Edinburgh.
âI was wondering if you could help me track down someone from the Highlands. Jimmy McPhee, last heard of doing thirty days in Barlinnie, now released.â
âI know the name . . .â Her eyes opened a fraction wider as a recollection popped up. âHeâs a tinker, is he?â
âHis mother would prefer the term Traveler.â
âThis is Scotland, McAllister. Not likely theyâll ever get the respect of âTraveler.âââ She was giving it some thought. âIâve heard that name recently, but I canât remember where. Iâll ask around.â
âIâm here today and tomorrow. Leave on Sunday.â
âRight. Good to meet you, McAllister.â And she was off, waving off his call of âThanks,â walking past the subsâ desk, where she stopped for a brief word before swinging a leather bag with a long strap over her shoulder and, with nary a look back, making her way out the door where she had just come in.
âSo youâve met the star reporter,â a voice said from across the room. âMake the most of it, she wonât be here amongst us mere plebs for long.â There was a bitterness in the manâs voice that McAllister put down to jealously or unrequited love. A glance at the man and his beer belly made him change his mind on the second option.
âReporter, is she?â McAllister asked, knowing the answer.
âChief crime reporter, according to her,â was the reply. âAnd her noâ that long out of university. Has all the right connections is why,â he said to an unasked question. âAnd I donât mean street connections. More wiâ the top brass, if you get ma drift, her family being who they are.â
The phone on his desk started to ring. McAllister knew it wouldnât be for him but answered regardless, wanting no more conversation with the fellow. He was right, so he transferred the call back to the switchboard, feeling bad that he hadnât called Joanne. He knew he should but reasoned he had only been away one night and the conversation was too private to have with the radar-eared journalist listening in. Iâll call her from the phone box later on, he promised himself.
Guilt assuaged, he made his way to the newspaper library andarchives. He put in the request for all recent editions dealing with gangland activity.
âCan you noâ narrow it down a bit?â a peevish wee moorhen of a man asked.
âRecent stories from Mary Ballantyne, say, the last six months?â McAllister suggested.
âIâll make that front pages, then, else youâll be here aaâ day.â
Two hours later, McAllister had a pub lunch of pie and peas with his former editor and friend. McAllister made a comment about what the world was coming to when a pub served food. Sandy agreed it did not go down well with the purists, and both agreed that the world was indeed changing. Rapidly.
In the late afternoon on the now busy editorial floor, McAllister sat at the desk, once more engrossed in the many articles written by Mary Ballantyne. He admired her writing, as well as her research. He knew from the stories that she must have contacts in the police as well as amongst the criminal fraternity.
âYou still here?â It was said with a laugh.
He looked up. Same ice-blue eyes, same blue-black hair, same grin greeted him.
âIt seems your Jimmy McPhee was indeed in the Bar L. He did his thirty days, was released, and no oneâs heard of him since.â
âThanks.â
âSo whatâs the story, McAllister? One of my contacts says thereâs a reward out for information on this McPhee fellow.â
A current of cold ran down McAllisterâs spine. âReward?â
Mary Ballantyne looked at him, and in that look he saw she was older than her years. A few years out of university she might be, but sheâd been around.
âMaybe not