The Low Road

The Low Road Read Online Free PDF Page A

Book: The Low Road Read Online Free PDF
Author: A. D. Scott
Edinburgh.
    â€œI 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€œI know the name . . .” Her eyes opened a fraction wider as a recollection popped up. “He’s a tinker, is he?”
    â€œHis mother would prefer the term Traveler.”
    â€œThis is Scotland, McAllister. Not likely they’ll ever get the respect of ‘Traveler.’ ” She was giving it some thought. “I’ve heard that name recently, but I can’t remember where. I’ll ask around.”
    â€œI’m here today and tomorrow. Leave on Sunday.”
    â€œRight. Good to meet you, McAllister.” And she was off, waving off his call of “Thanks,” walking past the subs’ 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.
    â€œSo you’ve met the star reporter,” a voice said from across the room. “Make the most of it, she won’t be here amongst us mere plebs for long.” There was a bitterness in the man’s 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.
    â€œReporter, is she?” McAllister asked, knowing the answer.
    â€œChief crime reporter, according to her,” was the reply. “And her no’ that long out of university. Has all the right connections is why,” he said to an unasked question. “And I don’t mean street connections. More wi’ the top brass, if you get ma drift, her family being who they are.”
    The phone on his desk started to ring. McAllister knew it wouldn’t 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 hadn’t 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. I’ll 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.
    â€œCan you no’ narrow it down a bit?” a peevish wee moorhen of a man asked.
    â€œRecent stories from Mary Ballantyne, say, the last six months?” McAllister suggested.
    â€œI’ll make that front pages, then, else you’ll be here aa’ day.”
    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.
    â€œYou still here?” It was said with a laugh.
    He looked up. Same ice-blue eyes, same blue-black hair, same grin greeted him.
    â€œIt seems your Jimmy McPhee was indeed in the Bar L. He did his thirty days, was released, and no one’s heard of him since.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œSo what’s the story, McAllister? One of my contacts says there’s a reward out for information on this McPhee fellow.”
    A current of cold ran down McAllister’s spine. “Reward?”
    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 she’d been around.
    â€œMaybe not
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