McBride paused, searching for the kind of response that would make his host feel better. Before he could reply, the heavy silence was broken by the melodious chime of a doorbell, followed immediately by the sound of a door closing at the back of the house. There were light footsteps. Then a female voice called out. ‘Hi, Dad. It’s me. Where are you?’
The door of the sitting room swung open. The woman who entered was startled to find someone with her father. McBride was equally taken aback by the attractiveness of Novak’s visitor. She was aged about thirty with limbs like a gazelle. Her face shone with perspiration and her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail by a crimson ribbon. She wore a navy-blue sweatshirt, matching bottoms and discoloured trainers. A pair of almond eyes stared back at him from above two sculpted cheekbones. She lifted a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, sorry, Dad, I didn’t know you had company.’ She recovered quickly, looking questioningly at her father.
‘Petra, you remember Campbell, don’t you? The reporter … the author …’
The eyes smiled at McBride. So did the soft mouth that opened to reveal two rows of perfectly even teeth. She moved towards him, reaching out a slender hand. Then she remembered she had been running and that it was covered with sweat. She wiped it over a buttock and extended it again.
McBride took it willingly and felt its moistness. Unnecessarily, he cleared his throat. But, before he could speak, Novak intervened. ‘Campbell, this is Petra – my daughter. You’ve probably forgotten, but you came to her assistance many moons ago.’
McBride hesitated momentarily. ‘How could I forget?’ It wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t the truth either.
Threads of faraway memories started to creep back. It had been down in London, just a few years after he had gone there to live and work, and she had come to visit him in the newsroom of the Daily Express, an awkward teenager moving away from childhood but not quite an adult, in spite of the carefully applied make-up and high-heeled shoes.
He trawled deeper. It hadn’t entirely been a social call – the schoolgirl, who was in the capital with classmates for an educational visit to the Houses of Parliament, was starting to make her career and examination choices. Top of her list was journalism and she needed advice from someone like McBride. Images of her sitting beside him at his desk flashed into his head. He smiled at the memory. For ten minutes, she had hardly taken in a word he said. Her eyes had darted round the room and she’d watched in wonder as one of the world’s greatest newspapers came together out of the professional chaos. He remembered how she had blushed when trying to put some intelligent questions together. The recollection of her juvenile innocence touched him again.
‘So, are you a reporter, then?’
Her cheeks turned pink but this time she was composed and in charge of her mouth. ‘Not exactly – I really wanted to but, well, I went off to university and, you know how it is, you change.’ The flush had rapidly vanished from her face but she seemed embarrassed, as though she’d let him down.
‘So, what did you do at uni?’
‘Law.’
‘A lawyer, eh? Oh, well,’ he said mockingly, ‘at least you’ll have pots of money.’
‘No – not that either.’ She paused, searching for her next words.
Her father, who had listened to the exchanges in silence but with a broadening grin, laughed out loud. ‘She’s a cop, Campbell!’ Novak took delight at his revelation.
‘What?’ McBride was genuinely taken aback, practically to the point of speechlessness. ‘A cop – Jesus, that’s a bit of a turn-up. Christ sake!’ He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised.
The very grown-up woman standing two feet away started to laugh as well. His amazement had allowed her to take charge of the conversation. She glowed with pride at his astonishment, suddenly brimming with confidence. ‘There’s a lot of us around, you know,’ she told him. ‘We don’t all have two heads.’
McBride had recovered. ‘No – or law degrees.’
Novak, the most modest of men, as McBride recalled, couldn’t conceal his pride. ‘Or first-class degrees at that,’ he beamed.
McBride’s lips mouthed a silent whistle. ‘My admiration knows no bounds.’
Novak moved into full flow. ‘She went straight from university into Tayside Police as an accelerated promotion candidate, one of the few to be accepted.’
McBride understood his satisfaction. Scores of unemployed graduates turned to the police as a career, confidently imagining a degree would guarantee rapid promotion. They didn’t seem to realise that every force required far more foot soldiers than high-flying brainboxes. There was no point in recruiting folk whose ambitions surpassed their realistic opportunities for advancement so accelerated promotion entrants were selected sparingly and with care.
He nodded at father and daughter. ‘Good on you.’ He knew the fast track practically guaranteed her promotion to the rank of inspector after seven years.
‘So, what are you? Professional Standards?’ He used the name of the internal affairs department, where cop investigates cop. It seemed a reasonable assumption. Law degree, smart, female, probably resented by male plods anyway.
Novak smiled once more. It was becoming irritating. ‘Tell him, Petra.’
‘Dad! OK – I’m a detective inspector, Campbell, recently made up and enjoying it. Now, can I have cold drink? And do you two want more tea?’
McBride watched every step as she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
19
Richard Richardson was quietly insistent when he phoned his old colleague. He wanted to have dinner with McBride and he wanted to pay for it. They would dine at 8 p.m. in Broughty Ferry and afterwards seek drink or women, more probably both.
He suggested they meet in the restaurant at the hotel situated where Queen Street meets Claypotts Road.
McBride asked the name of the hotel.
‘That’s all it’s called,’ Richardson explained. ‘Its official title is “The Hotel” – capital T capital H. Nothing else. Bloody stupid, I know, but that’s the label they saddled it with.’ It did not occur to him that there was an element of ‘pot’ and ‘black’ in his dismissal of the strange name.
McBride wondered aloud why he was being treated. ‘It’s not my birthday. Is it yours?’ he asked. ‘Have you come into money?’
Richardson tried to sound exasperated. ‘I haven’t come into anything – at least not for some time. Maybe later tonight … This is just a typically generous act on my behalf. Besides, I’ll fiddle it on expenses.’
When McBride arrived precisely on time at The Hotel, his benefactor was already there, seated at a corner table in the busy upstairs restaurant. A bottle of white wine that looked expensive was open and the glass at Double Dick’s right hand had only a mouthful left in it. McBride sensed it would not be the only bottle they would consume that evening.
‘You shouldn’t have bothered waiting,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Have you ordered? Maybe you’ve eaten as well …’
‘Now, now, old son, no need to be offensive.’ Richardson was in exuberant mood. ‘Plenty more left in the bottle,’ he continued, filling the empty glass on the opposite side of the table. ‘Drink up and let’s talk.’
McBride lifted his glass, held it theatrically up to the light and then sniffed the contents. He took a mouthful and made exaggerated swilling motions. ‘French, a Chardonnay, and probably early this century, unless I’m very much mistaken,’ he said, finally, after swallowing the wine.
Richardson’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. Then he realised that the label of the bottle faced his companion. ‘Very funny. You’d struggle to know the difference between gnat’s piss and champagne. Everything doesn’t have to come in a pint glass.’
McBride drained his glass in two quick movements and pushed it across for a refill. ‘OK, what do you want?’ he asked. ‘Has to be more than my company.’
Richardson tried to look hurt. ‘Do people never do anything nice for you, McBride? I just thought it
was time we touched base again.’ He toyed with his drink. ‘Bring me up to speed. How’s this feature you’re supposed to be “working up”? Must be some size if it’s made you move back up from Pooftown.’
McBride raised an eyebrow. ‘You heard?’
‘You should know better. My spies are everywhere. Nothing moves in this town without Richard Richardson being aware of it. My sensitive finger is constantly on the grubby pulse of the city.’
The verbal sparring lasted until the food arrived. Then Double Dick appeared to lose interest in the man seated opposite. His concentration on his plate was awesome. He dissected and arranged, discarded and rearranged. Every mouthful was savoured.
It was only when his three courses had been consumed and a fresh bottle of wine was in place that normal exchanges were resumed. McBride concluded that, whatever his former colleague wanted from him, he also wanted a hunting companion that night.
It was only when they were ensconced in The Fort some time later that he fully appreciated Richardson’s need for female company. The wine had given way to lager and the combination of copious amounts of both seemed to open a verbal tap inside Double Dick’s mouth.
‘When did you last have a shag, then, Mr McRide?’ he asked abruptly, his face twisting to a leer. ‘Do you know that’s what they used to call you – Campbell McRide, the fastest prick in the west … and the south, north and east. The scourge of every housing scheme round the back of Kingsway.’ Richardson became conspiratorial. ‘Do you remember the days when we went hoorin’ together?’ he asked, nostalgia overtaking him. ‘We did OK, didn’t we? Except you always seemed to get the best-looking one. Still, that wasn’t always the one with the biggest tits. Suited me. Sometimes the ugliest were the most rewarding – and the most grateful.’
It was a philosophy Richardson had comforted himself with at the time. McBride would lay money he still adhered to it. Not that he was alone in the practice. McBride had even heard Omar Sharif admit to the same kind of selection process on a TV show interview. He reflected on this for a few moments and concluded that not in his wildest dreams would he have imagined himself ever finding a close similarity between Double Dick and a suave movie actor.
‘Never mind twenty years ago. Are you still getting your share now, Richard?’ McBride asked.
The man who was never lost for words when he penned his paper’s finest news articles struggled to respond. He rolled his head slowly from side to side, making up his mind what to say. Finally, he said, ‘A bit here, bit there – you know the way it goes. Not as much as I’d like. Same as everybody else, I suppose. Except you, maybe.’
McBride changed the subject – or tried to. ‘I ran into Dave Novak, the other day,’ he said lightly. ‘Met his daughter too. Petra. Didn’t recognise her. Hasn’t half grown up. Couldn’t believe she’s a cop.’
Richardson said nothing at first. Then he managed to combine another leer with a laugh. ‘No chance,’ he rasped. ‘You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, McBride. She wouldn’t touch you with a bargepole. I don’t care how often you get lucky with women. The girl has class – and sense. Forget it.’ He chortled, taking delight at the thought of McBride being rejected by the divine Petra.
Before McBride could retaliate, Richardson began to gesture across the bar towards two females. They had entered ten minutes earlier but he had not been aware of their presence. McBride had. Richardson pointed at them and made drinking motions. They nodded. He shouted to John Black behind the bar to give them what they wanted and handed him the money.
‘An investment,’ he explained to McBride, unnecessarily lowering his voice. ‘That’s Kate from the office with one of her mates. Good lass. You can have her. I’ll see what I can make of her pal.’
After they collected their drinks, he waved again, this time beckoning them over. The two women hesitated only long enough to take a sip from their glasses before joining the predators.
The quartet observed the ritual of witty conversation, which was polite but unnecessary. All four understood the protocols required of those who sought the company of the opposite sex in The Fort.
20
Kate Nightingale – it was a great name for a byline.
Campbell McBride had no idea if she could write. He did not care. That night she was exactly what he wanted. She was late thirties, medium height, brown curls and eyes that flashed. Looked foreign – southern European. She wore a soft green blouse, two buttons undone, a black bra peeking at him. The trousers were black as well – tight as the top. A white jacket hung off a tanned shoulder. She was in control and when she laughed it sounded like an invitation to take her to bed – except it wasn’t.
When John Black threw them out at closing time, McBride offered to walk her up the hill to where she lived and she accepted. When they arrived at the house, which was in darkness, they went inside. They did not go to bed but they lay on it. They spoke and drank the coffee she made.
She told him when her marriage had ended and why. That it hadn’t been all his fault.
He didn’t tell her about his break-up or whose fault it had been. That was private stuff. He never spoke of Caroline to other women in the same way he never spoke of his women to other men. Everybody was entitled to their secrets.
They chatted about newspapers and she said she had admired his work from afar.
He didn’t tell her he had never seen any of hers.
She asked about the five awards he’d received for his work and he brushed her off – not out of false modesty but because the prizes were for big stories, the kind that wrote themselves. You just had to be in the right spot on the right day for them. The ones that gave him most satisfaction were the down-the-page pieces that needed most digging. So what if they didn’t have any international or national significance if they made life better for someone? But no one gave you trophies for them and no one else was really that interested, even on the day the stories appeared.
Then they spoke about Richard Richardson and she said Double Dick had told her he knew McBride was sniffing out a story. He’d even strongly implied he knew what the story was, she said. She wondered if that could be true and then, point blank, she asked what the story was.
McBride laughed. He did not answer either of her questions. Instead, he asked some of his own – like why Double Dick seemed to be troubled about something.
She said she didn’t know for sure but there was a rumour in the newsroom that he’d had a bad experience with a woman he’d met on the internet.
An hour later, McBride told Kate he should leave and waited for her to suggest he should stay and extend an invitation for breakfast. She did neither. Instead she put her arms round his neck and kissed him softly but briefly on the lips. Then she swung herself off the bed and took his hand, leading him towards the door.
When they reached the hallway, he turned both her shoulders until she faced him and asked simply, ‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, lowering herself to the floor.
After they had removed each other’s clothing, it did not take long but what occurred did not depend on time, just compatibility. Then they said ‘Yes’ again but in perfect unison.
Not much later, as he walked back down the hill, McBride had no feeling of triumph, just the faintest suspicion that the conquest had been all hers.
21
The midday conference of Courier senior editorial staff had been brief. As the paper’s chief reporter, Richard Richardson might have been expected to give a full account of what could fill the next day’s paper but, beyond a swift rundown of the usual certainties of major court cases and other predictable events of the day, he did not elaborate. He had other things on his mind and had no desire to linger with the others in the editor’s room.
Back at his desk, he looked again at the clock on the wall facing him. Then he checked what he saw with his wristwatch, which he always removed and placed to one side of his desk on the opposite side from his computer mouse. The times matched
identically, as they had five minutes earlier. Kate Nightingale was rostered for a 2 p.m. start. It was 1.45 p.m. and she had not yet arrived. It did not occur to Richardson that none of the other two o’clock starts were in the building either – or that there was no need for them to be.
When she walked into the room eight minutes later, Richardson was momentarily diverted from the task in hand by her appearance. She was no longer the glamorous pub-goer of the evening before. The curls had been stretched straight and the hair was tied back. In place of the tight top and trousers, she wore a masculine, bottle-green business suit with white blouse and olive-coloured tie. She was still a looker but the outfit had lesbian overtones. Not that he entertained any serious thoughts in that direction. He’d never had the pleasure himself but her heterosexual credentials were, by all accounts, impeccable.
Perhaps McBride would confirm their authenticity – more likely, he wouldn’t. The bastard had always been infuriatingly selfish about revealing precisely what he did with his women. Richardson did not believe for one minute that his silence had anything to do with protecting the reputations of his conquests. Knowing McBride, it was almost certainly because he didn’t want to ruin his chances of being welcomed back for a second helping.
The businesslike Kate was still booting up her computer when Richardson appeared, unheard, beside her L-shaped desk. She turned, startled, as he burst out, ‘Well, did McBride have his filthy way with you?’
‘Christ, Richard! Why pick your words so carefully? You should just blurt things out.’ She noted without surprise that he still wore the same shirt and tie from the night before. The only thing different was the amount of cigarette ash obliterating the pattern on his neckwear. ‘He’s a nice man, with a bit more sensitivity than some folk I could mention,’ she continued.
Richardson was dismissive. ‘How very charming for you. Another lamb to the slaughter, more like. Did he give you the spiel about only wanting to have sex with women who connect intellectually with him?’
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