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Sandra Singh flopped on to the bench seat opposite Rory, dumping raincoat, handbag and briefcase beside her. ‘That jerk Murray,’ she spat.
‘Thought as much,’ Rory said, giving Sandra the quick once-over. ‘Love the earrings.’
‘A wee shop in Cambridge. I’m going to kill him, I swear to God. Three weeks hammering out the new format and then this morning it’s, “the network disnae like it.” I tell you, some days I wish I’d never left newspapers.’ She raked in her handbag and came out with a packet of Marlboro Red and a matchbook from last night’s restaurant.
‘You don’t mean that.’ Rory leaned out of the booth and waved to the bar, holding up two fingers.
Sandra’s grin was even sharper than her suit. ‘You’re right, I don’t.’ She sighed. ‘I just wish I did. So, any news?’
‘You could say that. Looks like I might have got myself a partner.’
Sandra snorted smoke. ‘As in, you got laid?’
Rory’s attempt at dignity wouldn’t have fooled a drunken child of two. ‘Sandra, there’s more to life than sex.’
Sandra’s laugh attracted every woman in the place. ‘You didn’t get laid, then.’
‘I’m talking business here, fool.’
Sandra nodded acknowledgement to the barmaid, who placed two sweating bottles in front of them. ‘You serious? I thought the whole point of this was being a one-man band?’
‘I thought so, yeah. But this one’s really special.’
Sandra took a long swallow of her beer. ‘So you’re planning on getting laid?’
Rory shook her head in affectionate exasperation. ‘No. Focus your mind above the waist for once, would you? I’m not looking for a shag, I’m looking to build a business. Listen, do you remember me telling you years back about Lindsay Gordon?’
Sandra frowned. ‘Lindsay …? Oh, wait a minute. The great lesbian icon hack. The one that turned you on to the beautiful game. This would be that Lindsay Gordon?’
‘One and the same. Well, you’ll never guess what happened. You couldn’t write this, people would say, “Yeah, right, and then the Pope said abortion was fine by him.” But this is the absolute, no messing, God’s honest truth.’ Rory gave Sandra the full version of her meeting with Lindsay, punctuated by her friend’s regular interruptions.
‘That’s wild,’ Sandra finally said. ‘So she said she’d think about it?’
‘That was just for show. You could tell she’s gagging to get back in harness.’
‘You wish.’ Sandra finished her cigarette and her beer. ‘Sorry, babe. I’m out of here. In fact, I never was in here. Got a date with a beautiful boy from Radio Clyde.’ She stood up, gathering her universe. She leaned across the table and kissed Rory on the cheek. ‘See you, darlin’.’
On her way out, she passed a baby dyke, black leather waistcoat over white T-shirt, black jeans, dyed-black cropped hair, bottle of Rolling Rock in her hand. ‘She’s all yours,’ Sandra told her, patting her on the arm. The baby dyke flushed scarlet and edged towards the booth.
‘I got you a drink, Rory,’ she said, a nervous smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.
‘Thanks. You want to sit down?’
The kid squirmed into the seat Sandra had left. ‘You pay folk for stories, eh?’ she scrambled out.
‘Depends. What’s your name?’
‘I’m Kola. Wi’ a K. Ma pal Ginger says you gien her a fifty for something she told you last year.’
Rory nodded. Ginger had tipped her the wink about a candidate for the Scottish parliament with a sideline in cigarette smuggling. She’d got a splash in the Herald and follow-ups in all the dailies the next day. ‘I remember. How’s Ginger doing? I’ve not seen her about the place for a while.’
‘She’s went tae London. She got taken on by BHS. The clothes are shite, and so’s the money, but she’s having a ball. So will you pay me for a story?’
‘Let me hear what you’ve got and I’ll tell you what it’s worth. OK?’
Kola thought about it. It was a bit more complicated than buying a drink or scoring some E, so it took a minute or two. ‘How do I know you won’t just write it anyway?’
‘You don’t. You have to trust me. But you know I didn’t let Ginger down.’ Kola nodded, her face clearing, relieved at having the decision made for her. ‘Right. OK. It’s about Madonna.’
Rory fought to keep her face straight. Whatever was coming, she didn’t think it was going to keep the cats in Whiskas for life. ‘Madonna? We’re talking the singer, not the one with the statues in the cathedral?’
It was beyond Kola, who frowned. ‘Aye, the singer. Her and that Guy Ritchie, they’re gonnae buy a big house out in Drymen.’
Stranger things have happened, Rory thought. 4,6,11, 24, 39 and the bonus ball is 47. At least Drymen was the right sort of territory for someone like Madonna. Big houses, country estates, high walls and gamekeepers with shotguns. ‘In Drymen?’ she echoed.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Kola accused her with the tired hurt of someone used to being taken for a liar.
‘It’s a bit … surprising,’ Rory said. ‘Gonnae tell me where you heard this?’
‘It’s right enough,’ Kola said defensively. ‘The folk that work for her have been on the phone to an estate agent out there.’
‘You’re going to have to tell me how you know that, Kola,’ Rory said, suddenly wondering if the baby dyke might not be as daft as she looked.
Kola sighed in exasperation. ‘I’m shagging his wife.’
People would cross the road if they saw Michael Conroy walking towards them. Whether they knew him by sight or by repute or not at all, they instinctively knew better than to block this man’s piece of the pavement. His eyes were the greenish amber of a bird of prey; his narrow face involuntarily called up memories of a wood-axe. He looked precisely what he was. Dangerous and mean. To Patrick Coughlan, this limited his usefulness. He’d never have dreamed of sending Michael undercover unless the aim was to scare the shit out of everybody he came into contact with.
Michael didn’t mind. His idea of being a soldier wasn’t pretending to be a librarian in North London or working on a building site in Derby while other people did the dirty work. He liked what he’d spent the past fifteen years doing. Ceasefire didn’t suit him and he knew it.
He sat in the chair facing Patrick, his eyes calm and watchful. Dressed in an olive green combat jacket and blue jeans, he would have fitted in perfectly with any group of squaddies in a bar anywhere. Entirely self-contained, he cleaned his nails with the blade of a penknife, an absent-minded habit that he was unaware was marked down on the file MI5 had held on him for some years.
Kevin O’Donohue was the gopher. A thin, wiry greyhound, he fetched and carried without the wit to question what or why. Loyal to the point of stupidity, he was reliable only in the sense that he didn’t have enough brains to act on his own initiative. He did what he was told, and mostly he did it well enough. Michael tolerated him for his sister’s sake. Siobhan got Kevin’s share of intelligence in the genetic share-out. It wasn’t imbecility that had got