Glenn Mulcaire...The Dark Side of the Media... My experience exposing secrets

Описание: Shadow Man

By Glenn Mulcaire with Sunday Times Best Selling Author Joseph Cusack

VALIDATION

Mark Lewis, the Dowler family lawyer said…

“I never associated Glenn Mulcaire with any wrongdoing on Milly Dowler, he is the real scapegoat, and it always seems odd to me that he was prosecuted twice”.

Nick Davies Author of the book ‘Hack Attack’ said…

“I’ve never blamed Glenn Mulcaire for what the News of the World got up to. It was a ruthless, greedy organisation which pushed people into doing things that they would never of otherwise done.”


PROLOGUE
The cracks in the white ceiling drew me in across their broken lines; it felt good to be back in my own bed after our first family holiday in donkey’s years. The crashing waves, the squawking seagulls and the kids laughing on the beach looking out across the Cornish coastline were fresh in my mind; I could still smell the sea air. It was just what the doctor ordered and exactly what we needed.
“You’re like some sort of machine these days, Glenn,” I could hear my mum’s voice in the back of my mind. “You don’t make any time for your own family anymore, and you spend your life on that bloody phone like some mechanical robot or a bloody puppet having his strings pulled and being controlled by those monsters in suits. They don’t give a toss about you. It’s us who care about you, we’re the ones who matter, not them, and if you don’t pull your head out of your own backside, something will give.”
For years, I would walk through the door with a smile on my face, I’d bring treats home for my kids, and we’d laugh and joke and sing karaoke songs, smothering each other with love and cuddles. The nightly ritual of phoning mum and letting it ring three times to let her know I was home safe and well, a treasured privilege. The outside world didn’t matter to us because we were a tight unit and we cared for each other. Somehow, I’d let that drift away. Mum was right, I’d been focusing on the things that didn’t matter. She told me I’d changed since I stopped bringing Lucky Bags home for my kids every night. It was true, I had changed, I could feel it and I missed their smiling faces as I peered around the living room door.
“Who loves me?” I would shout as I held five bags behind my back.
“Me…Me…Me,” they would all scream in tandem.
The finer things in the life are often the smaller things, the little pieces of the puzzle that go together to make a bigger picture; the nights spent singing, baby Sam jumping up and down on my knee, my girls laughing and giggling.
Not just family though. Recalling the sheer joy of the ball connecting with my size nine Mizuno’s; the instinctive volley hitting the top right-hand corner to score AFC Wimbledon’s first ever competitive goal. I had always known that it was actions that dictated where I was going and what would happen just as I knew before that ball had left my foot that it was in.
“Trigger…Trigger…Trigger,” the faithful sang my nick name from the stands.
Savouring that magic moment, the sheer elation that ball hitting the back of the net gave me, the pride of being written into history as, supporters’ voices reverberating across the stadium. Drifting in and out of sleep on a Newquay beach, the waves rolled in, distant echoes of my triumph and my mother’s words covering me my like a warm eiderdown.
She was so right. My life had become work work work. Restless days had merged into a single homogeneous tangle of anxiety, stress, constant pressure, panic attacks and exhaustion. Bills had to be paid, rubbish cleared, hard drives and sensitive equipment locked away, data lines secured and all whilst constantly rushing back and forth to my shadowy cave tucked away on an anonymous commercial unit on a characterless, light industrial estate in the middle of faceless town. All this just to get live streams and updates on operations in progress to report back to a bunch of snakes in suits. I was drained by it all, drinking too much, thinking too much, working too much and much too hard. The calls from the chinless wonders never stopped, my numerous phones and pagers ablaze with constant calls. The demands got worse, and the pile on my desk never seemed to get any smaller. I was stuck fast, going round and round in circles down a mind numbing cul de sac, and like some sort of remote-controlled drone, I was shuffling through life on autopilot. A crescendo of energy-sapping tension was building and I knew it. I had had to get away.
Sitting in traffic jams during the six-hour car journey to Newquay didn’t matter because the kids were happy, and Alison was happy and that meant I was too. A nasty whiff of Cheesy Wotsits, Sunny Delight and baby wipes invaded my nostrils as I drove, Alison by my side, the kids loaded in the back and my best friend and father-in-law, Simmo, behind in his own car.