Shooting in the Dark

Lorna?’
    ‘Now he’s got his office and his big house and it costs an arm and a leg to speak to him. But he’s still the same guy underneath. People don’t change. Not that much, anyway. And men don’t change at all. Isn’t that the truth, Celia?’ Celia put both hands on the counter. ‘Lorna, if there’s something you want, I’ll do my best to help. But if you’re here to run Sam down, it would be better if you left.’ The journalist smiled. ‘Loyalty. How touching. I heard a rumour about a note that was sent to Angeles Falco. D’you want to tell me what it said?’
    Ah. That’s why she was here. ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ Celia said. ‘Sam’s handling the case personally. You’ll have to talk to him.’
    ‘But you’re not denying that there was a note?’
    ‘I’m not denying or confirming anything,’ said Celia. ‘I don’t know if what you say is true or not.’
    ‘Because,’ Lorna said, opening the cardboard file, ‘I just happen to have a photocopy of the note here. What d’you say about it now?’
     
    Lorna George left the great detective’s office and crossed over the square to Betty’s. She waited for a window table so she’d see Sam when he returned from his jaunt. The irony of watching the detective while the detective was watching over his client was not lost on her. Lorna was good at watching people, watching situations, that’s what being a journalist was about. Keeping your eyes skinned, being able to see the moment when a story starts to break. Under different circumstances, Lorna always said, she would have made an excellent spy.
    What Lorna liked least about the situation was having to spend time in Betty’s, paying Betty’s prices for the sake of a cup of coffee. So waitress service costs more to provide? Who cares? Get rid of the waitresses, bring the prices down.
    That Celia was a silly old cow. She knew as much about the note as her boss did, just as she knew where Angeles Falco was hiding out. What was it about Sam Turner that his women were so loyal, even the ones he wasn’t poking?
    At least she didn’t think he’d be poking Celia. You could never tell, though; the dirty bastards were capable of screwing rubber dolls. Guys who’d do that were capable of anything. And they all did it.
    He came around the corner into the square and made for the entrance to the office building. He was wearing grey cords with highly polished shoes and a bomber jacket to show off his tight little bum. He walked with a pronounced limp, no doubt introduced artificially to elicit sympathy. Lorna left her file and scarf on the table and went across to intercept him before he got to Celia.
    He turned when she called his name but he didn’t see her immediately. She watched him scan the square, looking for something younger and sexier, and when he finally focused on her his face closed down like a vegetarian who’d found a venison steak on his plate. He was good, though, managed to resurrect a smile as colourful as a Kalahari sunset.
    ‘Lorna,’ he said. He gave her the once over. ‘Shouldn’t you be wearing a coat?’
    ‘It’s in Betty’s,’ she said. ‘I was having a coffee. You want to join me?’
    Hesitation. For a moment there, a dithering detective. ‘Is this business?’ he asked.
    ‘Could be pleasure as well, Sam. Depends how you want to play it.’ She watched his breath on the icy air.
    He glanced at his watch. ‘A few minutes?’
    ‘I’m offering you coffee,’ she said. ‘Not a package holiday.’
    The waitress brought Sam a coffee and set it down in front of him. He sipped from the cup and put it back on the saucer. He waited.
    Some minor showbiz personality was at the table by the piano, probably in town to open a new hotel, and the local fans were out in force. The waitresses tripped back and forth in their black and whites, offering professional smiles to their customers. On the other side of the plate-glass window a juggler, his face as misshapen as a used condom, threw a spray of fire-clubs up into the frozen air.
    Sam was staring off into the old days.
    ‘Angeles Falco,’ Lorna said. ‘A note demanding money or her life.’
    ‘Why ask me? You’ve got your own sources.’
    ‘I want it from the horse’s mouth.’
    Slight curl to his lips. ‘I’m always happy to be called that end of a horse.’
    Lorna took the photocopy of the note from her file and handed it over the table. ‘Two questions,’ she said. ‘Is it