why.’ He glanced at his watch. Three teas each and a couple of bacon butties. The worst part was not being able to smoke. No, Michael corrected himself. The worst part was having to work with a fucking eejit like Kevin who could no more blend into the background than a naked woman at High Mass.
‘I’m not doing anything,’ Kevin whined.
Michael bit back a vicious response. He sipped his lukewarm tea. ‘Away and get me a fresh cup of tea. And when you’ve done that, you can go into the supermarket and buy me some bananas.’
‘Bananas?’ Kevin frowned in puzzlement.
‘They’re a good source of potassium. Just do it, Kevin.’
Kevin pushed himself up from the table. He strolled over to the counter, his attempt at nonchalance setting the till operator’s antennae jangling. She couldn’t figure out his game at all, but she was mentally rehearsing his description. When he returned with the tea, Michael said, ‘Fine. Now the bananas, there’s a good lad. And take your time about it. Have a browse. See if there’s any new flavours of Pot Noodle to get you excited.’ The sarcasm was wasted on Kevin, who shrugged and walked off to join the milling shoppers.
Left to himself, Michael pulled out his mobile and called Patrick. ‘It’s me,’ he said as soon as they were connected. ‘So far, no joy.’
‘I didn’t expect anything so soon.’ Patrick’s voice was flat, unreadable. ‘Stay on it. Call me tomorrow.’
The line went dead. Whatever Bernadette had taken from Patrick, it had clearly pissed the man off more than Michael would have risked lightly. He put the phone back in his pocket and continued his scrutiny of the entrance to the store. Barely taking his eyes off the harassed mothers and the slow-moving pensioners who made up most of the clientele at that time of the morning, he sugared his tea and began to drink it. This was probably a total waste of time, but they had nothing else to chase. As long as Patrick was willing to spend his money, Michael was content to watch and wait.
Time ticked inexorably past and still Kevin didn’t return. He was probably memorizing the Pot Noodle flavours, Michael reckoned. Then suddenly all thoughts of Kevin disappeared. He went immobile as a lizard that knows it’s been spotted and still hopes its camouflage will keep it safe.
It was her. Pushing past an elderly couple, dark hair swinging round her head in a long bob, heavy coat wrapped round her, disguising a figure that Michael remembered had always been worth noticing. Bernadette Dooley was hurrying into the supermarket, making straight for the counter that sold cigarettes, confectionery and lottery tickets.
If he leaned over in his seat, he could see her back view. She was scrabbling in her bag for her purse, pulling it out, opening it, taking out a couple of notes. She handed over the money and received a carton of 100 Silk Cut in return. Then she was turning away, pushing the cigarettes into her bag, head down, making for the door again.
Michael was on his feet. By the time she made it to the street, he was a handful of steps behind her. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Where the fuck was Kevin? Ah, the hell with it. Bernadette was the important one. Kevin would doubtless sit in the supermarket till it closed. Either that or he’d have the sense to make his way back to where they were staying. Wouldn’t he?
Bernadette turned right out of the store and headed down Byres Road. The pavements were busy enough to give him cover. With the total focus of the hunter whose oblivious prey is well upwind and living on borrowed time, Michael began stalking Bernadette Dooley.
Rory was already settled into her booth at Café Virginia when Lindsay arrived. ‘Hey,’ she greeted her, ‘You look worse than I do, and I was clubbing till gone three.’
Lindsay squeezed out a vague smile. ‘I was up half the night. And not in a good way.’
‘Must have been something you ate, eh?’
‘Must have been. So, what’s doing?’
Rory pushed a manila folder across the table as Lindsay’s cappuccino arrived. ‘Take a look at that.’
Curious, Lindsay studied the contents. The first page was a memo to herself from Rory:
Tip re Keillor/Kilwinning. CCD, the multinational pharmaceutical and agrichemical company, have a small plant on the outskirts of Kilwinning. Just over a year ago, local farmer sells biggish chunk of land to a suit from down south, who says he wants to retire and do rare-breed sheep. Few months later, planning application goes in for change of use from agricultural to light industrial. Turns out land now belongs to CCD; they want to expand in unspecified ways to extend their research. Locals convinced they’re going to be poisoned with chemicals or overrun with cloned sheep. Think the local plan will keep them safe. But Chief Planning Officer David Keillor leans heavy on councillors and the change of use goes through. Source tells me that Keillor is running round in a brand-new BMW 4x4 – costs about a year’s salary new – and his wife has a neat wee Porsche Boxster. Source also tells me that vehicles were originally registered to CCD.
The other documents were reports of the planning committee meetings and transcriptions of Rory’s interviews with the farmer who sold the land and various locals with an axe to grind.
Lindsay digested the material then looked up and said, ‘And?’
‘Well, obviously, we need to get a look at the vehicle registration document for Keillor’s Beamer.’
Lindsay nodded. ‘Obviously. So what’s been keeping you?’
The sarcasm was gentle enough for Rory to grin. ‘Keillor knows me. We had a wee bit of a head to head a few years ago when he was working for the city planning department. Something to do with selling off school playing fields. So there’s no way I can get close enough. I thought maybe you’d have an idea how we could pull it off?’
Lindsay scooped the froth off her coffee and slowly licked it off the spoon. ‘How bent do you want to get?’ she asked thoughtfully.
Rory scratched an eyebrow. ‘Run it past me.’
‘Do you happen to know if Strathclyde Police have changed their warrant cards in the past two years?’
Before Rory could answer, Sandra breezed up to their table. ‘Hiya, girls.’ She inclined her head towards Lindsay. ‘You must be Splash Gordon.’ She thrust a hand out. ‘I’m Sandra Singh. I’m supposed to be this one’s best pal.’ Lindsay took the offered handshake with a nod.
Rory gave an exasperated little smile. ‘Lindsay, meet Sandra. Sandra is a factual programmes producer/director up the road at STV. She hates her boss, she likes boys that are barely old enough to shave and she thinks that, since my mammy’s dead, she should poke her nose into my business all the time.’
Lindsay moved up the bench to make room for Sandra. ‘Good to meet you. It’s nice to know there’s somewhere I can go to get the dirt if I need an edge.’
Sandra shook her head at the available seat. ‘I’m not stopping. I was passing and I thought I’d say hello. You girls plotting?’
Lindsay said, ‘Yes,’ at the precise moment Rory said, ‘No.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes, and leave you to it. Catch you later.’ With a wave of her slender fingers, Sandra was off.
Rory raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘Something else.’
‘Clearly. So, do you have an answer?’
Rory looked momentarily bewildered. ‘An answer?’
‘Warrant cards.’
‘Right. Eh, not as far as I know. Why?’
‘I think this comes into the category of what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Have you got an address for Keillor? There isn’t one in the file.’
Rory dug around in her backpack and produced a battered filofax. She rummaged inside and finally unearthed a torn scrap of paper. She tore a sheet out of the notebook