Page 128 of Slack Tide Kill

"He didn't make a secret of it. Your deadline's at 9 a.m., right? Ask me, he was dropping chum in the water, hoping someone like us would bite."

"Why would he do that?"

"Who knows? Maybe he likes you. McMaster's a political animal; he knows which way the winds blow. Sometimes, he directs the wind. Or he has us do it for him." She smiled. "We just need an exclusive with you to claim the narrative. Recorded, sealed, up on the Gaze site before your deadline, and I guarantee the political pressure will evaporate. Going after you will suddenly become toxic. You'll become a national hero, kicking these treasonous gangsters right in the balls, hopefully solving a grotesque murder and putting a killer behind bars to boot. We all win."

Sally's mind roiled as she studied the vulture journalist before her. Could any of this actually go the way they suggested? It seemed too good to be true. It had to be. The devil only offered deals with a sting in the tail.

But she had nothing to lose.

"Un-hack my phone," she said.

"Done. It was simple, really. You need to take a closer look at your privacy settings."

"And I won't go on record. I won't snitch details of an active investigation to you. I can go on background, but that's it."

"Not enough," Brown countered. "I need something unique, or it's not an exclusive and I don't own it."

Sally's mind churned. This was already crazy, and she couldn't quite believe she was considering it. But if it kept her on the case? If it brought justice for Richter, Cagen and so many others harmed by this killer?

The choice became simple.

"Have you heard about Heraclitus?" she asked.

Brown's eyes narrowed. "Heraclit-who?"

Sally smiled. That came close to being background. Fragment B107, the eyes and ears theory. She weighed the costs and couldn't think of how sharing it would endanger the case or anyone working it. Plus, it was lurid. Vile.

"You'll love it. It's yours."

"Done."

Sally felt herself slipping but didn't care. "Just leave my contribution out of it. And get me back on that case."

"Honey, you'll be back in Dungeness by breakfast."

56 DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

It didn't take long, just a walk along the Thames as Sally explained Heraclitus, the eyes, the ears, the B107 fragment. Brown asked follow-up questions about how she'd felt in the moment: what it had been like to face down Roarke Rook in the marsh; to smash into their boat with her Mustang; to pull Liam O'Connell off Bledd's houseboat with only seconds to spare.

She answered it all. An hour, maybe, then they were done, and Brown raced off to write and file the story. Sally kept walking, feeling loose and uncertain. She found an all-night café near the Big Eye, then sat and drank coffee, watching the day awaken on the street outside, feeling the reality of what she'd just done seep in like a bad hangover.

She'd broken a cardinal rule. Maybe it was enough to get her back on the case, even save her career. Maybe not. But there would be a cost, she was sure of that.

Every few minutes she hit refresh on the Gaze's front page, waiting for the article to show.

It landed at 8:45. Fifteen minutes before McMaster's deadline. Center page, above the fold, her story. There was a photograph at the top, one she'd never seen, that showed her sprinting back through a storm as the beach erupted around her. It must have come from the first day. Her hair was caught by the gale, the skies were black and turbulent behind her, the rain lashing her mud-streaked running gear.

It looked like some kind of poster for an action movie. The headline was worse, filling the screen.

SHE BROKE EVERY RULE.

SHE BROKE THE GANG.

NOW LET HER BREAK THE CASE!

Traffickers on the beach. A killer nobody caught in 30 years. And a young officer dead. As Sally Rogers is told to resign, The Gaze asks: is she the problem – or the only one solving it?

By Tania Brown