I check in and dump my bag in the bedroom. The plan is to suss out the venue this evening, and then I’ve booked to see a comedian at nine. I apply a little more makeup than usual and change into clean cropped trousers and a top. My phone rings. It’s DS Porter. I answer it.
‘It’s Tim.’ He asks me how I am, before telling me he’s spoken to his superior officer about my sister’s case. ‘I told him I wanted to look into a few things that have played on my mind.’
My heart gives a jolt of hope. ‘What did he say?’
‘He reminded me of my heavy workload.’
‘Oh.’
‘But he said if I want to take a look in my spare time, he’ll review anything I come up with. He’s a good man. He will, too.’
‘Tim! That’s great. You should speak to George as well. He’s gathering some information you might find interesting.’ I consider telling him I’m in Edinburgh, but decide against it. He’s the detective here.
He ends the call, reassuring me that he will revisit Daisy’s file at the weekend.
I leave the hotel and walk directly into the Clayback opposite. It’s busy in here. I’m about to go and ask the receptionist about the conference when my heart lurches. Justin Lakeland is walking among a group of people making their way towards the hotel bar. There was a small chance he’d be here. His keynote speech of the day ended only twenty minutes ago. He’s much better looking than in his website photo or when I saw him from a distance at the event in Brighton. I follow them.
The dark oak, wood-panelled space, with a high ceiling and low lighting, is busy with people standing around in small groups, or perched on leather-covered stools at the bar. I spot a free seat, one of two between two large beams that reach the ceiling, and weave my way between the drinkers to quickly take it. I order a sparkling water. DS Porter’s words reverberatearound my head. I need proof for them to reopen my sister’s investigation. Hard evidence, that’s what he said. Waltzing up to Justin, waving a photo of my sister in his face and asking what he knows of her isn’t an option. He’d only deny it, and this whole trip would be fruitless. I need to get under this guy’s skin. Understand how he operates.
I scan the vast bar area. The people present are older than me. It’s not surprising given the opulent surroundings. I wait, hoping for an opportunity to arise. I’m used to being bold. I’ve had to be, competing as an athlete. But this has to be the most courageous I’ve ever been. Sitting at the bar sipping my sparkling water, I’m scrolling on my phone, contemplating plan B if I don’t get to speak to him this weekend, when he wanders over. Within seconds, he’s standing on the other side of the beam and ordering a drink. ‘Scotch, please, no ice.’
My stomach turns. I peer around the side of the beam. His back is to me. A perfect place to watch him. Although I hate to admit it, I like his aftershave. A woody scent like freshly cut pine.
‘Hi,’ he says to the redhead sitting alone.
‘Hi,’ she replies. ‘Lovely place.’
‘Yes. Wonderful. I love it here. Love Scotland. Love Edinburgh. Especially the Fringe,’ he gushes, seemingly genuinely.
‘Same. I don’t get up here enough,’ she replies.
‘You’re here now. Been to many of the shows yet?’
The redhead shakes her head. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit of a fleeting visit. I met a friend here yesterday. She’s just left for the airport. I’m thinking of coming to the event here tomorrow.’ She holds upA Meeting of Mindsleaflet. ‘Would you recommend it?’ she asks.
‘Actually, I would.’ He chuckles and points towards the large display announcing the Business and Personal Development conference, with his face plastered all over it.
The redhead laughs. ‘Well, that’s embarrassing.’
‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘Although you’ll struggle to get a ticket. Sales have done well.’
He’s right on that score, though. I did get one of the last slots available.
‘Oh, that’s disappointing,’ the redhead says.
‘Wait there a second.’ He holds up a hand and drifts off to someone who looks like part of his team. He whispers in her ear. She looks across to the bar, then opens her black leather executive folder and pulls out a slip of paper. When he returns, he hands the redhead a ticket.
‘Here you go. Sorted.’
‘That’s so kind. Thank you. How much do I owe you?’
‘Nothing. It’s on the house.’
‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘You could and you will. I’ll look forward to seeing you.’
‘Let me at least get you a drink. Same again?’ She points to his glass.
