‘It’s Brodie, and you have my secretary to thank.’ It sounded harsher than I had intended. Lavender had finally succumbed to what seemed like twenty-four-hour vomiting, and I was in the clutches of a temp. The new girl, Lois, who I hoped wouldn’t be around much longer, hadn’t seen anything wrong with the approach from Patsy Barnes. To be fair on her, she was probably right, but it made me realize how much I was missing Lav. Lois was the one who’d agreed, without consulting me, that I should speak to this journalist. She got all defensive when I told her to cancel the interview, and said that she thought it would be good for my profile, I’d be getting a free lunch; and then she looked a bit weepy. I gave in–and hoped Lavender wouldn’t hear about how soft I’d been.

‘Well, I’m delighted that you’re here anyway,’ Patsy Barnes replied.

‘And you? You’re from London?’ I asked.

‘Is it that obvious?’ she grinned as she sipped her wine. ‘Essex, actually. I followed my latest squeeze up the M1. He dragged me here, then he left practically before we’d unpacked, and went back down. I stayed–I guess I must have fallen in love with the cold nights and wet days…’ She smiled ruefully, then went on, quickly getting back to business. ‘Brodie, I’ve read some of the articles about you in the press and, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem to have become a bit of a whipping girl for the powers that be,’ she said. No doubt she knew that we were singing from the same hymn sheet. I had taken to Patsy Barnes. Maybe that girl Lois was right and it would be good for me to get some positive publicity. ‘I got the idea for an article when I heard you on the radio after the Kenny Cameron murder trial. Since I moved up here, I’ve been freelancing. I’ve still got plenty of contacts from when I was in London, but it can sometimes be hard finding something that needs a Scottish angle. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how London-centric the nationals can be.’ She was good, I’d give her that. Letting me know how professional she was, how much work she could still get, laying it on a bit with the Scots-against-the-world angle.

‘So, what do you want from me?’ I asked, wondering what she had heard.