There was no real answer to that. Was the editor of a provincial newspaper in any sense responsible for what his staff did on their days off? ‘But it wasn’t a bloody day off, was it?’ the editor had said. ‘Chris Logan is on the company payroll, using company time and company funds. When you find him, tell him his days are numbered and I want to see him, on my carpet, forthwith.’ The editor wasn’t built for the job any more. Too much of the sedentary lifestyle, too many convivial bevvies over lunch, too much linguini. His hair, along with his ace reporter apparently, had deserted him, and so had his sense of humour. Maxwell felt the wind rush by him as the editor slammed out of the outer office into the bowels of the Advertiser where mysterious people did … no outsider quite knew what. The Head of Sixth Form just knew the man had on his desk the legend ‘You don’t have to be a surly bastard to work here and it doesn’t help.’ ‘A martyr to his blood pressure, I would think, your editor,’ Maxwell winked at the young hopeful hovering nervously by the aspidistra.
