is there a sordid financial motive behind your visit?’
‘You want social intercourse? OK. How’s Julia?’
Giles smiled fondly. His wife was the Member of the European Parliament for Central West Scotland. Julia’s frequent absences, he maintained, were what rendered her capable of putting up with him. ‘She’s on a jolly in Oslo.’
‘That’s a contradiction in terms,’ Rory observed. ‘Give her my love next time you pass in the night.’ She leaned back in the chair and hitched her Gap-clad legs on to the desk. ‘I’ve got a very good tip for you, babe.’
Giles groaned. ‘Why not copy? Why do I have to do all the work?’
‘Because it’s not my kind of story. I do investigative journalism, remember? Stories like this are the reason I quit working for the newsdesk.’
‘That and the thick end of a hundred and fifty grand,’ Giles said cynically.
‘The lottery was the means, not the reason, as well you know. Now, do you want this story, or do you want me to toddle round to the Sun?’
Giles stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, languid as a trout stream on an August afternoon. ‘As if,’ he said. ‘So tell me what you know.’
‘Madonna’s people are having hush-hush talks with estate agents about her buying a property on Loch Lomond. In the Drymen area.’
Giles raised one eyebrow.
‘Don’t do that, you look like Roger Moore in a bad Bond movie,’ Rory complained. ‘It’s straight up. I got it from the horse’s mouth. Well, the groom’s best mate’s mouth. But I know for a fact that Struther Wilson have been approached, and if they’ve had the word, so have other people.’
‘If it’s true, it’s not a bad little tale,’ Giles said cautiously.
‘It’s me you’re talking to, Giles. When you stand it up, it’s a guaranteed splash and you know it.’
His smile conceded. ‘How much are you looking for?’
‘A generous tip fee. I’ve got to split it with my source. I’ll leave the details to your sense of propriety.’
Giles pushed his dark blond hair back from his forehead. ‘Very trusting.’
‘Hey, I know you’re the only person under this roof who knows the meaning of the word.’ Rory dropped her feet to the floor and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Some of us have got work to do.’
He snorted. ‘Cappuccinos to drink, more like. By the way, Sandra tells me you think you’re in with a chance with some woman you bumped into in the Botanics.’
Rory shook her head. ‘If you guys worked as hard at getting stories as you do at spreading gossip, I’d be out of a job. Let me know how you get on with Madonna.’
Before he could reply, Rory was out the door. She had more than cappuccino on her mind, but that was none of Giles’s business. She still couldn’t quite believe in her encounter with Lindsay; it felt too good to be true. Her freelance business had begun to generate more work than she could handle alone, but she hadn’t wanted to share with just anyone. She’d always been a loner, hiding her self-sufficiency behind a mask of easy charm, letting few people see the vulnerability and damage behind the façade. Sandra was one of a handful who had been allowed past the barrier of her public face, but Sandra was too much in love with the buzz of television to consider giving it up for the slog of freelancing. And there was nobody else that Rory had ever seriously considered working with.
But something had sparked between her and Lindsay Gordon, and it was something more than hero worship. They’d made an instant connection, and Rory still felt faintly baffled by the speed with which she’d offered Lindsay a share in her closely guarded world. She had no conviction that Lindsay would take up the invitation without more work on her part; her self-belief couldn’t quite carry her that far. So somehow Rory was going to have to figure out how to entice her in.
Lindsay dipped another crispy chip into the bowl of relish and turned another page of the paper. She’d been waiting over an hour for Rory, but it hadn’t been a problem. Somehow, the restlessness that had afflicted her earlier had dissipated in the congenial atmosphere of Café Virginia. And besides, she’d made good use of the time.
She’d limped in, her eyes roving round the bar area, taking in the décor that somehow managed to be stylish without being impersonal. Trance music played, not loud enough to make conversation uncomfortable. A handful of patrons sat on high stools at tables built on to the square pillars that supported the ceiling. A few glanced up as she walked in, but nobody gave her a second look as she made her way to the zinc-topped counter. Behind the bar, a woman with cropped black hair was stocking cold cabinets with bottled beers. As Lindsay approached, she turned and stood up. ‘What can I get you?’ she asked.
‘I’ll take a cappuccino.’
The barmaid nodded and moved to the gleaming coffee machine. While she fiddled purposefully with taps and spigots, Lindsay continued to scan the place. The bar area occupied the front of the café, but beyond she could see a bigger room. Wooden booths lined the back wall, but the rest of the space was occupied with round metal tables and Italian-style chairs with slender chrome legs. At two of the tables, lone women sat with coffee cups, cigarettes and newspapers.
Lindsay paid for her drink, then said, ‘I’m looking for Rory McLaren.’
The barmaid smiled. ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel of the Merchant City.’ It came out with the smoothness of a familiar line. ‘She’s no’ been in yet.’
‘She’s got a regular table, right?’
The barmaid leaned on the counter and pointed through to the back room. ‘Furthest booth at the end. She expecting you?’
Lindsay shrugged. ‘I suppose that depends on how confident she is of her pulling power.’
The smile widened to a grin. ‘She’ll be expecting you, then. Go away through. Mind you, there’s no telling when she’ll show up. If she’s not in first thing, it could be quite a while.’
‘That’s OK, I’m not in any hurry.’
‘Aye well, all good things come to those who wait.’
‘Will you have one with me while I’m waiting?’
The barmaid raised her eyebrows. ‘Aye, all right. I’ll have a Diet Irn-Bru, if it’s all right with you.’ She reached into the chill cabinet and pulled out a can, popping the top and taking a swig.
‘Do you mind telling me your name? Only, I reckon there’s a fair chance I’m going to be in here quite a bit, and, “Hey, you,” isn’t really my style.’
‘Oh God, not another smooth operator,’ the barmaid sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling.
Lindsay grinned. ‘Truly, that wasn’t a line. I might be doing a bit of work with Rory and, from what she’s told me, this is where it all happens.’ She shrugged. ‘I prefer to be on friendly terms, that’s all.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘I used to be a journalist. And Rory seems to think I could be again.’ Lindsay’s self-deprecating shrug was perfectly calculated.
‘She can be very persuasive.’
‘So I’ve heard. But you need to be in this game. So humour me that I can still cut the mustard and tell me your name.’
The barmaid grinned. She had a tiny diamond inlaid in her left canine. It added shock value to the smile. ‘I’m Annie,’ she said.
‘And I’m Lindsay.’ She looked around. ‘Rory tells me she keeps pretty busy. Plenty stories coming in all the time.’
Annie nodded. ‘Everybody knows her in here. You’d be amazed the things she picks up just