Slip of the Knife by Denise Mina

drunken Mail journalists gave him a whoop and a couple of handclaps, really just to wind up the Standard table. McVie willfully misinterpreted the greeting as congratulations for a great issue: that morning’s Mail on Sunday had exposed a High Court judge for being gay and cruising for rent boys in Edinburgh. They had been investigating the story for months, a rare occurrence now, and McVie could rightfully take a bit of credit for lending the resources to it. The applause died while his hand was raised in modest triumph, leaving him to right himself to the hisses and boos of the Standard table. One of the Standard reporters cupped his mouth and shouted, “Poof.”
    McVie stood by the door looking as if he’d walked in with no trousers on. Paddy stood up and called him over. The wit shouted “Poof” at her as well and got a round of applause from the table even though the comment was neither apposite nor particularly insulting.
    “You lot are wanted back at the office,” she said quietly and, she thought, with great dignity. “Someone somewhere’s just taken their underpants off.”
    The Mail boys erupted into forced laughter and bread throwing at the Standard table. The romantic couple broke off looking at each other, glancing around, realizing suddenly that they were not on a pleasure cruise but on a pirate ship. The waitress stood at the side of the room, nervously chewing the cuff of her shirtsleeve.
    McVie sloped across the room to Paddy. He kissed her hand in a way that made the meet look staged, which it was.
    “That’ll do,” she muttered. “Sit down, for fucksake.”
    He dropped his shoulders and his perfectly tailored suit jacket slid down his arms and into his hands. He draped it carefully over the back of the chair, flashing the electric blue silk lining as he whispered, “Can I go home now?”
    “Probably. Thanks for this.”
    He settled in the seat in front of her. Meeting the editor of a rival paper would suggest to anyone who heard about it that Paddy was about to be poached to do a column for them. Having dinner with him would suggest he was offering more money than the Daily News. The News editor, Bunty, had only been in the job for a year but his sales were steadily falling. He wasn’t giving anyone a raise but might if he thought his beloved Misty was about to move.
    “You’re paying though, right?” he said.
    McVie was as rich as God now, could have paid the bill for everyone in the place and not even noticed the dent in his bank account, but he had to pretend he was getting something out of the meeting. Otherwise he’d just be doing Paddy a favor and that was tantamount to an admission of friendship. “Where’s that wee bastard of yours tonight, then?”
    “Off with his dad.”
    “Talentless prick. That show of his is an affront to humanity.”
    The waitress skipped over to them but her smile died when she saw McVie’s face. “Get me a big gin ’n’ tonic. Just tickle it with the tonic.” He jabbed her in the stomach with the menu. “Haggis and neeps and hurry up.”
    He glared at Paddy, prompting her to order. She chose the ham hock in sherry sauce and the waitress withdrew, glad to get away.
    Paddy tutted at him. “You’re laying it on a bit thick, aren’t ye?”
    “Am I?” He took out his cigarettes and lit one, flicking the packet across the table at her as an offering. It always took McVie a while to calm down after he left his work. He wasn’t a natural leader, was a loner by inclination, but maintained control of his staff with displays of temper a two-year-old would have thought vulgar. He tried to give her a friendly smile. “Better?”
    “No. Ye look as if a rival just had an anal prolapse.”
    He sucked a hiss between his front teeth, as close to a genuine laugh as he did these days. McVie had a better side: away from work he was a very slightly different man. He gave Pete age-inappropriate presents, but presents nonetheless. He loaned Paddy his cottage on