Free The Low Road by A. D. Scott

Barlinnie—the usual, a drunken brawl . . .”
    Don McLeod raised his eyebrows at that; in his experience Jimmy McPhee was not a drunk, the former boxer keeping himself fit, drinking sparingly. Money lending, illegal gambling, boxing, that and more he knew Jimmy to be involved in. But drinking and brawling?
    â€œHe was released and hasn’t been seen since.”
    â€œRight.” Don said no more, but McAllister could see he wasn’t convinced the matter was ended. Later McAllister would wonder why he hadn’t mentioned the reward out for information on Jimmy’s whereabouts. It wasn’t deliberate, but he was uncomfortable talking about the trip to the city.
    â€œYou’d better let Jenny McPhee know, but aye, Jimmy’s well able to look after himself.” Don glanced again at the provisional layout. There was nothing needing McAllister’s attention. “Maybe you could knock up a few editorials so I’ve always got one handy.”
    â€œFine,” McAllister replied. “I’ll write a note to Jenny, then do a couple of think pieces before I leave—I’m taking Joanne shopping,” he explained.
    â€œGood idea” was all the reply he got, Don busy taking his wee red pencil to some correspondent’s article, leaving very little of the original story.
    McAllister walked across the landing to his office, shut the door, rolled three sheets of paper, alternating with sheets of blue carbon copy paper, into his typewriter. He wanted to shut himself away from company at the communal high desk of the reporters’ room, but again, for reasons he couldn’t fathom.
    He flexed his fingers and was about to start, then stopped. What kind of journalism is it where you can write the editorial weeks in advance? He despaired of a newspaper where the stories were so predictable. He wanted the adrenaline of a city desk, but knew those days were gone. He lit a cigarette. He leaned back until the chair was at a dangerous angle. No, it’s far too early for a dram . Ignoring his inner mother, he went to the filing cabinet, took out the bottle and a crystal tumbler, poured at least half a gill, and sipped. It changed nothing.
    He put the bottle and the dirty glass back into the drawer and went into the reporters’ room. It was empty. No sign of his deputy nor Rob McLean, chief and only real reporter, nor Hector Bain, photographer and all-round nuisance. And Frankie Urquhart, the advertising manager and Rob’s old school chum, bright young man-about-town and cheerful soul, was nowhere to be seen.
    He walked down the semi-spiral stone staircase.
    Only Fiona, the Gazette secretary, was where she should be, manning the reception desk and switchboard.
    â€œWhere’s everyone?” he asked.
    â€œOut,” she replied. The phone rang. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. McAllister . . .” She picked up the receiver. “ Highland Gazette , how may I help you?”
    I can see I’m not needed , he was thinking as he hailed a taxi on the High Street. Arriving home, he asked the driver to wait while he fetched Joanne.
    â€œA taxi?” she said when she saw it. “What an extravagance.” But she didn’t mean it. She knew he saw taxis as an everydayform of public transport, not the only-in-emergencies necessity she always regarded them as.
    They emerged in front of the wide stone edifice. In the large plate-glass windows of the only department store in the Highlands were poised mannequins, some showing the latest but one year late compared to London fashions. Other models showed the best-selling tweed skirts and lambswool twinsets. Once through the double swing doors with gleaming brass handles, they took the wide carpeted sweep of stairs to the ladies’ section. As they headed towards a rack of summer dresses, they were waylaid by a shop assistant dressed in the black uniform and the overheavy makeup that seemed to be