ex-girl friend’s working in. Ishbel Mackindoe - waiting for the lab to tell me if they can get any viable DNA from the anonymous letters. Patsy Millar - can’t get any further with that till the Met finish digging up the garden in Haringey and do the forensics.’
‘There’s witnesses in the Patsy Millar case that we could talk to again.’
Karen shrugged. She knew she could pull rank on Phil and shut him up that way, but she needed the ease between them too much. ‘They’ll keep. Or else you can take one of the DCs and give them some on-the-job training.’
‘If you think they need on-the-job training, you should give them this stone-cold missing person case. You’re a DI now, Karen. You’re not supposed to be chasing about on stuff like this.’ He waved a hand towards the two DCs sitting at their computers. ‘That’s for the likes of them. What this is about is that you’re bored.’ Karen tried to protest but Phil carried on regardless. ‘I said when you took this promotion that flying a desk would drive you mental. And now look at you. Sneaking cases out from under the woolly suits at Central. Next thing, you’ll be going off to do your own interviews.’
‘So?’ Karen screwed up the sandwich container with more force than was strictly necessary and tossed it in the bin. ‘It’s good to keep my hand in. And I’ll make sure it’s all above board. I’ll take DC Murray with me.’
‘The Mint?’ The tone in Phil’s voice was incredulous, the look on his face offended. ‘You’d take the Mint over me?’
Karen smiled sweetly. ‘You’re a sergeant now, Phil. A sergeant with ambitions. Staying in the office and keeping my seat warm will help your aspirations become a reality. Besides, the Mint’s not as bad as you make out. He does what he’s told.’
‘So does a collie dog. But a dog would show more initiative.’
‘There’s a kid’s life at stake, Phil. I’ve got more than enough initiative for both of us. This needs to be done right and I’m going to make sure it is.’ She turned to her computer with an air of having finished with the conversation.
Phil opened his mouth to say more, then thought better of it when he saw the repressive glance Karen flashed in his direction. They’d been drawn to each other from the start of their careers, each recognizing nonconformist tendencies in the other. Having come up the ranks together had left the pair of them with a friendship that had survived the challenge of altered status. But he knew there were limits to how far he could push Karen and he had a feeling he’d just butted up against them. ‘I’ll cover for you here, then,’ he said.
‘Works for me,’ Karen said, her fingers flying over the keys. ‘Book me out for tomorrow morning. I’ve a feeling Jenny Prentice might be a wee bit more forthcoming to a pair of polis than she was to her daughter.’
Thursday 28th June 2007; Edinburgh
Learning to wait was one of the lessons in journalism that courses didn’t teach. When Bel Richmond had had a fulltime job on a Sunday paper, she had always maintained that she was paid, not for a forty-hour week, but for the five minutes when she talked her way across a doorstep that nobody else had managed to cross. That left a lot of time for waiting. Waiting for someone to return a call. Waiting for the next stage of the story to break. Waiting for a contact to turn into a source. Bel had done a lot of waiting and, while she’d become skilled at it, she had never learned to love it.
She had to admit she’d passed the time in surroundings that were a lot less salubrious than this. Here, she had the physical comforts of coffee, biscuits and newspapers. And the room she’d been left in commanded the panoramic view that had graced a million shortbread tins. Running the length of Princes Street, it featured a clutch of keynote tourist sights - the castle, the Scott Monument, the National Gallery and Princes Street Gardens. Bel spotted other significant architectural eye candy but she didn’t know enough about the city to identify it. She’d only visited the Scottish capital a few times and conducting this meeting here hadn’t been her choice. She’d wanted it in London, but her reluctance to show her hand in advance had turfed her out of the driving seat and into the role of supplicant.
Unusually for a freelance journalist, she had a temporary research assistant. Jonathan was a journalism student at City University and he’d asked his tutor to assign him to Bel for his work experience assignment. Apparently he liked her style. She’d been mildly gratified by the compliment but delighted at the prospect of having eight weeks free from drudgery. And so it had been Jonathan who had made the first contact with Maclennan Grant Enterprises. The message he’d returned with had been simple. If Ms Richmond was not prepared to state her reason for wanting a meeting with Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant, Sir Broderick was not prepared to meet her. Sir Broderick did not give interviews. Further arm’s-length negotiations had led to this compromise.
And now Bel was, she thought, being put in her place. Being forced to cool her heels in a hotel meeting room. Being made to understand that someone as important as the personal assistant to the chairman and principal shareholder of the country’s twelfth most valuable company had more pressing calls on her time than dancing attendance on some London hack.
She wanted to get up and pace, but she didn’t want to reveal any lack of composure. Giving up the high ground was not something that had ever come naturally to her. Instead she straightened her jacket, made sure her shirt was tucked in properly and picked a stray piece of grit from her emerald suede shoes.
At last, precisely fifteen minutes after the agreed time, the door opened. The women who entered in a flurry of tweed and cashmere resembled a school mistress of indeterminate age but one accustomed to exerting discipline over her pupils. For one crazy moment, Bel nearly jumped to her feet in a Pavlovian response to her own teenage memories of terrorist nuns. But she managed to restrain herself and stood up in a more leisurely manner.
‘Susan Charleson,’ the woman said, extending a hand. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. As Harold Macmillan once said, “Events, dear boy. Events.”’
Bel decided not to point out that Harold Macmillan had been referring to the job of Prime Minister, not wet nurse to a captain of industry. She took the warm dry fingers in her own. A moment’s sharp grip, then she was released. ‘Annabel Richmond.’
Susan Charleson ignored the armchair opposite Bel and headed instead for the table by the window. Wrong-footed, Bel scooped up her bag and the leather portfolio beside it and followed. The women sat down opposite each other and Susan smiled, her teeth like a line of chalky toothpaste between the dark pink lipstick. ‘You wanted to see Sir Broderick,’ she said. No preamble, no small talk about the view. Just straight to the chase. It was a technique Bel had used herself on occasion, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed the tables being turned.
‘That’s right.’
Susan shook her head. ‘Sir Broderick does not speak to the press. I fear you’ve had a wasted journey. I did explain all that to your assistant, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
It was Bel’s turn to produce a smile without warmth. ‘Good for him. I’ve obviously got him well trained. But there seems to be a misunderstanding. I’m not here to beg for an interview. I’m here because I think I have something Sir Broderick will be interested in.’ She lifted the portfolio on to the table and unzipped it. From inside, she took a single A3 sheet of heavyweight paper, face down. It was smeared with dirt and gave off a faint smell, a curious blend of dust, urine and lavender. Bel couldn’t resist a quick teasing look at Susan Charleson. ‘Would you like to see?’ she said, flipping the paper.
Susan took a leather case from the pocket of her skirt and extracted a pair of tortoiseshell
