“On the day the story came in, there’s a payment of £150 to one particular freelance. On the following day, a payment of £200 to the same guy. And yesterday, another payment of £150. Making a total of £500 so far. All the payments were marked down as being for stories that all made page leads. And the payments are about the going rate for strong exclusive page leads. But all the stories appeared in the paper with staff bylines. Now, I don’t have to tell you that it’s not unusual for us to put a staff byline on a story when all the staff reporter has done is rejig the intro or add a couple of paragraphs. So I thought I’d do a little check to see whether that was what had happened in this case.” Blair paused for dramatic effect.

“And?” Lindsay asked impatiently.

“It would have been easy in the old days when we had everything on paper. But nowadays, the computerized newsdesk is cleared out of stories on a daily basis. So I couldn’t access the material directly. However, over the last few months I’ve been doing a lot of night shifts and I’ve got pally with the night systems editor. So, in exchange for a half-bottle of Grouse, which you owe me, by the way, I got him to give me a complete trail on the copy for those stories.”

“Wonderful, Blair, you’re a star. So what did you learn?” Lindsay demanded.

“None of the stories in question came from the freelance who has been paid for them. One came from a reader’s phone call. One seems to have been brought in by the reporter herself. And the third one came as a tip from a different freelance altogether. Which means that our freelance friend has been paid a total of £500 for stories he had nothing to do with.”

“Which means that he’s done something that requires payment which they don’t want to put through the books,” Lindsay breathed. “I think you’ve got him, Blair.”

“I think so too. Want to know who it is?” he teased.

“Of course I do!” Lindsay yelled.

“Barry Ostler.”

Blair’s words immediately conjured up an image in Lindsay’s mind. Barry Ostler. Early fifties, small, running to fat, silvery white hair cut like Elvis. The sort of chauvinist pig who, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, lived inside the illusion that he was irresistible to women. She’d had to work with him a couple of times and had hated every patronizing minute of it. “That sleazeball?” she said. “Is he still making a living?”

“He doesn’t do much for us these days. But he seems to do all right. He’s still driving around in that big American gas-guzzler.”

“Does he still live in Pollokshields?”

“Far as I know. His number in the contacts book is still the same.”

“Blair, I owe you one.”