Sometime after his arrival in South Queensferry, Herdman had started his boat business, towing water-skiers and such. Siobhan didn’t know how much it cost to buy a speedboat. She’d made a note to this effect, one of dozens listed on the pad back at the table.
“You’re not in a hurry, then,” the barman said. She hadn’t noticed him coming back.
“What?”
He lowered his eyes, directing her to the drinks in front of her.
“Oh, right,” she said, trying for a smile.
“Don’t worry about it. Sometimes a dwam’s the best place to be.”
She nodded, knowing that “dwam” meant dream. She seldom used Scots words; they jarred with her English accent. That she’d never tried altering her accent was testament to its usefulness. It could wind people up, which had proved handy in some interviews. And if people occasionally mistook her for a tourist, well, they sometimes dropped their guard, too.
“I’ve figured out who you are,” the barman was saying now. She studied him. Mid-twenties, tall and broad-shouldered with short black hair and a face that would retain its sculpted cheekbones for a few years yet, booze, diet and cigarettes notwithstanding.
“Impress me,” she said, leaning against the bar.
“At first I took you for a pair of reporters, but you’re not asking any questions.”
“You’ve had a few reporters in, then?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes in reply. “Way you’ve been sifting through that lot,” he said, nodding towards the table, “I’m thinking detectives.”