Free Blackstone's Pursuits by Quintin Jardine Page B

whether Ali accentuates his Scots accent. ‘Hullaw tae you, hen,’ he added, catching sight of Prim.
    ‘Ali, this is Miss Phillips. Remember her and don’t give her any of your past sell-by stuff.
    ‘See him, love,’ I said, pointing to the grinning Asiatic. ‘This one is Edinburgh’s cheekiest grocer. Ali thinks customer relations means ... No. On second thoughts I don’t think I’ll tell you that!’
    Ali’s one of my best pals. He and I, and eight other nutters, play five-a-side football together at Meadowbank Stadium, every Tuesday evening in life. We arrange our lives around our weekly session, which, like most informal football clubs, is simply on excuse for a few bevvies.
    Ali’s at his best as a defender. Me, I see myself as a cultured midfielder, in the Jim Baxter mould. The truth is, the Great Jim and I have one thing in common. We’re both Fifers; that’s it. Where he could have opened a combination lock with his left foot, mine is purely for standing on. The other one isn’t up to much either, except that in our team, I am the acknowledged master of the toe-poke, a distinctive way of shooting, stiff-ankled, with great power and accuracy. The toe-poke is derided by all serious footballers, and brings me much scorn, but usually from opponents, as they pick the ball out of their net.
    That morning, instead of a neat through ball, Ali passed me bacon, eggs, rolls, bread, orange juice, honey, milk and, on a ‘Please,’ from Primavera, square, spicy, sliced Lome sausage. Continentals look down on the British as sausage-makers. Their idea of sausage is something to be sliced razor thin, something that looks as if it came out of an animal, rather than being made from it. Give me German, French, Italian or Spaniard, and let me confront any one with a square slice of Ali’s Scottish sausage, grilled, in a white crusty roll. That would put the buggers in their place.
    We ate ours with HP sauce for extra body, washing them down with orange juice. Then we showered and dressed for the day. I suggested showering together to save energy, but Prim offered me a pound coin for the meter.
    Afterwards, we sat upstairs on the sofa in the loft, Primavera in my dressing gown and me in a sort of towelling kilt thing with a Velcro fastening that an ex had given me one Christmas and which I found buried in a heap at the foot of the wardrobe. The doors were open, and Wallace lay somnolent on the terrace, looking back at us, occasionally and disdainfully. Wallace lives for three things, sunshine, sleep and sustenance. The last of these takes many forms, most of them crunchy.
    On our first morning together we drank honey-sweetened tea, settling into our new situation. I punched her shoulder lightly. ‘Hey, Springtime. If I get that job we were talking about how about bringing the rest of your stuff down here?’
    She looked at me, seriously for once, just a bit guarded. My stomach twitched.
    ‘It’s fine where it is just now. First things first. I’ve been putting off the evil hour, but I’ve got to find out what’s happened to my sister.
    ‘I don’t believe for a second that Dawn killed that poor wee man; but she has disappeared. Before we think about what we do with that fiver, I’ve got to know where Dawn is, and to be sure she’s all right. Oz, you’re the detective. I need your help.’
    I squeezed her hand. ‘I told you love, I’m an enquiry agent, not a private eye. Different jobs, different people. But for you and Dawn, I’ll help all I can.’
    I sat silent for a while, trying to think not just about facts, but about the conclusions which they suggest. All my working life, I’ve trained myself not to use my imagination, or to encourage in any way embroidery by witnesses. All of a sudden I found that putting my mind to work, as well as my listening, interviewing and literacy skills, was a stimulating prospect.
    ‘Okay then. What we have to do is to think of the options, and discount them if we