I want more.’ More? Lilith read the brief e-mail for the tenth time, fuming. She’d knocked herself out, tracking down the dead boy and getting an ID. She’d written a story, padding out the little she knew with skill: incorporating platitudes, speculation and flashes of brilliance. And no one else had the story—she was sure of that. Nothing had appeared on the Met website yet; the fact that it was a holiday was working in her favour. Yet it wasn’t good enough for Rob Gardiner-Smith. He wanted more. What else could she give him? An interview, that was what. Quotes. But trying to get through the police Family Liaison Officer to the family was a non-starter. He would be guarding them jealously against press intrusion, whether she rang on the phone or turned up at their door. That was part of his job. And her job was to do what her editor wanted. Lilith read the e-mail again.
