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Book excerpt

Prologue

There was a loud 'pop' and Tom ducked when the cork flew from the bottle, bounced off the ceiling and ricocheted in his direction. He heard Sally giggle and turned to see the foamy liquid spewing out from the top of the bottle and running down over her hand. He proffered a glass to avoid further waste.

“Don't you think it's a bit premature for a celebration? True, we've made a breakthrough, but we still don't know what it means.”

“Don't be such a bore! We've worked intensely for more than a week and we deserve a reward. Maybe it isn’t a major breakthrough, but you can't deny we've made real progress. Besides, I haven’t gone overboard; it's only Freixenet. It's a decent enough cava, but it's not 'Bolly' – I'd have gone for real champagne if it was a proper celebration.”

Froth was climbing over the lip of the first glass and Tom replaced it with a second one. Sally's enthusiasm was contagious; her grey eyes sparkled and tears of joy had moistened her cheeks. Her smile was so broad, arguing against her wasn’t imaginable.

“Not for me,” Ahmed said, when he saw Tom lifting a third glass, “Have you forgotten that I don't drink alcohol? But I'll happily toast our success with a glass of spring water. I'm sure there must be a bottle in the mini bar.”

“With the amount this hotel charges, it'll probably cost more than the wine I picked up at the supermarket. Never mind, I suppose we can claim it on expenses,” Sally replied.

“What's with the abstinence?” Tom questioned. “I didn't realise you were religious.”

“I'm not,” Ahmed answered. “I was born a Moslem, but I don't practice religion – I'm actually agnostic. I'm not an immigrant, I'm a third generation Scotsman. My grandfather came from Karachi and arrived in Glasgow in the nineteen sixties. We were the archetypal Packy family."

Ahmed caught Sally and Tom's stunned looks and defended himself.  “Packy's only a bad word when it’s directed as an insult by outsiders. I can say it because I'm talking about myself. It's like Jewish comedians talking about the holocaust, they can be poignant and side-splittingly funny, but the same words spoken by a gentile would be in bad taste and considered offensive. Anyway, like I was saying, Grandad worked as a bus conductor. His son – my father – opened a corner shop and ended up owning three, including a post office. I didn't want any part of the business though, so I studied English and Media. I'm about as westernised as it's possible to be. None of my family drink alcohol because of being Moslem, but for me it's more of a health choice. I don't drink tea, coffee or fizzy drinks because I cut caffeine from my diet, and I work out at the gym four times a week, when I'm home.”

“Sorry Ahmed, we didn't mean to cause any offence,” Sally said. “You and I have got something in common – my father worked for a bus company, but none of the family has ever opened a shop.”

“It would take a hell of a lot more than that to offend me.” Ahmed grinned. “Besides, I've got a thick skin, you don’t survive long in Glasgow without one. Ferguson's a Scottish name – is that where your family come from?”

“I think my grandfather came from somewhere near Stirling,” Sally replied, “but like you, I'm third generation, although in my case it's English. I was born in Manchester.”

“The name Ferguson will make you popular in Manchester with Sir Alex's past achievements,” Ahmed suggested.

“You might think so, but it's not really the case. Most Mancunians support City; United draws its fans from the rest of the country. And besides, I've been away from Manchester for years now.

“Well at least one of us is a pure-bred Englishman,” Tom interrupted. “My family can trace its roots back to the seventeenth century.”

His outburst was met with guffaws from the other two. “‘Pure-bred’ and ‘English’ don’t belong in the same sentence,” Ahmed announced. “It's an oxymoron. With the possible exception of Americans, the English must be the most bastardised race on the planet – and you can interpret that any way you like.”

Chapter 1

Tom made his way through the fog. It wasn't real fog – at least, it hadn't been in recent years – but the cloying atmosphere in Stephan's office had never truly cleared after the ban. Prior to smoking being prohibited, you literally had to part the colloidal-imbued air to see your way to a chair. Now there was greater transparency, but no matter how often or how well the office was cleaned or decorated, it still felt the same. The smell of stale nicotine and whisky was immoveable and whether real or imagined, the smoke was still there.

A career journalist, Stephan Presley fulfilled every cliché associated with the industry. Now aged fifty, he frequently drank to excess and he'd been smoking sixty a day for over thirty-five years. More than three quarters of a million cigarettes in aggregate and his complexion and aroma bore testimony to it. Some years back, Stephan had tried to cost how much he'd spent on tobacco and alcohol in an effort to justify cutting his consumption down or out. His shock at the number of figures in front of the decimal point made him reach for a glass, and he didn't feel comfortable drinking without a fag in his hand. So the effect was minimal; a temporary, slight decrease in cigarette intake before resuming his normal levels.

When company regulations prohibited him from smoking in his office, he took to using the roof garden for breaks, but it was suspected he more often simply closed his door and opened the window to reduce the evidence of succumbing to his addiction. The smell wasn't too much of a giveaway, as the air was already contaminated by the noxious fumes diffusing from his skin and clothes.

It was rare for anyone to volunteer to visit Stephan's office, any guests he did have usually arrived as a result of a summons. But there was no doubting he was good at his job – very good, one of the most respected editors in the business. He had first class instincts and an excellent knack of sniffing out a good story, even if his nose was too damaged to detect his own odour.

Stephan's yellow-stained forefinger pointed to a chair and Tom reluctantly descended to perch on its edge, praying the fabric's smell wouldn't permeate his favourite Hilfiger chinos. Tom's attention had been focused on Stephan and he only spotted the attractive young lady on the adjacent chair at the last moment. His attention was immediately distracted by her curvaceous shape and his eyes were drawn to her shapely legs. She was wearing open-toed sandals. He saw with clarity that her toenails were brightly and perfectly varnished, confirming his suspicion that her legs were bare and the deeply tanned colour was her natural skin, not an illusion created by tights or stockings.

Tom's eyes lingered a moment too long, before letting his appraisal move northwards to take in her tight waist, shapely bosom and the flowing curls which framed a disarmingly pretty face.

“‘Yes’ is the answer to your question,” she said, staring pointedly at him.

Tom lifted an eyebrow. “Yes? What do you mean? I didn't ask anything.”

“Yes, it is an all-over tan and I'm only telling you because there's no other way you’d find out. And trust me; you didn’t need to open your mouth to ask the question.” The girl's eyes were slate grey in colour, but alive with mirth which spread to the rest of her face. The sparkling whiteness of her perfect teeth lit up the otherwise dingy office.

“Www— No, it was only—” Tom stammered. The room's temperature seemed to be rising, heat radiating from his embarrassment.

“Don't bother trying to deny it, Tom. You've been caught red-handed; well, red-cheeked to be precise. Just accept it and move on. You're starting this game one-nil down.” The craggy, nicotine-stained teeth in Stephan's mouth formed a hideous smile, and although it was nowhere near as appealing as Sally's, it betrayed no less amusement.

Tom sank resignedly back into the chair, his eyes focused on the carpet. “Okay, what's this about?” he asked. He wanted to change the subject and try to regain some of his self-esteem.

“I suppose I'd better introduce you two first,” Stephan suggested. “Tom Bishop, this is Sally Ferguson and vice versa. You've probably already heard of each other. I'd be surprised if either of you weren't aware of the other's by-line.”

This time, Tom was careful to keep has gaze above shoulder height and he wasn't disappointed. Sally's face was still aflame with cheerful amusement. Her smooth, even complexion was tanned to the same shade as her legs and complemented by the lightest application of cosmetics, which showed her almond-shaped eyes and full mouth to their best effect.

By contrast, Sally seized the opportunity to take a long, appraising look at Tom, studying his clean-cut image and powerful form, and the cropped, sandy hair topping his slim, angular face. “You don’t scrub up too badly, a lot better than the photo on your column. You appear younger, too. What are you, thirty? Thirty-two perhaps?”

Tom was taken aback by her bluntness, but quickly reassessed his reaction. After all, what could he expect from a fellow journalist? He couldn't remember ever being attracted to someone in his profession before. “You don't look so bad yourself and I'm thirty-four actually, so thanks for the compliment. Maybe I’m not wearing as badly as I'd thought – but more likely, you're in need of seeing an optician.”

“Isn't that a contradiction of terms? If I couldn't see clearly, I wouldn't be able to see an optician.”

Stephan cut in. “Okay, children, enough of the word games. Let's get down to business.” He sank into his chair and picked up a pencil, holding it between his fingers and sucking on it as if it was a surrogate cigarette. “I can see I'm going to have my work cut out, trying to control you two. As if Tom hasn’t been a big enough pain in the ass for the past five years, now I've got both of you to deal with.”  He eyed them for a moment. “Sally, I'm sure you already know Tom's been our lead features writer at the London office for some time now. Tom, I know you'll have heard of Sally, but you might not know she took over the lead in Sydney a few months back.”

Tom stared at Sally. “So the tan's real then, and I know you're not meant to ask a lady's age – but as you don't qualify, I'll ask anyway.”

Sally shrugged. “Cheap shot. I'd expected better than that, but I've got nothing to hide. I'll turn thirty-one next-week and to save you asking the other questions; I’m single, heterosexual and no, I don't want to go out with you for a drink, dinner and certainly not breakfast.”

“That's two-nil, I reckon,” Stephan broke in.

“Oh, and my IQ's one hundred and seventy, so don't be misled by the blonde curls.”

“Bloody hell! One-seventy – that's more than Carol Vordeman or Rachel Riley,” Tom announced.

“That's more than Einstein, but thanks for confirming you keep the few brains you do have in your pants.”

Stephan interceded again. “Three-nil, but much as I'd like to sit and listen to you some more, it won’t create any copy and we've got column inches to fill, so we need to get some work done.” He inhaled deeply and looked at each of them in turn before continuing. “Tom, you've been asking for a free rein to carry out research into Royal National, to see what's been happening with their share movements and I've been holding you back. Sally's been making similar requests Down Under. So here we are. I'm taking a chance on putting the two of you together; a dream team.” Stephan laughed, but immediately started to cough and it took him several seconds to regain his breath and his composure. “Just as I expected, it was love at first sight – I reckoned there'd be a bit of rivalry, but I want you to put that aside and cooperate. I want results and I want them fast. I'm putting my ass on the line here, so don't let me down. Unless you can show me something developing in the next few days, that will be it, and I'll have to cover for the extra expenses. I don't want to be doing that, so I need you to deliver.”

Bouncing up from his seat, Tom protested. “Wait a minute, I always work alone.”

“Well, ‘always’ has come to an end. You either work together, or you don't work on this project at all,” Stephan asserted.

“Why can't we each do our own thing?” Sally asked.

“Because I make the rules. I think there might be something worth chasing and I reckon it could be big. I wouldn't have dreamed of putting you together otherwise. You either collaborate, or you're off the case and I'll have you working on nothing more interesting than obits for the rest of the year.”

“You can't be serious!” They both responded in unison.

“Too bloody right I'm serious. You've got the rest of this afternoon to talk things through, then I want you both on the first shuttle up to Glasgow. It's the best place to start, as that seems to be where the last leak came from and it was one of our associates there who scooped it. I've been able to second one of the local boys from the associate to help out, give you introductions and act as interpreter. His name's Ahmed Akbar and I can get him to meet you at the airport—”

“Ww— Wait a minute, I can't fly,” Sally interrupted, her voice losing its confident tone. “How about we get the first train instead?”

“What do you mean, you ' can't fly'? Big-time reporter wannabe, and you're too scared to get on a plane?” Tom detected the first sign of weakness in his competitor and he wasn't going to let the opportunity go. He already had too much ground to make up, to show any compassion.

“Yeah, Sally. What's this about?” Stephan asked.

“I'm not scared,” Sally argued. “I've only just flown back in from Oz, but I have an inner-ear infection and the pressure of flying would be excruciating. I'd be useless for hours afterwards. How about I take the train? I could even take tonight's sleeper and I’d be able to meet Tom in Glasgow in the morning.”

“No, I want the pair of you travelling together. There's a Virgin train leaving at about 5.30am from Euston; I'll get you both booked on it.”

“I'm not much of a morning person—” Tom began.

“That's too bad. You won't have to be up any earlier than you would for a 7.15 flight; probably later, in fact. You won't need to be at Heathrow in time to clear security before the flight and you'll arrive in Glasgow city centre around the same time. That's settled then,” Stephan added with finality.

Sally got to her feet. It was only when she stood that he noticed her diminutive stature; she couldn’t be more than five feet tall. The shapely legs he'd been caught admiring were no less alluring, but in height terms, the top of Sally's head was level with his chest.

Seeing his jaw drop in surprise she winked. “Don't you know all the best surprises come in smallest packages?”

Tom was still shaking his head when he and Sally left Stephan’s office.