‘Fascinating, thanks for that.’ McLusky withdrew his head and walked off briskly.
The interior of the hotel surprised him. He had expected something more traditional, a little worn perhaps. What he found was a champagne bar and a well-appointed lounge and Philippa Warren on a sofa by the fireplace.
‘Another one of those?’ McLusky nodded at her drink, clear liquid, ice and lemon.
‘No thanks, I have the distinct feeling I ought to be sober for whatever is coming. Or will I need the alcohol to numb the pain?’ Her voice was as hoarse as it had been at the Quiet Lady, so presumably this was a permanent feature.
‘You’ll be fine.’ He ordered a cappuccino and sat down next to Warren, their elbows almost touching.
‘You mean you’re not going to be tedious and berate me about dubious journalistic practices? Because I have an answer for all that.’
‘You have? Let’s have it.’
‘Tough.’
‘That’s it? That’s your answer?’
‘You talk, you’ll get quoted. Whatever you say in a public house is by definition in the public domain.’
‘You may have a point there.’
‘“May” doesn’t come into it. Okay, I knew who you were and had the advantage. A girl’s gotta live.’
‘And you were only doing your job.’
‘Quite.’
His coffee arrived. Someone had sprinkled grated chocolate over the froth. McLusky hated chocolate and laboriously scraped it off before trying the liquid underneath. It was barely drinkable by his standards. ‘How did you find me? Were you following me?’
‘Yup. Though not very far. Only from the station to the pub. I expected you to nip into the Green Man in Candlewick Lane but you had other ideas. You’re a loner.’
‘I’m not a loner. You didn’t follow me home a few days ago?’
‘Nope, don’t know where you live. So someone’s been following you?’ She drained her glass, rattling the remaining ice in it which attracted the attention of the waiter. ‘I think I will have another drink after all.’
‘And I’ll have a different drink. What was that?’
‘G amp;T.’
‘Two gin and tonics.’
‘Thanks. Are you going to answer my question?’
‘What was the question?’
‘Has someone been following you?’
He picked up the spoon and prodded the collapsing froth of his vile cappuccino, remembering the figure by the street corner. Perhaps, perhaps not. A bit of paranoia, most likely. ‘Only you, it seems.’
‘Mm.’ Warren filed the answer under ‘evasive’. ‘The new bomb was hidden inside an Easter egg? Were there chocolates inside apart from the bomb?’
‘D’you know, I never asked?’
A superior smile. ‘Only a man could forget to ask that.’
She was right. But what would it signify? An added bit of perversity? Or the fact the bomber didn’t care for chocolates either? ‘Unimportant.’
‘Shame on you, inspector. It’s the kind of detail my readers want to know. Are you guys still maintaining the choice of container for the bombs has no significance? Chocolate, beer, make-up, there’s got to be a theme here. To a puritan soul they might all be indulgences he’d disapprove of.’
‘Biros?’
‘Nobody is perfect.’
McLusky used his mobile rather than his radio, to get the information, calling Austin at the station. ‘Jane, find out if the egg contained anything other than the device. Like the chocolates that were supposed to be in there?’
The mention of Austin’s nickname attracted Warren’s attention. ‘Who’s Jane then?’
‘My DS.’
‘Pretty?’
‘Very. I’ll point Jane out to you sometime.’
Austin came back to him quickly. ‘Yes, they are finding traces of chocolate but very small amounts. You think it could be significant?’
‘No. Just wondered.’ He terminated the call. ‘A small amount of chocolate. A token chocolate. Symbolic chocolate. Which leaves us with a man who eats chocolates but has a perverted sense of humour. He gives you one chocolate but blows your fingers off. And that is what I want you to concentrate on in the next piece you write. He is a bastard. He’s a coward, he has a twisted sense of humour. He thinks he has a good reason for doing what he does but he hasn’t. It’s his delusions of self-importance that make him think he’s justified, not any cause he might have. And by using an Easter egg he’s clearly targeted children, which makes him the biggest coward imaginable.’
‘Says Detective Inspector Liam McLusky?’
‘Says a source close to the investigation.’
Warren’s face lit up. ‘You are trying to provoke him.’
‘Two can play.’
‘So you had contact before? He contacted you after my last piece, am I right?’
McLusky drank silently.
‘I knew it. What did he say? Did he call, write, email?’
‘Can’t tell you. You can’t mention it, it would put the entire investigation at risk. And that’s official. If I hear about it I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest.’
Warren snorted dismissively. ‘You won’t make it stick, no witnesses. So what’s in it for me?’
‘Exclusive when I get him.’
‘Can I have that in writing?’
McLusky drained his glass and stood up. ‘Don’t be daft. I gave you the piece of chocolate, that proves you have inside information. Go make the bastard feel small.’ He turned away towards the exit.
‘Do you drink at the Quiet Lady often, inspector?’
McLusky didn’t turn around. ‘No, never.’ In an inside pocket his mobile vibrated. A text message from Louise Rennie. Mud analysed. Collect results 8 pm at the Myristica, King Street. Smart casual. He texted his acceptance. Then he remembered the bin-liner waiting to be taken to the launderette and went in search of the nearest clothes shop to stock up on smart casual.
Sorbie fiddled with the strap on his helmet, having trouble remembering how it went through the double metal loop. It was such a long time since he’d ridden a motorbike. His hands fluttered a little with the adrenalin of it and he turned away from the patiently waiting vendor. No point giving the teenage mutant opportunity to sneer.
But it seemed the kid was more interested in the state of his helmet. ‘That’s old-fashioned lids for you. The new ones are all seatbelt style. I’m not being funny but you really should get a new one anyway, looks like yours has been dropped, you’ve got a scuff on the side. ‘
The scuff on the side of Sorbie’s helmet was the result of the spill that had interrupted his biking career ten years ago. His bike had not been worth repairing and a car had suddenly seemed a sensible alternative. Yet he had held on to the gear, along with vague dreams of one day making a comeback. And here it was. The teenage mutant with the nose-ring and eyebrow studs who now had a significant wodge of his hard-earned in his pocket was right, of course, the helmet was junk. It would probably come apart like a raw egg if his head hit the tarmac, but it satisfied the demands of the law. He had intended to buy a new one with the money he got off the asking price for the bike but had surprised himself again by how completely inept at haggling he was. ‘It’ll do for now.’
‘On your head be it.’
‘Ha, very good.’ At last the strap fastened. He shook hands with the kid, pulled on his gloves and straddled the tall trail bike. The engine growled into life and Sorbie’s excitement mounted. Ten years. He gingerly pulled away. In his mirrors he thought he saw the teenager shake his head. In response Sorbie accelerated away hard along the dimly lit street, trying to remember the way out of the estate back to the main road. When he reached it he opened the throttle wide and took off towards the dual carriage-way at twice the speed limit. ‘Yyyyyes!’ He shouted his delight inside his helmet, born again. The engine on this thing had enough grunt to catch any scooter and the bike was skinny enough to go wherever they went. Solo units with their half-ton of equipment and modifications could get stuck in traffic nearly as easy as a police car. But not this. This could go anywhere, on the road or off the road. And if he caught up with the bastard Mobile Muggers he’d blow them into the weeds for good. Unofficially of course. In his spare time.