Free A Double Death on the Black Isle by A. D. Scott Page A

Sandy Skinner should speak to you himself.”
    â€œJoanne,” he looked at her carefully, “do you have a conflict with this? Can you continue working on this story, no matter where it may lead?”
    â€œI don’t know. Sorry.”
    She was seized by the sensation that she had somehow failed. On her first story, she had not been professional, had not taken the opportunity to question Sandy, to do her job, to grab a scoop, as Rob would have done.
    And as the buzz of the newsroom continued around her, as stories were discussed, assignments agreed upon, she felt she would never measure up to the standards of a professional like McAllister.
    The meeting over, Joanne and Rob had the reporters’ room to themselves. Joanne was trying to decide how to approach Sandy Skinner for an interview.
    Rob was reading the report from Graham Nicolson. “It says here that Sandy Skinner was in Mallaig a couple of months ago, looking for a crew. I bet they had to be Catholic.”
    â€œOh really?” She was not that interested. She kept starting a sentence, hating what she wrote, and tearing the paper from the machine, scrunching it up into a small ball and throwing it at the top-hat-cum-wastepaper-basket that sat under the only window in the room.
    â€œCatholic crews can fish on a Sunday, or leave on a Sunday night, to get to the fishing grounds before the others. It’s been a source of tension for years. You see, many of the families on the east coast are Brethren, strict Sabbatarians.”
    â€œSandy Skinner can’t be religious, he married Patricia in the registry office.”
    â€œMaybe that’s what this is all about, a religious dispute,” Rob speculated.
    â€œMaybe.” This time, as she ripped the copy paper from the typewriter, Joanne’s fingers caught the ribbon, which unrolled into a fankle of black. As she tried to thread it back into the spool, the ink stained her fingers, the desk, and the cuff of her best white blouse.
    â€œBlast and double blast!” This was as close to swearing as Joanne got. “Blast this machine and blast this story!”
    â€œI’m happy to take over the story, but you’d be sorry if you give up. It could turn out to be very interesting,” Rob said.
    Joanne gave up on the typewriter ribbon. She went to stand in the window.
Rain is not far off,
Joanne thought, peering through the grimy panes to an equally grimy sky,
knowing my luck it will probably sleet
.
    â€œIt never occurred to me that friendship could get in the way of a story.” She spoke to the clouds, not wanting Rob to see how upset she felt.
    â€œWe can work on this together,” he offered, “and whenever it starts to get hairy, blame me.”
    â€œThanks, Rob, but I have to learn to stick up for myself. Patricia is my oldest friend, but . . . I don’t know what it is, but I sometimes feel . . . used.”
    â€œI know. She’s not my favorite person. We were forced to spend holidays together when I was a child, our fathers are friends.” Rob didn’t elaborate; it would all sound so petty. “Speaking of friendship, I have a confession.”
    He told her about the job offer.
    â€œNever! You can’t!” Joanne looked at him, at his cheerful face, his dandelion hair, the way he had of never standing but alwaysleaning in a casual film-star kind of way, and she felt the hot sting of almost tears. “Oh Rob, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It would be great for your career, but I’d miss you.”
    â€œI’d miss you too . . . and all this.” He gestured round a room so tight you could almost touch the walls opposite. “It’s flattering to be asked, and I haven’t made a decision. The idea of a good job on a big Aberdeen newspaper is all very fine, but . . .” he grinned at her, “their accent is so thick I can’t understand a word anyone says.”
    At lunchtime, and only