Chapter 54 In which Dr Pangloss suggests the Westphalia Express prints more 'feel good' stories

In between the rain showers one July morning the Mayor decided to stroll over and see his old friend the editor at the Westphalia Express. It wasn't just a social call, as Dr Pangloss had become increasingly alarmed by some of the stories he had been reading lately and was intent on berating the editor once more about the content of his newspaper.
"What happened to your promise to print positive stories?" demanded Dr Pangloss.
"I don't remember promising," said the editor. "We do our best, but you do make things difficult for us; sometimes it's hard to see where one cock-up ends and the next one begins."
"Well Mr Editor, I think many problems arise through the language you use. What you call 'cock-ups' I refer to as 'years of neglect inherited from past administrations', and I think if you started to use that phrase a little more you'd find things weren't quite so bad as you sometimes make out."
"Hmm, I'm not convinced. What about the half a million pounds in redundancy payments to council officers - we can't really put that in a very good light, can we?"
"Of course you can - it's a cost-cutting exercise. We'll save thousands."
"But why is everyone paid so much in the first place?"
"Because they've got top notch brains, that's why."
"So why are you getting rid of them?"
"Well that's obvious. The officers who have left were very good, but we probably need people with different qualities for the commissioners roles. We want to get the council working properly, and in that context half a million pounds is worth it to get the job right. "
"Different qualities? What does that mean? Does this mean these people are crap and overpaid, and haven't been doing their jobs properly?"
"Look, Mr Editor, I think we've spent long enough discussing this as it is. Now what I would like to see on your front page is something a bit more cheerful. You know, the sun is out, and everyone's having a lovely time on holiday."
"But it's been pissing with rain!"
"Not all the time - it was lovely at the weekend."
"That was two days. We've had record-breaking rainfall for the month."
"Oh, stop splitting hairs. I know - 'the sun is out and all the hotels are full'. There's your story."
"But they're not full. The new budget one is, but it's taking business away from the smaller hotels."
"Jesus Christ, you're supposed to be on my side. Look, just run the story and stick in a picture of a crowded beach at the seafront."
"Crowded beach? You'll be lucky. There's nowhere to park down there. Wreck Walk, parking restrictions, remember?"
"Well dig a photo out of the archives from the seventies and just airbrush out the old cars. Just give me one positive story. Please."
Just then there was a knock at the door, and the head of John Staedtler appeared.
"Can I have word, boss - in private?"
The editor excused himself and stepped outside. "What is it John?"
His deputy said nothing, but held up two postcards.
"From the blogger?"
"Yep. Numbers five and six. And he's started playing a little game, giving clues about his identity."
"Can you fit it into your next column?"
"It's a bit difficult. I'm planning a large piece about the Deputy Mayor and his weasel words over his next planned development on public space up at the Downs. I was toying with the headline 'Hatter suffering from Downs Syndrome'."
"Hmm, not sure he'd see the funny side of that. Can I see the postcards?"
Staedtler handed him the first one. The picture was of the beach in Westphalia-on-Sea which had been recently sold to property developer and millionaire Pierre De Saveloy. On the beach was a sign saying 'LOCALS - KEEP OUT'. The Editor turned the card over and read the rhyme on the reverse:


Six postcards now you have received
Some showing plans so ill-conceived
Fifteen more are yet to come
Then you will have all twenty-one.
(We did consider thirty-six,
And throwing nought into the mix.)

To solve the clues help is at hand –
Your readers, up and down the land.
So ask them now to join the fun
And ponder on those ‘twenty-one’.
The answer must be printed here
Or postcard seven won’t appear.

So hurry, print that cryptic clue
It really would be wise of you.
Our happy band as yet concealed
Through riddles solved will be revealed.
And do not spoil this treasure hunt
Or you will look like an old misery.

"Hmm, interesting," said the Editor. "So he wants you to print this stuff and solve the clues, does he? Let's see the other one." He turned the second postcard over and stared at it for a few moments. "So this is a clue is it? Well, it means nothing to me. You got any ideas?"

"Nothing's ringing any bells at the moment, boss. What do think, shall we print it? See if any of the readers can shed any light on it?"

"It's up to you John. I've got enough on my plate with him in there." The editor lowered his voice as he said this and nodded towards his office door. "I'll trust your judgement on this one."

Chapter 53 In which John Staedtler goes after the blogger

In the world of national newspaper journalism the silly season begins in August when Parliament takes its summer recess and there is little important news to report. It is known as "Mätäkuun juttu" in Finland (literally meaning 'rotting-month story', and "Komkommertijd" or cucumber time in Holland, for reasons best known to the Dutch. In the world of local newpapers, however, it is pretty much silly season all year round. In local newspapers any old rubbish could find its way onto the front page, which is why John Staedtler, the Deputy Editor of the Westphalia Express was walking briskly down the High Street. He was on the trail of the elusive 'Piddlebackside Blogger', and had the name of someone who he thought could help him. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and checked the address. Looking up at the shopfronts he realised he was on the wrong side of the street. He stepped into the road and was startled by blaring horn of a double decker bus. 'Watch where you're going mate!' Shouted the angry driver. 'Sorry,' mumbled Staedtler, 'I thought this had all been pedestrianised.'
Reaching the other side of the road in one piece Staedtler pushed open the door of the new healthy juice bar PearWater. 'French,' said Staedtler to the girl behind the counter, 'I'm looking for Paul French.' 'Through the door,' she replied, nodding to her right. 'Go on in, he ain't busy.' Staedtler knocked and opened the door at the same time. Sitting at the desk was a dapper little man. With the nicotine stained fingers of one hand he was twisting his moustache; with the other he carelessly dropped cigarette ash from a Gitane.
'You French?' asked Staedtler.
'No, it's just a lisp; had it since I was a kid.'
'Spare me the funnies, wiseguy, said Staedtler. 'I hear you're something of a part-time dick.'
'Yeah? Well maybe you're a bit of a twat, yourself.'
'I meant a private investigator. It's an American ...'
'Yeah, I know. I'm just messing with you. Having a laugh. Well, you got to in this town, right? Now what can I do for you, John?'
'How did you know my name?' asked Staedtler.
'I make it my business to know,' replied French. When you've kicked around this place as long as I have you hear stuff. Besides, I read the local rag.'
'OK Clever Dick, what about the Piddlebackside Blogger; do you know him?'
'Maybe I do and maybe I don't. Depends who wants to know. Anyways, who says it's a him? Could be a her or a them.' But why are you so keen to know? They ain't done nothing illegal, have they?'
'No he hasn't,' persisted Staedtler, 'he's just beginning to piss me off, that's all.'
'Well it happens to us all, I'm afraid Mr Staedtler. We're all just pubic hairs on the toilet bowl of life - sooner or later we get pissed off. Now let me get this straight - you want to pay me to reveal person or persons unknown, is that correct?'
'That's it, yes.'
'Well, before I take the case I like to know who I'm working for.'
'Well, for me of course,' said Staedtler.
'You don't expect me to believe that, do you? You come in here playing the journo after a story, but who's to say there isn't someone bigger behind this investigation?'
'Like who, the Mayor?'
'Maybe him. Or maybe Charlie Windsor. Or maybe Ahmad Hatter. Ain't he the one pulling the strings down at the Town Hall?'
'Well, I don't know. You'd have to ask him about ...'
'Well he ain't here John, so I'm asking you. What do you think? What's your op-in-i-on?' French pronounced every syllable of the word slowly and deliberately.
'Look, I'm not employed to give my opinion. I'm neutral, straight down the middle, you know that.'
'Oh yes, very convenient. Well, I'm not going to sit here arguing about it all day. Look, my fee's £300 a day plus expenses. If you want to pay those rates I'll take the case.'
'Three hundred a day? That's even more than Dr Pangloss earns!'
'Take it or leave it, it's your call. But let me ask you this - are you sure you want to get into this, John? Piddlebackside can be a nasty place, and once you go in it's not so easy to get out.'
'What are you talking about? It's just fiction. Make believe.'
'Is it John? Or is there a lot truth in the whole thing? I'm telling you John, if you start chasing the story you could end up giving it the oxygen of publicity which you have so far tried to deny it. It's a high risk strategy; you could suddenly find yourself centre stage.'
'Look French. I was raised in a suburb of Westphalia-on-Sea called Hell, so that should tell you something. I'll take my chances on the mean streets of Piddlebackside.'
'OK John, but don't say I didn't warning you. Now let me see those three postcards you received.'
'Four.'
'Four? In your column in the paper you said it was three. From Liverpool, Nantwich and the Potteries.'
'Yes, well the fourth one had a different message. It just said 'read http://www.westphalia-on-sea.blogspot.com/ and I didn't want to print that in the newspaper.
'Where was it from?'
'It was one of Westphalia-on-Sea by night. And it was posted from here too.'
'There, you see what I mean John? You'll already playing with fire and gettin' your fingers burnt and we ain't hardly started. What if people start calling you up, asking if you're witholding other parts of the story? What will you tell them?'
'I'll tell them the fourth postcard arrived later, after the story had gone to print - they'll believe me, they know I'm an honest guy. And I'll promise to print news of any other postcards as soon as I receive them.'
'Well, I just hope you're right John, and I hope you're as good as your word.' French picked up the postcards and turned them over one by one. 'Now let me see, Nantwich - wasn't there a by-election there recently?'
'Yes, there was. Are you thinking this is from someone attached to a political party?'
'Could be. Or a journalist covering the story - there was a lot of media interest. Know of any hacks who you've done the dirty on in your time? Any that may still bear a grudge?'
Staedtler looked out the window. You didn't get to the top (or nearly the top) of the greasy poll in journalism without standing on a few heads on your way up. He must have pissed off half of the NUJ, but at the moment his mind had gone blank. 'No names are jumping out at me, but I'll give it some thought. I've been in this game a long time, and I'll have to really start dredging the old memory.'
'OK, you do that,' said French, 'and be sure to give me a call the moment something or someone occurs to you.'