one thing that wasn’t already in the public domain. On a certain level it’s pretty impressive. It takes a degree of concentration to filter out anything, even an innocuous detail, that might have come from your own memory rather than reportage.’
‘Like I said, what happens on tour … So what’s next?’
‘I’m not sure yet. I should talk to the road crew: they might be a little less guarded.’
Mairi looked confused.
‘But what about the band? Is there not more you can find out from them?’
‘Your ground rules make it kind of tricky. I could press harder if they knew Heike was missing, but you don’t want that. I’ll have to come back to them when I’ve got more information from elsewhere. Right now I’ve got no leverage.’
Confusion was giving way to undisguised disappointment. Parlabane didn’t know what she was expecting, but he hadn’t delivered it.
‘No leverage? Don’t you have other means of finding out what they might know?’
‘Like what?’ he asked, adding an admonitory sternness to his tone.
‘I thought you were the kind of guy who would stop at nothing to get to the story.’
‘For one thing, I’m not allowed to
tell
the story, so maybe that’s taking my edge off. But that aside, these days I stop at the stuff that’s liable to get me the jail.’
‘I just thought…’
Mairi sighed.
This was when he realised why she hired him.
‘You just thought what? That I could maybe hack their phones or pull some black-arts shit you heard about during the Coulson and Brooks trial?’
‘But you said it yourself: it wouldn’t be for publication, and there’s someone missing who I’m worried about. Wouldn’t the end justify the means?’
Parlabane laughed. He couldn’t help himself. He thought about the blueprints, the modifications Sarah had been so determined to make. She had been the driving force in getting him to clean up his act, to cut out the practices that were going to see him ‘end up dead or in prison again’, as she often put it. And he had done so, more or less. That was the biggest irony about how he had been hung out to dry by some of his former employers: he had long since stopped doing most of the things he was being scapegoated for.
He wasn’t the same man any more, but whoever he’d become, it seemed Sarah didn’t think much of that bloke either. Or maybe it was just that
he
didn’t think much of that bloke. He couldn’t blame Sarah for not loving someone who didn’t much like himself.
Now it appeared the only gig he could get was working for somebody who thought they had hired the old Parlabane. Unfortunately, he wasn’t coming back. He had tried being his former self again: that was how he’d ended up with Pine and Mitchell up his arse.
‘Have you heard of the Westercruik Inquiry?’ he asked her, realising he’d probably been mistaken in his assumption the other day that she must have done.
‘Vaguely. Remind me.’
‘It’s looking into the Anthony Mead scandal. The MoD leaks. The “intelligence services conspiracy” story that turned out to be the biggest riddie for a UK newspaper since the Hitler diaries.’
‘Oh, yeah. Something about a stolen laptop that was actually bait to find the source of the leaks. I realise it must have turned up the heat on journalists, but this isn’t state secrets I’m asking you to—’
‘I’m Alec Forman,’ he interrupted. ‘I was the one who hacked the laptop. I’ve got the Met all over me trying to find out how it came to be in my possession. So not only am I a busted flush, but even if I’m a very good boy I’m going to be doing very well to stay out of the clink.’
‘Alec Forman? I thought your pseudonym was John Lapsley.’
‘Needed a new one. It’s an anagram of
roman à clef
. John Lapsley’s gone. I’m sorry, Mairi. I’m not the guy who found out the truth about Donald, any more than I’m the guy who used to come round your parents’ house when I was
‘Like I said, what happens on tour … So what’s next?’
‘I’m not sure yet. I should talk to the road crew: they might be a little less guarded.’
Mairi looked confused.
‘But what about the band? Is there not more you can find out from them?’
‘Your ground rules make it kind of tricky. I could press harder if they knew Heike was missing, but you don’t want that. I’ll have to come back to them when I’ve got more information from elsewhere. Right now I’ve got no leverage.’
Confusion was giving way to undisguised disappointment. Parlabane didn’t know what she was expecting, but he hadn’t delivered it.
‘No leverage? Don’t you have other means of finding out what they might know?’
‘Like what?’ he asked, adding an admonitory sternness to his tone.
‘I thought you were the kind of guy who would stop at nothing to get to the story.’
‘For one thing, I’m not allowed to
tell
the story, so maybe that’s taking my edge off. But that aside, these days I stop at the stuff that’s liable to get me the jail.’
‘I just thought…’
Mairi sighed.
This was when he realised why she hired him.
‘You just thought what? That I could maybe hack their phones or pull some black-arts shit you heard about during the Coulson and Brooks trial?’
‘But you said it yourself: it wouldn’t be for publication, and there’s someone missing who I’m worried about. Wouldn’t the end justify the means?’
Parlabane laughed. He couldn’t help himself. He thought about the blueprints, the modifications Sarah had been so determined to make. She had been the driving force in getting him to clean up his act, to cut out the practices that were going to see him ‘end up dead or in prison again’, as she often put it. And he had done so, more or less. That was the biggest irony about how he had been hung out to dry by some of his former employers: he had long since stopped doing most of the things he was being scapegoated for.
He wasn’t the same man any more, but whoever he’d become, it seemed Sarah didn’t think much of that bloke either. Or maybe it was just that
he
didn’t think much of that bloke. He couldn’t blame Sarah for not loving someone who didn’t much like himself.
Now it appeared the only gig he could get was working for somebody who thought they had hired the old Parlabane. Unfortunately, he wasn’t coming back. He had tried being his former self again: that was how he’d ended up with Pine and Mitchell up his arse.
‘Have you heard of the Westercruik Inquiry?’ he asked her, realising he’d probably been mistaken in his assumption the other day that she must have done.
‘Vaguely. Remind me.’
‘It’s looking into the Anthony Mead scandal. The MoD leaks. The “intelligence services conspiracy” story that turned out to be the biggest riddie for a UK newspaper since the Hitler diaries.’
‘Oh, yeah. Something about a stolen laptop that was actually bait to find the source of the leaks. I realise it must have turned up the heat on journalists, but this isn’t state secrets I’m asking you to—’
‘I’m Alec Forman,’ he interrupted. ‘I was the one who hacked the laptop. I’ve got the Met all over me trying to find out how it came to be in my possession. So not only am I a busted flush, but even if I’m a very good boy I’m going to be doing very well to stay out of the clink.’
‘Alec Forman? I thought your pseudonym was John Lapsley.’
‘Needed a new one. It’s an anagram of
roman à clef
. John Lapsley’s gone. I’m sorry, Mairi. I’m not the guy who found out the truth about Donald, any more than I’m the guy who used to come round your parents’ house when I was
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