‘How are you doing, pal?’ he enquired, his free hand landing on his old friend’s shoulder.
‘I’m fine, James. Yourself?’
‘Churlish to complain, business-wise.’ He removed his cotton face mask and tucked it into his breast pocket. ‘Lean times as you well know, but rapidly picking up.’ He waited for the waiter to unfurl his napkin and lay it across his lap, opted for sparkling water over still, and rested his elbows on the table, noting that only one place setting remained.
‘Gaby not joining us?’
‘Paws off, James. I know what you’re like.’
‘Red-blooded, the same as you, though if bloody Steph gets her way, I’ll end up gelded.’
‘Hellish about her sister.’
‘Bloody awful. Never liked the guy, if I’m being honest. Typical copper, always made you feel you had something to hide. Rubbed my bloody nose in it when Steph chucked me out. Can’t say I’m disappointed to see him get what’s coming to him.’ He broke off to watch a slender woman in a clinging full-length dress being escorted to a table by her portly male companion.
‘You’re incorrigible,’ Fraser Mackenzie said with a smile.
‘Bit too bony, actually,’ Pelham said, his eyes widening as he looked past Mackenzie’s shoulder. ‘Ah, this is more like it.’ He began to rise to his feet, arms stretched out to smother Elizabeth Mackenzie in an embrace. ‘Not that we’re allowed any form of intimate contact these days,’ he complained, finally releasing her.
Elizabeth had fixed a smile to her face, but it didn’t reach as far as her eyes. She flapped open her own napkin before the waiter could do anything with it and waved away the offer of water.
‘We were just talking about Francis Haggard,’ Fraser told his wife. She raised one eyebrow but said nothing.
‘You know Steph’s erased me from her life?’ Pelham continued. ‘You probably see more of her than I do.’
‘Been a while since we required her services,’ Elizabeth stated.
‘I know it’s difficult for you both. You’re my friends, but you’re her friends too. I really appreciate you not taking sides.’
Elizabeth looked at him. ‘Who says we haven’t?’ Then, to her husband, ‘Is there wine on its way?’
As if on cue, a tray appeared, glasses of champagne transferred from it to the table. Elizabeth had already taken a mouthful when James lifted his glass and proposed a toast.
‘To the bonds of friendship.’
She looked at him again. ‘Friendship only goes so far, James. Is everything okay?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Your marriage is crumbling, you stand to lose a lot of money to Stephanie, investors are bound to get the jitters when they see the mess the CEO is making of his life.’
Fraser reached a hand towards hers, but she shifted it further away. This was between her and Pelham.
‘It’s a limited company, Beth,’ Pelham said. ‘Nothing in my personal life can interfere with that. Your money is one hundred per cent guaranteed.’
‘That better remain the case.’
‘I’m almost insulted you show so little confidence. When have I ever given you cause—’
‘Maybe when your company began to be investigated for furlough fraud.’
Pelham’s Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed. He took a sip of champagne.
‘How do you know about that?’
‘The Edinburgh Courant — same blogger who papped you coming out of that bloody hotel with your latest conquest.’
‘Unsubstantiated rumours.’
‘You mean you’re not being investigated?’
‘I mean it’s a simple admin error. The money will be repaid and no further action will be taken.’ He looked to Fraser Mackenzie and attempted a conspiratorial smile. ‘This is worse than that time in the bloody rector’s office — remember?’
Elizabeth was not to be diverted. ‘Your simple admin error could prove hellish costly in terms of both cash and reputation. And coming on top of the divorce...’ Having stated her case, she picked up her menu and began reading. Her husband followed suit, but Pelham just stared at the pristine white tablecloth.
‘I wish to hell I knew who it was,’ he said in an undertone. ‘That bloody internet troll, I mean.’
‘I thought it was an open secret,’ Elizabeth said without lifting her eyes.
‘What?’ Pelham looked to Fraser. ‘Do you know?’
‘Not the foggiest.’ He turned to his wife. ‘You’re a constant source of surprise.’
‘While you remain an open book, my love. Oysters, I think. Then maybe the venison. We’ll need a good bottle of red.’ She seemed only now to notice that Pelham was still staring at her. ‘You really don’t know who the Courant is?’
‘If I did, I’d bash their bloody brains in.’
‘Don’t be stupid, James.’
‘I’d pay someone then. A punishment beating.’
‘You’d pay someone to beat up a stranger? Christ, listen to yourself.’ She gestured towards their waiter, who, masked and visored, was hovering at a discreet distance.
Once the food was ordered, Fraser consulted the sommelier about the wine, eventually agreeing on a Barolo.
‘An excellent choice, sir.’
‘Better make it two bottles,’ Pelham barked, pointing a finger at Elizabeth. ‘I’m determined to loosen that tongue of yours.’
‘You’re welcome to try, as long as you’re picking up the tab.’
‘That seems fair.’
‘I just hope they don’t cut up your credit card when the bill comes.’
Pelham turned towards his old friend. ‘What do you see in her, James? I’m serious — there must be something.’
‘Not something,’ Fraser said, taking his wife’s hand in his and giving it a squeeze. ‘Everything...’
Pelham raised his champagne glass again. ‘Then here’s to those of us lucky enough to have everything.’
But when he went to drink, he found he was already down to the dregs.
Siobhan Clarke made the call from the comfort of her sofa. Laura Smith picked up after too many rings.
‘You’re busy,’ Clarke guessed.
‘I’m actually in the bath with a Maggie O’Farrell novel. That’s why I thought twice about answering. But then I decided you wouldn’t be phoning at this hour unless you’ve got something for me.’
‘Which you, though?’
‘To be honest, I’m not fussed. Either will do.’
Smith was the Scotsman newspaper’s crime correspondent, but as newsrooms had shrunk, so she had been given additional remits, which hadn’t stopped her considering other options in the freelance world. She had been well placed — in terms of contacts and experience — to start an Edinburgh blog. It had been slow to gain traction, but she had persevered, and now she could boast at least some income from advertising revenue. The Courant had been an eighteenth-century newspaper, which was why she’d chosen that name for her site. She’d also decided on anonymity, which left her free to publish stories a cautious editor might have spiked.
‘I was talking to Stephanie Pelham earlier,’ Clarke said. ‘She was telling me how grateful she was for the blogger who outed her sleazeball husband.’
She thought back to when she’d first realised that a couple of details from a Courant story could only have come from a conversation she’d had off the record with Laura Smith over drinks in a wine bar. ‘Don’t worry, Batman,’ she’d told Smith, ‘your secret’s safe with me...’