“He is indeed.” Clarke watched as Smith drummed her fingers against the steering wheel in time to the music. She didn’t recognize the tune, would have classed it as “disco” if such a thing still existed.

“And he has a daughter called Jessica,” Smith went on, “who wrote off her VW Golf only a few days back. Nice straight stretch of road and somehow she loses control.”

“Again, you’re scarily well informed.”

“No need to be sarky.” Smith switched off the music and twisted her body towards Clarke. “Jessica’s boyfriend is Forbes McCuskey, whose father then ends up dead after a break-in at the family home.” She paused. “And you bring in Owen Traynor for questioning. Let me guess what his motive might have been…”

“We were just checking a few details, Laura.”

“I’m sure you were. How did it go with the First Minister, by the way?” Pleased with the look of surprise on Clarke’s face, Smith smiled again. “I have spies everywhere,” she explained.

“He wants us to find whoever did it.”

“Understandable. Meantime, he has to find a new face to front the Yes campaign without looking callous. Is Rebus keeping his nose clean?”

“I’m not his mother.”

“How has he managed to wangle his way into the Saunders inquiry?”

Clarke gave Smith a glower. “You’re in danger of coming across as smug, Laura.”

“Just well informed, as you say,” Smith corrected her. “You know Stefan Gilmour left the force because of Saunders? And now he helms the good ship No…”

“Are you going to print any of this?”

Smith looked thoughtful. “A few hard facts wouldn’t go amiss. Way things are, post-Leveson, the lawyers will redact anything that can’t be corroborated.”

“I’m too close to the inquiry,” Clarke said, shaking her head. “Fingers would point straight at me…”

“You know I can make sure that doesn’t happen—it’s all in the phrasing.”

“Right now, I’m not sure I know much more than you do,” Clarke argued.

“But there’ll come a point when you do. The paper’s constantly updated online—if I’m even ten minutes ahead of the pack, it means I publish first.”

Clarke was shaking her head again. Smith stuck out her bottom lip in a show of mock unhappiness.

“I’ve not come to the table empty-handed,” she announced. “Might be something or nothing, but as a show of good faith…”

“What?” Clarke asked.

“And you won’t just go away and forget about me?”

“Spit it out.”

Smith paused for a few moments, then took a deep breath. “Word is,” she said, “Forbes McCuskey’s the go-to guy if you want a better class of illegal substance. Posh student parties in all those flats bought by mumsy and dadsy.”

“The son of the Justice Minister?”