Pilgrim Soul by Gordon Ferris Page B

indeed. I now knew her mother had worked for Sam’s parents and the two girls had played together as they grew up.
    ‘Och, Izzie, don’t you go all formal on me. I’m still Sam. Give me a hug.’ The two embraced. ‘It’s been ages. I’m so sorry about your mum,’ Sam said.
    ‘Aye, well. We all have our time. You’re looking well, Sam. A bit skinny for my liking, but otherwise . . .’
    ‘You’re a fine one to talk. There’s not a pick on you. I’m going to commission some of your famous broths for the pair of us. When I get back, that is. I’m sorry about rushing off like this.’
    ‘Never you worry. I’ll have the place sparkling for when you get back.’
    They’d edged into the hall so that when the doorknocker clacked again, the three of us jumped.
    ‘That’ll be the taxi this time. Oh, goodness. I’m not ready for this.’ Sam’s face was red. Mine felt hot too. I wasn’t ready for this either. And how were we to say farewell? A big kiss from the lodger in front of the housekeeper?
    We fumbled through goodbyes by my carrying her case out to the waiting taxi and handing her into it. Her eyes registered something like panic. Mine should have shown a manly determination to be bright and breezy. But she saw the anxiety behind it.
    ‘It’ll be all right, Douglas.’
    ‘Of course it will. Phone me when you get there.’
    She leaned forward before I closed the door and kissed me lightly.
    ‘Be nice to Izzie,’ were her last words.
    I went back inside and could hear Isobel Dunlop already attacking the top floor with a hoover. It was fine. We needed some curb on the dust piles. And Sam would only be gone for just over three weeks. Three weeks, three days. I’d survive, though I might have come down with the flu if my hot flushes were any indication.
    I went up to my room. I sat on the edge of my bed until the sweating stopped and my breath came more easily. This wouldn’t do. I flannelled my face and body, put on a tie and gathered my jacket. A notion struck me. I went over to the sideboard. I pulled aside my socks and took out a box. I pushed aside my campaign medals and picked up my old cap badge of the Seaforths. I rubbed it against my lapel and thrust it into my left jacket pocket.
    I set off for the Western. I swam my morning lengths and, rejuvenated, headed towards the Gazette . Might as well call in on McGill’s on my way. It was just past nine as I turned into Bath Street. There was already a crowd round the pawnbroker’s. A bit early to be needing a wee borrow, surely? Then I realised that a number of the crowd were wearing uniforms. A squad car stood outside. My mouth went dry. I quickened my pace, feeling my stomach muscles tense.
    A constable was blocking the door, and I could see others milling about inside. A familiar head turned round and saw me. A spasm warped his face. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head as if in weariness. He came to the door.
    ‘Did you smell this, Brodie? Or did you happen to know something about this?’
    ‘Good morning to you, Detective Chief Inspector Sangster. It’s good to see you. I might be able to answer one of your questions if I knew what this is.’
    Sangster sighed, ‘Let him in,’ to the constable.
    I followed him inside. The Luftwaffe couldn’t have done a better job. Or a bull. There was hardly a display unit left standing. My feet crunched on broken glass and pottery. The carefully stacked piles of junk were tumbled together like flotsam after a deluge.
    ‘Stock-taking?’ I asked.
    Sangster sighed again. ‘Spare me your wit, Brodie. Through the back.’
    A uniformed officer stood by the door behind the counter. I hesitated. I didn’t need this. I’d had enough. I started towards him, knowing what I’d find. The officer moved aside. Lying sprawled on the floor was McGill. He was as smashed up as his store. His head was partly severed. The great gaping wound in his throat still wept blood. Behind, on the wall, a safe door stood