The Goldenacre Episode 63

ITo cut to the chase, to boil it down. From you, I need a memo explaining why you and Stricken were trespassing

ngleton took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with two fingers. “Before you went to this housing development, did you bother to do any background checking on it?” “I went to support Hector. I was worried about him. Turned out I was right to worry.”

“You are right to worry,” he said. “But not about that. Thing is, Shona – you don’t have to concern yourself with the things... that I have to concern myself with.”

Shona winced. He seemed to be gathering things together in his taut frame.

“You write your wee stories and whatever. And that’s all fine. You supply content for the paper and, I hope, going forward in the direction of travel on the road that we are travelling – our, what I call, our digital transformation – you will play a part. All you content suppliers out there will have a role to play.”

He gestured to the office through the glass walls.

“But there won’t be any, if we carry on the ways we are going. Look, we need unique, compelling content for our platforms going forward on the path what we are taking. That is understood.”

“Excellent,” Shona said. “I am interested in unique, compelling content. And discontent.”

He blinked and continued.

“But I also need to mind the books. The actual income of this business. One of our main incomes is from advertising, that’s not changing. But also as we go forward I am looking at the commercial opportunities out there, and more and more I am looking at commercial partnerships with businesses. They also offer us unique and compelling content, and we benefit in kind.”

“You are talking about adverts for companies, which we will write.”

“No, Shona. Commercial partnerships.” His glasses were back on, and he was looking into the corner of the room, where there was only a crease line of shadow. “Commercial relationships.”

“Right,” she said. “Advertorials is, I think, the word you are looking for. Not journalism. Puff pieces.”

He shook his head briefly.

“And,” he said, still staring away from Shona and into the corner, “We already have interesting possibilities with several commercial entities, and one of them is Oldmeg Reach.”

Shona looked at the table. Stricken had been right to warn her.

She felt suddenly annoyed. And also relieved: She knew entirely what this meeting was about.

“Who is Oldmeg Reach?” she said. “Should I know him? Strange name.”

Ingleton’s hand was on his smooth forehead now. He seemed to be in mild pain. “Oldmeg Reach is a growing – it’s big already, but it’s growing – housing company. Developments. Lots of exciting developments. And we are entering into a commercial –”

“Writing puff pieces for them in exchange for money. As I said.”

Ingleton turned to her. “Writing content in return for valuable income, which then helps us move away from making necessary adjustments to our ongoing cost base of staff,” he said, his flat voice returning.

“To cut to the chase, to boil it down. From you, I need a memo explaining why you and Stricken were trespassing – as I understand it – on one of their developments.”

He started to tap the tabletop with a finger. He briefly looked at his watch.

“I am sure Hector can explain himself,” she said.

“I don’t think Stricken has the wherewithal to be causing these kinds of issues all by himself,” Ingleton said. Shona raised her eyebrows.

“How many years has he been at this company? How many stories has he really broken?” Ingleton said.

“More than you have.”

Ingleton sat back in his chair. The light filled his glasses. It looked like his eyes were two pools of empty sky. “Thanks for your time,” he said.

She stood up and grabbed her stick. “And mind, your note will be forwarded on to Oldmeg Reach,” he said.

“So that we can all come to some kind of resolution. And you will drop whatever story you have going on, until I say otherwise.

“Colm knows already. He has other things for you to be working on.”

Shona thought of something to say, but did not say it.

She left Ingleton’s office, pushing shut the door as hard as she could behind her.

Shona walked through the office as quickly as possible and was out into the world before her fury subsided.

Shona stopped in the street and collected her mind. She did not want to walk any more. Her side hurt and her back ached.

She found the right bus and arrived at the East Gate early.

She tramped up the path to the Royal Botanic Gardens from the main road, past hand-holding couples and a man pushing a double pushchair with two sleeping children.

Their heads lolled to each side, locks falling over their smooth faces.

At the entrance, there was a small cafe. She sat on a metal chair outside. The botanical gardens were both parkland and glasshouses.

The grass was well trimmed and the trees resplendent. Neat beds of vegetation stood around bridges and water. There was a river and a pond.

Here, the city was reduced to a hushed whirr of noise. People slowly perambulated its paths.

It did not seem real.

Waiting for Reculver, she searched on the internet for Katherine Pieters and Catherine Peters, Catherine Pieters and Katherine Peters.

She got an overloaded jumble of websites, some Facebook pages that looked all wrong, some random Twitter accounts. But nothing on a woman of that name as a company director, or as an art collector.

She slapped her phone down on the metal table.

More tomorrow.

Philip Miller lives in Edinburgh. An awardwinning journalist for 20 years, he is now a civil servant. The Goldenacre, published by Birlinn, follows his previous novels, The Blue Horse and All The Galaxies. His latest novel, The Hollow Tree, is to be a sequel to The Goldenacre.