-Track Twelve-
James Wilson, the Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Nation, sat in his Fleet Street office. He leant back in his chair and the intercom buzzed.
“Sir, Ollie Smith is on the line,” said his secretary. “He said he needed to speak with you urgently.”
“Ollie Smith?” asked James puckering his brow while trying to recall the name.
“Oh...Ollie Smith, Yes, I remember him, he’s a freelancer who sent us a few stories before. Put him through,” said James.
“Hello James,” said Ollie, and trying to sound sober, said. “Great news, I have found Fossils.”
James’ eyes widened as he asked. “What? Where are you? The Philippines?”
“No,” said Ollie. “They aren't there, they are in Cambodia, and I am watching them perform now.”
“Great!” James exclaimed, and then furrowed his brow, “and you’re sure it’s them?”
“Positive,” said Ollie. He chuckled and said. “They are a lot older than everyone thinks. None of them look younger than seventy.”
James frowned, and looking angry, snapped. “Are you crazy? You sound drunk.”
“Listen,” said Ollie, giggling. He pointed his phone towards Fossils who were now performing their Khmer piece.
James heard the whining and whistling of the Khmer instruments and became enraged.
“Oh...Wait!” Shouted Ollie and then his phone went silent.
James slammed down the receiver and shouted at his secretary through the intercom. “If that fucking drunken idiot calls again, never put him through to me.”
James Wilson, hacked off with crank calls about Fossils and fuming over Ollie Smith’s call, spent the next few hours calling colleagues at other newspapers and press offices at top media and broadcasting companies, warning them about Mr Ollie Smith, crackpot, drunk, and time waster.
Although the Fossils promotion was a great success, the hassle James endured became a burden and Ollie Smith had made matters worse. James had no reason to doubt that the information given to him by his reliable source at the BBC that Fossils were somewhere in the Philippines and hoped his reporters would find them soon so his papers distribution would soar and he would get a good night’s sleep.
Ollie felt annoyed by James Wilson’s rudeness. He would investigate further and when he got the proof he needed, he would contact other major tabloids and sell them his story. ‘Fuck the Daily Nation,’ he thought.
Ollie gulped down his beer as Fossils played and thought. ‘There are plenty of newspapers who will buy this incredible story.’
He left Sharkys, went to a small bar opposite, and waited.
Cosmo looked up the names of the Daily Nations senior journalists and its Editor-in-Chief on the internet which he would use to get Billy Numan’s attention.
On a cold damp winter’s day, Lucy drove into London, parked her car at one of her Doctor colleagues practices in the city, and she and Cosmo caught the tube to Oxford Circus Station, where they walked the short distance to Broadcasting House.
As well as files, Lucy took along an item to show definitive proof, and Cosmo, not trusting Billy Numan as far as he could spit a rat, took along an extra device in his pocket that he knew would come in useful.
They stood in front of the large, daunting building. Lucy took a deep breath and said, “Ready Cosmo?”
Cosmo grinned and nodded. “Yes, let’s get our family home safely.”
Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, they strode into Broadcasting House and went through security, to the reception desk.