“You owe me several after this,” he told her. “But I’ll settle for dinner at the Koh-i-Noor.”

“You’re on. Can I add to my debt? Just a simple query this time.”

Blair groaned. “Nothing’s ever simple with you. Go ahead, what is it this time? Lord Lucan’s phone number, maybe?”

“Where can I find Jimmy Mills these days?”

“I don’t even want to know why you’re asking me this, Lindsay. Jimmy’s got a job in Motherwell. He’s the sports editor of the local paper. He drinks in the pub opposite the office. You’ll usually find him there between half one and three. That do you?”

“Perfect. Thanks again. I’ll give you a ring in a couple of days to fix up that meal. Okay?”

“Okay. And Lindsay . . .?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful out there. Don’t take chances with Barry Ostler. He’s a nasty piece of work. He’s obviously taken a lot of care to cover his tracks on this one. He’s going to be very twitchy about you turning up and pointing the finger.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, Blair. I’ll cover my back. And yours. Thanks again.”

Lindsay put down the phone with a sigh of satisfaction. Things were starting to move at last.

12

The Printer’s Devil was an old-fashioned working-man’s pub. There were no modern frills—just a scattering of wobbly tables and chairs, a couple of fruit machines, and a long wooden bar in front of shelves of spirits and glasses. When Lindsay walked in just before two, it was moderately busy. Half the clientele were dressed in grubby overalls stained with the printer’s ink that betrayed their occupation. Lindsay walked straight up to the bar, looking neither right nor left, aware of the eyes appraising the stranger. She ordered a pint of lager, then slowly looked round the scruffy tavern. She was relying on the journalistic tradition of never showing surprise when a face from the past walked into a press pub. Unless the journalist in question operated in an area of direct competition, it was also regarded as bad form to pry too closely into what they were doing there. And if, when questioned, they hedged, it was an unwritten rule that you didn’t carry on probing. She didn’t think Jimmy would be too surprised to see her here. Any journalist doing a job in Motherwell would naturally gravitate to the Printer’s Devil.

She soon spotted her target, sitting at a table with three other men, engrossed in a game of dominoes. Jimmy Mills hadn’t changed much in the three years since she’d seen him last. With his build, he could have been one of the jockeys whose racing cards he’d sub-edited for years. As she watched him, he glanced up, feeling her eyes on him. His face registered uncertainty then surprise. He sketched a quick greeting with a handful of dominoes.