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.'