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chose London and moved away. His great friend and rival stayed. They never knew how things would have turned out if, that day, the Express news editor had offered two jobs in the same town when they could have gone together to seek their spiritual and financial fortunes in a faraway place.
    In the twenty or so years since, they had met only twice – once, in the early days, when McBride had persuaded his old sparring partner to spend a long weekend in London and then when Richard learned Simon had died. He had heard the news shortly after arriving for work one morning and by early afternoon he was with McBride and Caroline in their home in Kent. He had not even gone home to pack a bag or change his tie for a black one before catching the midday flight south.
    As time passed, the regular exchange of phone calls became less and less frequent until they stopped altogether. They had not spoken for almost four years. It was not anyone’s fault – it just happened.
    When McBride had arrived back in town to sign books, he had fully expected to witness Richard charge his way to the head of the queue to unleash a volley of good-natured barbs. His non-appearance prompted the celebrity author to leave messages for him at every likely venue where he could have been expected to turn up. There was no response to any of them.
    Now McBride was waiting to greet him in the reception area of The Courier ’s offices on the Kingsway city bypass and wondering how he would explain to his old friend and rival why he wanted to scrutinise back copies of the paper.
    He could tell him the truth – that he was desperate to solve the mystery of the missing sentences that had been razor-cut from the one in the City Library. But old habits die hard. Every journalistic instinct he had acquired told him that you never parted with a bit of intrigue to anyone who might make use of it before you did – especially when it was the kind that made hairs stand up on the back of your neck. And, unless he had changed, Richard Richardson, whose dictionary did not include the word scruple, would shamelessly have availed himself of every detail. Furthermore, he would have been proud to have boasted of it.
    When the lift doors slid apart, it might have been a time machine that had opened up. The man who exited and was walking eagerly across the highly polished floor, hand extended to greet McBride, had made only one concession to modern times. He did not have a cigarette in his hand – not because he had stopped smoking but because a foolish law prohibited him from contaminating his workplace. Apart from that, Richard Richardson had remained in a time warp. The sleeves of his shirt were still turned back to midway between wrist and elbow, the collar was unbuttoned and the nightmare necktie, unaccountably smudged with ash, was loosened. He even wore grey shoes, which had not been fashionable twenty years ago or at any period in history.
    ‘God, you’ve aged,’ he roared at McBride. ‘Has it really been thirty-five years since I saw you?’
    McBride had been prepared for a jibe. ‘No. Judging by the clothes you’ve got on, it was only yesterday. Still wearing the safari-suit at the weekends?’
    ‘Still the smart-ass, I see,’ Richardson replied quickly. ‘At least I continue to get my name in the papers. Can’t say I’ve noticed much of yours of late – unless, of course, you count the free plug we gave you and your book. Haven’t read it yet, by the way. I’m holding off for a couple of days until the price is slashed and it hits the bargain shops. Might even wait until next week when I’ll be able to pick it up in Oxfam.’
    The exchanges continued all the way up in the lift to the editorial floor, normal conversation commencing only when McBride looked directly at his companion for the first time and asked, ‘How are you, Richard?’
    He did not expect the response he received. ‘Crap. But who wants to hear that?’ Richard struggled with a smile