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of
September, as her journey took her past Kensington
Gardens and along the north side of Hyde Park. At Marble Arch the lights were on red, and,
while waiting for them to change, she glanced across the road into the park. It
was now clean-up time after the concert, and hundreds of casual workers with
plastic bags and rakes were stretched across the grass, wet, windswept chains
of people collecting the now muddy detritus of the previous evening. Further on
the high temple that had been the stage was being dismantled, leaving the stark
skeleton of the scaffolding with its arteries and veins of cables and wires.
The strings behind the multi-million pound puppet show were being revealed.
    Then the lights changed, and, as she moved
forward again, she pictured Jeroboam sitting in class, silent and invisible.
She’d made him cry. She wished she hadn’t.

Chapter Four

    She felt at home in the WSN
building, Kate reflected, as she slipped her car down the ramp into the underground
parking area and then took the lift up to the newsroom. If the Third World was where she wanted to be when she was
working, it was here, the WSN-TV studios, not her house, she thought about when
she was away.
    Occupying renovated warehouses on
the south side of the Thames just east of Blackfriars Bridge,
WSN, without the wealth and resources of Sky or CNN, was a minnow when it came
to foreign news gathering. But, rather than apologise for its lack of reach,
the station’s policy was to make it a virtue. What WSN offered, boasted its
station ident, was a "closer-to-the-edge" look at the news. It was an
attitude that suited Kate perfectly.
      Because of Jeroboam's disruption of her morning she was late getting to work,
and it was nearly two when she reached her place on the foreign desk. Across
from her Ned Swann, the bull-mouthed foreign editor, was making a telephone
call. "Someone in our picture library says he doesn't think the body
hanging there is that of Alibuzir," he was shouting down the line to Kandahar. "She thinks
it looks too young. Are we absolutely positive it's him?" A battle in Afghanistan
had brought a roadside execution. It was part of a foreign editor's job to make
sure that the right name was given to the right corpse, especially when the
corpse was well known enough to be recognised by viewers.
    Frowning her sympathies for the
correspondent in Kandahar,
Kate took her seat by the window. From here she could watch the traffic on the river
below, though more usually she faced the electronic litter of the newsroom,
with its computers, telephones, banks of monitors, and, over the foreign desk,
a digital clock which told the time in different cities around the world.
    Alongside her Chloe Estevez was
looking at a monitor where report of a tornado in Texas
was giving way to a story about a father and three young daughters who’d been
found dead in their home in Birmingham.
    "Pretty kids," Chloe observed
as a photograph of three fair haired girls on the back of a Shetland pony
appeared. “The word is it looks like a mass poisoning."
    Pressing a headset to one ear,
Kate listened to the commentary for a few moments.
    “…after the three children failed to turn up for school this morning.
West Midlands Police say that they wish to speak to Elizabeth McDonagh, the
children's mother, a pharmacist, who has not been seen since yesterday…"
    A tall figure was hovering at her
side. It was Beverly, the intern, smiling, wanting to talk.
    "Wasn't last night the most perfect evening of your
entire life!"
    “The best? ” Kate put down the headset. “Well, I think there may have been
one or two more fun moments over the years. I had a good time camping on Exmoor with the Girl Guides when I was eleven, though it
rained every day, and …”
    “I meant Jesse. I was in the
middle of the crowd. He was incredible. Don’t tell me you weren’t impressed. I
recorded your report and played it back when I got home. You were , admit it!”
    “Oh him ! Yes.