The 'fabulous' was Martin's own addition. The station manager didn't like it, but Martin was proud -- Pride by name, proud by nature, his little joke -- enough to know that he was better than this crummy graveyard slot. He slid open the fader and nodded to his producer to stand by on the cut-off. The show broadcast on a thirty second delay to filter out abusive callers.

"Is that you, Martin?" The voice sounded calm, if slightly
uncertain. Mid to late twenties, Martin guessed. There was a hint of a north-east accent.

"It certainly is, and your name?"

"Er . . . Kenny . . . My name's Kenny."

"Welcome to the show, Kenny." False name, too much hesitation to be genuine. "What do you want to talk about tonight?"

A long pause ensued and Martin thought for a split-second that the line had gone dead. He hated this job, everyone thought a career in radio was glamorous. Yet here he was, close to midnight, sat listening to the freaks and the weirdos with their sob stories and their rants. Several times he'd thought about resigning, but -- as Alison, his wife, was quick to remind him -- there was the mortgage to pay.

"I want to talk about murder."

"Okay, Kenny. Is that any particular murder? Or just about the crime in general?" Please, God, thought Martin, spare me another right- wing law and order nut.

Another pause, shorter than the last. Martin watched through the glass as the producer lifted his eyebrows in frustration. Producer, that was a laugh, the kid was barely out of romper suits. And he had an annoying habit of calling him `Marty'; only Alison called him that.

"One particular murder, Martin."

"And which murder would that be?" Odds on it's that girl who was killed last week, or maybe one of Shipman's lot. And if it's one case he won't be a right-winger, more likely some wishy-washy, liberal reformer. A glance at the wall-clock next to the glowing red on-air sign. Jeez, twenty minutes to go before the news.

"The one I just committed."

The words left a gaping hole in the air like a sonic boom. Martin sat bolt upright in his seat. He saw the producer's hand move for the cut-off and waved frantically across the studio for him to stop. "You're saying you just committed a murder?" A hint of tension showed through the smooth radio persona.

"That's right, Martin."

"Well, Kenny, sounds interesting. Would you like to tell us more about it?" Martin trod carefully, fighting to keep the excitement from his voice, he suspected a crank call. But if this was for real he needed to keep the caller on the line. This could be an important, no an historic, piece of broadcasting. No more late-night talk shows. A life of drive-time slots and opening record stores flashed briefly through Martin's thoughts before Kenny spoke again.

"I didn't mean to do it. It's just . . . she wouldn't shut up, you know? On and on, doing my head in."

In the production booth an animated phone call began to take place. Martin hoped the station manager was listening to the show. His Sony award had been ten years ago, all but forgotten in the industry -- though it still had pride of place on Martin's mantlepiece. If he played this right it could be just what he needed to put him back where he felt he deserved to be.

"And who was this, Kenny? Your girlfriend? Wife?" They always murder their loved ones, Martin mused. Why go to all that bother finding someone, building a relationship, marriage even, only to go and kill them?

"No, the woman in the house."

Martin wondered if Alison was tuned in too. He'd be in for a warm welcome at home if this went well. The producer's voice cut into his cans, "Keep him talking, Marty. I've called the police."

Martin nodded, what on Earth does he think I'm trying to do? "Which house would that be?"

"Just a house, I dunno." Kenny sounded more nervous now. He'd slipped from telephone voice to a more ordinary speech pattern, his accent was stronger too.

"So, what were you doing in the house, Kenny?"

"I was just doing a job."

"Right, you're a builder? Painter? Plumber?" God, it was like drawing teeth.

"No, I was doing a job . . . y'know, a job?"

"A job? I'm sorry, I don't understand. What kind of job?"

"Just a job." Frustration had crept into the tone. "I didn't know she was there, see?"

Martin belatedly made the connection. "Are you telling me you're a burglar, Kenny?"

"What if I am?" Defensive now.

"You just admitted to murder, Kenny. I don't think a spot of breaking and entering makes too much difference anymore."

"Don't push it, Marty. Don't lose him," the producer intoned. Martin scowled an I'm the professional here, I know what I'm doing, look; although he could feel cold beads of sweat rolling down across his ribs.

"I suppose you're right," said Kenny.

If he hadn't been on-air Martin would have sighed with relief. "So, tell me about this woman?"

"I didn't know, like I say. I thought no one's in. I'd unplugged the DVD, got the cash and the cards, then I went upstairs, see if there was any tom."

"Jewellery?" Martin smiled to himself, those hours Alison made him spend watching The Bill hadn't been wasted time after all. He'd get some gentle teasing about that bit.

"Yeah, tom, yeah. Anyhow, I goes in the bedroom, and there's this woman asleep."

"And what happened then?"

"I was just gonna sneak out again."

"But you didn't? Why not?"

"She woke up didn't she? 'Who're you? What you doing here?' she says. 'Shut up and you won't get hurt,' I says. 'Where's your jewellery?' She points at the dressing table, then as I'm searching through the drawers, she's going on and on."

"What was she saying, Kenny?" The producer was giving an enthusiastic thumbs up through the glass. Martin took this to mean that the police had traced the call and were on the way. He hoped they wouldn't be too quick, he felt he was on the verge of a major career breakthrough -- not to mention a warmer welcome in the bedroom than Kenny had received.

"Just going on, you know? 'It's all there take it. My hubby’ll be back soon. Promise you'll just take it and go, you won't hurt me?' She thought I was gonna rape her, see? But I don't do stuff like that, it ain't my style. I got a wife, kids."

Hubby was a word Alison used sometimes; Martin always found it a touch quaint, old-fashioned even. "I understand, go on."

"But she's talking, on and on, doing my head in, wouldn't shut up. So I grabs her by the throat. Just to keep her quiet, like. Didn't mean to hurt her. Only . . ." The voice faltered.

"Only what, Kenny?"

"Only once I'd got hold I couldn't let go."

"And then?"

"She just stopped moving, I thought she'd fainted . . ."

"So what did you do?"

"I went back for the gear. I was gonna leg it, but I had to
check . . . see if she was okay, y'know?"

"You went back to see if she was all right?"

"I did. But then . . . she wasn't breathing. I tried to - -"

Down the phone line, came the sound of splintering wood followed by a series of muffled thuds. There were scuffling sounds and indistinct voices. Then the soft purr of the dial-tone as the call was ended. Martin closed the mike, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths.

"We've got dead air, Marty," the producer said, "I hit the cut-out ten seconds ago."

"Well," Martin, heart pounding, opened the mike again and spoke as calmly as he could. "We do get some interesting calls here on the late show." He glanced at the studio clock, selecting a CD as he began planning his first breakfast show in his head. He forced his voice back into mellow late-night radio mode. "I'm Martin Pride, here with you right through until two a.m. We'll be taking some more of your calls after the midnight news, but for now let's have some music." He slipped the disc he'd been looking for into the player with a wry grin. "And, just to keep you in the mood of that last call, this is, The Stranglers." He pushed open the fader to the opening bars of 'Golden Brown', slipped off the cans and opened the intercom to the booth. "Was that guy for real?"

His producer nodded. "Yeah, well done, Marty. You'll be in line for a commendation letter from the chief constable, I should think."

"Sod that. This could get me the breakfast show for sure. You did get it on tape?" A grin and a wink from the other side of the glass told Martin he had. "Great, do we know where he was?"

"Yeah, they traced it to a local number." A quick glance down at a pad. "It's . . ." The producer looked at the pad again, and then at a list pinned to the wall, the colour left his face as if someone had wiped it away. "Oh shit!"

"What? What is it?"

"Six-eight-five-two-double-one . . . It's . . . It’s your number, Marty . . ."