Yesterday's Papers Read Online Free PDF Page A

his tongue. ‘Strictly classified, you should realise that. More than my job’s worth, and all that.’
    â€˜You mean it will cost me?’
    â€˜With such a cynical mind, you should have become a reporter. As a matter of fact, I’m starving. I’ve spent the day on the trail of a crooked builder at a property developers’ conference. It would have been easier to hunt for a particular twig in Delamere Forest. Buy me a meal and I may force myself to overcome my professional scruples. I should say this kind of information must be worth a table for two at the Ensenada.’
    â€˜I had a burger and chips in mind.’
    â€˜My old dad used to work for The Sun , and he taught me everything I ever learned about media ethics,’ said Ken sadly. ‘He must be spinning in his grave at the thought of my selling my soul - for less than the price of a Chateaubriand with champagne, that is. He knew his worth and we always lived well on it. But the traditional values are dead, I suppose. I’ll settle for the junk food, you old skinflint.’
    As they headed towards the city centre, Harry asked, ‘Ever heard of any doubt that the right man was caught in the Sefton Park case?’
    â€˜Never. Wasn’t there a guilty plea? As I recall, there was no mystery. All the excitement lay in the fact that a gorgeous young girl had died and her father was famous. The main thrust of the coverage was that the bastard who killed the little girl should have swung for it.’
    â€˜A distinct absence of liberal hand-wringing about whether all the niceties of procedure had been observed in persuading him to cough?’
    â€˜We’re talking about the days when people thought Dixon Of Dock Green was a documentary. Are you suggesting - perish the thought - that the police beat a false confession out of whatshisname?’
    â€˜Edwin Smith. No, at this stage I simply don’t know.’
    â€˜So what’s your interest?’
    â€˜Smith died in jail, but one or two questions have been raised about whether the verdict was right.’
    â€˜Who’s been bending your ear?’
    â€˜Sorry,’ said Harry with relish. ‘I’m not able to name my sources. You of all people will understand that.’
    The orange neon of the welcome sign above the burger bar made a vivid splash in the evening darkness. The place was packed with people queuing for service from youngsters wearing paper kepis and badges emblazoned with smiley faces. The air was thick with the smell of fat and the sound of catarrhal Scouse voices chanting carefully rehearsed phrases like ‘Hi, how may I help you?’, ‘Two triple whammies with fries!’ and ‘Have a nice night!’.
    Harry bought the food and drink, then slid a hot polystyrene package across the formica surface of the table Ken had chosen. ‘Thicken your arteries with that.’
    Ken poured brown sauce over his burger with as much delicacy as if he were coating strawberries with cream. ‘So what information are you looking for?’
    â€˜I’m keen to know more about the people in the case. I hadn’t realised how many of Merseyside’s great and good were involved, although I was vaguely aware that Guy Jeffries was a big name at the time.’
    â€˜We headed his obituary “Socialism’s Nearly Man”, as I recall, though I can think of scores of contenders for that particular epitaph. He topped himself the day Margaret Thatcher came into power, you know.’
    One or two jokes rose to the tip of Harry’s tongue, but he resisted temptation. ‘How did he do it?’
    â€˜Overdose of sleeping pills. By all accounts, he’d followed the Iron Lady’s career in opposition with mounting alarm and I suppose he realised that once the Tories regained power, they wouldn’t let anyone prise it out of their claws in a hurry. Needless to say, with all the political excitement, his passing