‘We’re having a redesign. Need to get “stakeholder input”.’
‘Oh aye?’ Crossing his stylishly trousered legs at the ankles, showing off the polished tan shoes. ‘Come on then, I’m a stakeholder. See’s a looky.’
‘Right. Yes.’ Louis turned the mock-ups, so they faced Colin, working his way through them one by one.
Bloody hell.
From the look of it, theAberdeen Examinerwas about to abandon all pretence of being a serious grown-up paper and embrace running about with a bucket on its head and trousersround its ankles instead. Each one of the four new designs were full-on tabloid tribute acts: complete with bikini-shots, crap about celebrity diets, garish banners, and big screechy headlines. ‘OUR HEROES NEED YOUR SUPPORT!’, ‘MIGRANT CRIME RAMPAGE BLIGHTS BRITAIN!’, ‘LEFTY JUDGES PLOT TO CRIPPLE COUNTRY!’, and ‘LOONY PROBATION POLICY FREES PAEDO PERV!’
Colin whistled. ‘Fuck me...’
‘Really?’ A small pout. ‘I thought they were quitegood.’ Louis turned the mock-ups around again, staring at his own work. ‘I was going for more of aScottish-Daily-Postfeel. You know, because she was editor there?’
Time to give the wee jobby a bit of advice.
‘One: never,everstick exclamation marks in a headline – it’s called a “dog’s cock” for a reason. Two: since when did we become a right-wing rag?’ Leaning across the corridor to thump the mountboard. ‘This really where we’re going?’
Louis nodded. Then checked his watch. ‘Do you think I could go for a pee? I want to go for a pee, but what if she calls me in and I’m off peeing?’ Twisting one leg over the other, presumably to stop anything leaking out. ‘Not a great first impression, is it?’
‘God’s sake.’
Kids these days...
Colin rapped his knuckles against the door. Gave it a count of five, then tried the handle.
Locked.
Aye, thought as much.
He gave the door a good thumping – just in case she was hiding in there.
Still nothing.
‘She’s no’ in.’ A sniff and a shrug. Then a wee sing-songvoice for: ‘Ah well, what a pity, better luck next time.’ Colin turned on his stylish heel and marched off. Pausing outside Legal, to have a squint back down the corridor.
The numpty hadn’t moved, just sat there with his mock-ups, knees trembling like his bladder was about to pop.
‘She’s no’ in, you idiot! Go pee. Go home. Go find a top that doesnae make you look like a zebra crossing.’ Jabbing a finger in his direction. ‘And stop it with the exclamation marks!’
Louis wrapped his sneakers around each other, upping the pressure. ‘But what if she turns up and I’m nothere?’
‘She was at that SME charity-auction dinner bollocks last night. Probably still hungover, or got her legs wrapped around some poor prick from a downhole drilling company. Getting her “downhole” drilled. Honestly—’
Was as far as he got, before his phone launched into Green Day’s ‘American Idiot’. Which meant someone was calling the number they stuck on his columns for anonymous tip-offs. He answered it – one finger raised to silence Louis, just in case. ‘Colin Miller.’
A woman’s voice, bit teuchtery, calling from mobile:‘Aye: you the boy writes that stuff in the papers? Cos I got a story for you...’
8
Logan shifted sideways, until his phone was shaded by the tree he’d hung his socks on, bare feet slapping against the warm setts. Shoes sitting on the riverbank. Trousers now uncomfortably damp, rather than sopping wet. Shirt no longer see-through. Which was just as well, because there were only so many Roberta Steel ‘jokes’ about your nipples one man could take.
The knackered police van had been joined by two patrol cars and an ambulance – lights swirling as a paramedic thunked the door shut. Awhoopfrom the ambulance’s siren, and off it went. Helped through the cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape by a moist Barrett.
The cordon stretched across the road, along the side of the parkland, and back to the river again – with its tail end tied to the metal pole where Steel had found the lifebuoy. Making a little rectangle of sanity in a world gone absolutely bonkers.
Take the group of old ladies who’d been out walking their assorted dogs and the token husband. For some unfathomable reason, they’d each been given one of those silvery ‘marathon runner’ blankets, even though it was hot enough out here to bake them like potatoes. Glinting away as a couple of uniforms took their statements.
Madness.
