The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [45]
“It’s been weird,” I said. “Jazza didn’t see him. She was inside. I was still out on the sidewalk, so . . . they’re only talking to me. But I think they think I’m crazy. Or lying. They haven’t been in touch.”
“I’m sure they’ll get in touch when they catch him,” he said. “Then they’ll probably bring you in to identify him.”
That made sense. There was no point in contacting me until they had something to ask me.
We were so close now that I couldn’t look directly at him, not at his eyes, anyway. This is when it finally dawned on me that he hadn’t brought me in here for the sole purpose of watching a video of someone being murdered (though that was probably part of the reason).
Also, it was very warm in the little study closet.
To be honest, I’m not sure which one of us did it first, but it was a done deal as soon as I managed to pull my gaze back from his chin to his eyes.
BBC TELEVISION CENTRE, SHEPHERD’S BUSH, WEST LONDON OCTOBER 2 1:45 P.M.
THE BBC IS USED TO DEALING WITH FREAKS, CRANKS, and psychos. Bomb threats are not uncommon. Nor were threats to James Goode, host of Goode Evening, the nightly news roundup and opinion show. A major newspaper’s readers’ poll had recently voted James the fifteenth-most famous person in Britain, thirdmost annoying, and number-one “celebrity you would least like to date.” It was estimated that 42 percent of his audience tuned in just to hate him, a behavior he actively encouraged.
So when the associate producer of Goode Evening returned from lunch to find the brown-paperwrapped parcel on his desk, he was puzzled. No one in the office claimed any knowledge of having accepted its delivery. The mailroom had no record of it. Someone had been in the office at all times, and yet no one had seen a person walk in and deliver a box. It simply appeared, with the words “Mr James Goode, BBC Centre” written on it in a harsh black scrawl. It had no stamps, no delivery stickers, no bar codes or tracking numbers. It was utterly anonymous.
Which meant that this was a serious breach of security. The producer was already reaching for the phone when James himself came strutting into the office.
“We have a problem,” the producer said. “Breach of security. I think we have to get everyone out.”
“What?” James Goode said the word in the same way normal people usually said things like “you burned my house down?” But the producer was used to this.
“This box,” he said. “No one saw it come in. No postage, no delivery markings, didn’t come through the mailroom. We have to—”
“Don’t be stupid,” James said, taking the box.
“James—”
“Be quiet.”
“James, really—”
But James was already attacking the packaging tape with a pair of scissors. The producer set down the phone softly, closed his eyes, and quietly prayed that he wouldn’t explode in the next few seconds.
“I don’t want people calling health and safety for every little thing,” James went on. “That’s precisely the kind of behavior I . . .”
He silenced himself, which was not normal James Goode behavior. The producer opened his eyes to find James reading a piece of yellow paper.
“James?”
James hissed him silent as he reached into the box gingerly to move aside some wrapping. He started visibly and pushed down the flaps of the box, hiding the contents.
“Listen to me,” James said intently. “Get news on the phone. Tell them to get a camera up here now and that I’m going to need to be on the air in fifteen minutes.”
“What? What are you doing?”
“I have the next piece of the Ripper story. And tell them to be quiet about it. Lock the door. No one else comes into this office.”
Fifteen minutes later, after a protracted argument with the news department, there was a camera in the Goode Evening office and a news producer with a headset talking rapidly to the newsroom. James was sitting at his desk. His awards had been hastily shoved together on the windowsill just behind him, crushed together to fit in the frame. In front of him was the box.
“Are you ready yet?” he snapped. “How bloody difficult is