But the nurse hadn’t been sure, offering half a dozen suggestions, so now Siobhan was prowling the wards and corridors, listening at doors, peering through the gaps in partitions, waiting outside rooms until consultations were finished and the doctor proved not to be Alexis Cater.
‘Can I help?’ She’d been asked this question a dozen times or more. Each time, she would ask for the whereabouts of Cater, receiving conflicting answers for her efforts.
‘You can run, but you can’t hide,’ she muttered to herself as she entered a corridor she recognised from not ten minutes before. Stopping at a vending machine, she selected a can of Irn-Bru, sipping from it as she continued her quest. When her mobile sounded, she didn’t recognise the number on the screen: another mobile.
‘Hello?’ she said, turning another corner.
‘Shiv? Is that you?’
She stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Of course it’s me — you’re calling my phone, aren’t you?’
‘Well, if that’s your attitude...’
‘Hang on, hang on.’ She gave a noisy sigh. ‘I’ve been trying to catch you.’
Alexis Cater chuckled. ‘I’d heard rumours. Nice to know I’m so popular...’
‘But sliding down the charts as we speak. I thought you were going to get back to me.’
‘Was I?’
‘With your friend Pippa’s details,’ Siobhan replied, not bothering to hide her exasperation. She lifted the can to her lips.
‘It’ll rot your teeth,’ Cater warned.
‘What will...?’ Siobhan broke off suddenly, did a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. He was watching her through the glass panel of a swing door halfway down the corridor. She started stalking towards him.
‘Nice hips,’ his voice said.
‘How long have you been following me?’ she asked into her own phone.
‘Not long.’ He pushed open the door, closing his phone just as she closed hers. He was wearing his white coat unbuttoned, revealing a grey shirt and narrow pea-green tie.
‘Maybe you’ve got time for games, but I haven’t.’
‘Then why drive all the way out here? A simple call would have sufficed.’
‘You weren’t answering.’
He formed his substantial lips into a pout. ‘You’re sure you weren’t dying to see me?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Your friend Pippa,’ she reminded him.
He nodded. ‘What about a drink after work? I’ll tell you then.’
‘You’ll tell me now.’
‘Good idea — we can have the drink without business intruding.’ He slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘Pippa works for Bill Lindquist: do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘Hotshot PR guy. Based in London for a time, but got to like golf and fell in love with Edinburgh. He’s played a few rounds with my father...’ He saw that Siobhan was impressed by none of this.
‘Work address?’
‘It’ll be in the phone book under “Lindquist PR”. Down in the New Town somewhere... maybe India Street. I’d call first if I were you: PR isn’t PR if you’re sitting on your jacksy in the office...’
‘Thanks for the advice.’
‘Well, then... about that drink...?’
Siobhan nodded. ‘Opal Lounge, nine o’clock?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Great.’ Siobhan smiled at him and started walking away. He called out to her, and she stopped.
‘You’ve no intention of turning up, have you?’
‘You’ll have to be there at nine to find out,’ she said, waving as she headed down the corridor. Her mobile sounded and she took the call. Cater’s voice.
‘You’ve still got great hips, Shiv. Shame not to give them some fresh air and exercise...’
She drove straight to India Street, calling ahead to make sure Pippa Greenlaw was there. She wasn’t: she was meeting some clients on Lothian Road, but was expected back by the top of the hour. As Siobhan had estimated, traffic on the way back into town meant that she, too, arrived at the offices of Lindquist PR almost exactly on the hour. The office was in the basement of a traditional Georgian block, reached by a winding set of stone steps. Siobhan knew that a lot of properties in the New Town had been turned into office accommodation, but many were now reverting to their origins as private homes. There were plenty of For Sale signs on this and surrounding streets. The buildings in the New Town were proving unable to adapt to the needs of the new century: most had listed interiors. You couldn’t just rip walls out to put in new cabling systems or reconfigure the available space, and you couldn’t build new extensions. Local council red tape was there to ensure that the New Town’s famed ‘elegance’ was retained, and when the local council failed, there were still plenty of local pressure groups to contend with...
Some of which became the topic of discussion between Siobhan and the receptionist, who was apologetic that Pippa had obviously been delayed. She poured coffee from the machine for Siobhan, offered her one of her own biscuits from the desk drawer, and chatted between answering phone calls.
‘Ceiling’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’ she said. Siobhan agreed, staring up at the ornate cornicing. ‘You should see the fireplace in Mr Lindquist’s office.’ The receptionist screwed shut her eyes in rapture. ‘It’s absolutely...’
‘Gorgeous?’ Siobhan offered. The receptionist nodded.
‘More coffee?’
Siobhan declined, having yet to start the first cup. A door opened and a male head appeared. ‘Pippa back?’
‘She must have been delayed, Bill,’ the receptionist apologised breathily. Lindquist looked at Siobhan but said nothing, then disappeared back into his room.
The receptionist smiled at Siobhan and raised her eyebrows slightly, the gesture telling Siobhan that she thought Mr Lindquist, too, was gorgeous. Maybe everyone was gorgeous in PR, Siobhan decided — everyone and everything.
The outer door opened with some violence. ‘Fuckwits... bunch of brain-dead fuckwits.’ A young woman strode in. She was slim, wearing a skirt and jacket that showed off her figure. Long red hair and glossy red lipstick. Black high heels and black stockings: something told Siobhan they were definitely stockings rather than tights. ‘How the hell are we supposed to help them when they’ve got gold medals in fuckwittery — answer that, Sherlock!’ She slammed her briefcase down on the reception desk. ‘As God is my witness, Zara, if Bill sends me down there again, I’m taking an Uzi and as much bloody ammo as I can stuff into this case.’ She slapped her briefcase, noticing only now that Zara’s eyes were on the line of chairs by the window.
‘Pippa,’ Zara said tremulously, ‘this lady’s been waiting to see you...’
‘Name’s Siobhan Clarke,’ Siobhan said, taking a step forward. ‘I’m a potential new client...’ Seeing the look of horror on Greenlaw’s face, she held up a hand. ‘Only joking.’
Greenlaw rolled her eyes with relief. ‘Thank the sweet baby Jesus for that.’
‘I’m actually a police officer.’
‘I wasn’t serious about the Uzi...’
‘Quite right — I believe they’re notorious for jamming. Much better with a Heckler and Koch...’
Pippa Greenlaw smiled. ‘Come into my office while I write that down.’
Her office was probably the maid’s room of the original multi-storey house, narrow and not especially long, with a barred window looking on to a cramped car park where Siobhan recognised a Maserati and a Porsche.
‘I’m guessing yours is the Porsche,’ she said.
‘Of course it is — isn’t that why you’re here?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because that bloody speed camera near the zoo caught me again last week.’
‘Nothing to do with me. Do you mind if I sit?’