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and package the words that would appear on the next morning’s breakfast tables, were in varying stages of stress. Later the same day, the different editions of the paper would be gathered and taken away to be given their own place in the file room.
    Richard Richardson was just submerging himself in a think piece about the extravagances of the Scottish Parliament, a theme he explored at least once a month. It did not matter how often he wrote about the subject, there never seemed to be a shortage of material. He looked up, still deep in crusader mode, as McBride approached.
    Double Dick’s eloquence occasionally deserted him. ‘See those bastards in Edinburgh?’ he said with venom. ‘They spend our dosh like water. And what do we get for it – sweet Fanny Adams. They’re a shower of useless pricks – and that includes the women.’
    He remembered who was with him and the red cloud lifted. ‘Sorry, Campbell, old son, you have no idea of these parasites. They get me going every time. Find what you wanted?’ He was getting interested again.
    ‘Yes – more or less,’ McBride replied with an air of offhandedness. ‘It was useful to remind myself why I was the star man in the old days.’
    Richardson almost growled. ‘Star man, my backside. Good to see you still have a sense of humour. Anything else you need before we kick you out?’
    McBride had hoped to hear that. ‘Thanks for reminding me. Can I have a couple of minutes on a terminal to check something on the Web?’
    ‘Help yourself – but, if it’s porn you’re after, forget it. Our systems are crawling with firewalls.’ Richardson pointed at a row of blank screens awaiting the arrival of the evening shift. ‘Take your pick.’
    McBride chose the one furthest away. Then he accessed a little-known people-tracer website and keyed in the name Adam Gilzean. Five seconds later he had his address.
    Richardson, meanwhile, had reverted to his jackboot assault on anyone associated with Holyrood and barely lifted his head as McBride, his mission completed, approached.
    ‘That’s at least two pints you owe me,’ Richardson said into his computer screen. ‘If you’ve no objections, I’ll collect them tonight.’
    ‘You’re on. Still The Fort?’
    ‘Where else? I’ll be released from the salt mine about eight. Now, piss off and let a real star get on with illuminating the masses.’
    Two seconds after the lift doors closed behind McBride, the man he would be sharing a drink with rose from his desk and moved quickly to the computer terminal which had just been vacated. His fingers ran expertly over the keys and swiftly clicked on Internet Explorer’s History icon to learn which page had last been accessed.

8
    By the time the two were reunited in The Fort, 8 p.m. was long past and McBride was growing weary. He had revisited all of Dundee FC’s European Cup triumphs with John Black, who, if pressed, would probably have been able to name every family member of every player in each of the teams. He was a human encyclopaedia on the matches. Click the remote and he moved instantly from game to game, effortlessly replaying in precise sequence every one of the moments when his beloved Dark Blues swept up the park. Listening to him may have been tedious but it was at least restful. It was not necessary to speak, even if there had been an opportunity. All that was required was an occasional nod in appreciation or a sharp intake of breath at the beauty of what had taken place on the football pitch.
    Richardson barged through the swing doors at the exact point when Dundee had scored their eighth goal against Cologne on the way to the semi-final, a memory that always brought Black close to the point of breakdown. Sometimes he was forced to turn his back on his listener lest the tear welling its way to the surface was detected.
    The emotion of the moment was lost on Richardson, who was loudly apologising about his lack of punctuality while still ten feet away.