she had developed a mild fever and, much more
inconveniently, almost completely lost her voice. Her show had to be presented by a stand-in, the programme’s producer, Glenda Pile. Glenda was a nice enough woman but Seb, peering at her
through the studio glass, was disinclined to ask her out for a drink. She was twice Meriel’s age and approximately three times her weight.
He was idly wondering whether to buy Meriel a get-well-soon card on his way home when the station manager stuck his head into the newsroom.
Peter Cox was a genial ex-Radio 4 news producer who’d grabbed the chance to exchange foggy, smoggy London for the intoxicating beauty of the Lakes and a new career (and double the salary)
in commercial radio. Former BBC colleagues from the capital who visited him and his ex-model wife marvelled at their stunning Georgian mansion, River House, perched on the banks of the River
Eden.
‘Cost us half what our place in Chiswick went for,’ Cox never tired of telling them. ‘We swapped five bedrooms for nine, and a shitty little garden for six acres of parkland
with the occasional herd of deer wandering through. Must have been mad to stick around in London for so long.’
Now he brandished a fistful of invitations printed on cream-coloured cartridge paper.
‘It’s Sandra’s and my annual summer garden party on Saturday,’ he announced, walking from desk to desk and handing out the cards as he went. ‘I was checking the
guest list this morning and realised I’d clean forgot to ask you newshounds. Dreadfully sorry for the lapse. Do come if you can. At least it won’t be a bloody washout like last year.
Champers and sunscreen on the lawn, guaranteed.’
He paused directly in front of Seb.
‘Ah, Sebastian. Sandra will be most disappointed if you don’t grace us with your presence. She says she’s fallen in love with your voice.’ He winked. ‘Obviously, I
just want her to see what an ugly bugger you actually are.’
In the pub after they’d finished their shift, Seb drained his beer and nodded to the senior newsman.
‘Another?’
Merryman shook his head.
‘Nah. I have to be at a barbeque with the kids in half an hour. Now then, remember I’m off tomorrow and you’re acting news editor.
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