Deadline for Murder—Val McDermid—Lindsay Gordon 03 by for Murder LFP(v1)(html) Deadline

Author:for Murder LFP(v1)(html) Deadline [Deadline, for Murder LFP(v1)(html)]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-04-07T05:34:19.729000+00:00

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12

The Printer's Devil was an old-fashioned workingman'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.

Lindsay walked across the room towards him. But before she reached the table, the hand came to an end, and Jimmy hastily got to his feet and met her half-way. "Lindsay Gordon, isn't it?" he asked with the lop-sided smile she remembered. Thank God for the instant camaraderie of journalists the world over. Once met, a contact for life, even if they can't stand the sight of each other! "What brings you to these parts?" Jimmy added. "Hot on the trail of some world exclusive?"

"Something like that," she said. "Let me get you a drink."

"Thanks. I'll have a wee goldie," he replied, walking back to the bar with her.

"A whisky, please," Lindsay said to the barmaid, before turning back to Jimmy. Close up, she noticed his straight dark hair was still free from grey hairs, though there were a few more lines round his quick brown eyes. "I didn't know you lived out this way," she said.

"I don't. I'm still living in Partick. I'm working across the road now. Sports editor, for my sins," he replied with a rueful grimace.

"Oh, I hadn't heard. I knew you'd left the Clarion, but I didn't realise you were in Motherwell," Lindsay lied, hoping she sounded convincing. The last thing she wanted was for him to suspect their encounter wasn't entirely fortuitous.

"It's not the kind of thing you shout about, is it? What about you? Still working for the Clarion?"

Lindsay shook her head ruefully.

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