Not that it was exactly an enthralling sight, she thought. The place could never have been mistaken for Fleet Street – and that was putting it mildly. In fact, it only a shade more impressive than the offices of the Maltham Chronicle, the provincial weekly rag on which she’d been working when Charlie Woodend – miffed that she had slightly distorted reality in order to produce a better story – had personally seen to it that she’d lost her job. Her musing shifted from Woodend to Dexter Bryant. The Editor might well put on a brave face in public about his changed fortunes, but a face was all it could possibly be. The simple truth was that going from the Daily Standard to the Mid Lancs Courier was the equivalent of moving out of Buckingham Palace and into a small, damp council flat. A young woman in a short blue dress appeared at Elizabeth Driver’s side. ‘Miss Driver?’ she asked. ‘That’s me.’ ‘I’m Margaret Pearson, Mr Bryant’s secretary. If you’d care to follow me, he’ll see you now.’ As she stood up, Elizabeth Driver gave the other woman the automatic once-over.
