Slip of the Knife by Denise Mina Page B

do.”
    “George, I don’t know when he’s getting out, I promise.”
    “Swear on the life of your child.”
    She grinned at him. He knew she was lying, everyone knew she was lying about Callum Ogilvy, but McVie could read her better than most.
    “How are ye, George?”
    He hissed at the feeble detour, and took out another cigarette. She tried again. “How’s that nice young man of yours?”
    He sucked his teeth, lit the cigarette, and blew thick smoke across the table. It hit her place mat, lifting off it like a morning mist rising from a lake.
    “Meehan, we’ve got guys camped outside the prison. We can wait forever. You tell Callum Ogilvy this: we’ll pay top whack for an exclusive. With pictures. Someone’s getting it and he might as well make a few quid off it. Set him up in his new life.”
    “Johnny Mac from the Times offered him fifty K and he doesn’t want it.”
    “Unless you’re keeping it for yourself, exclusive on the cheap, family connections and all that.” He gave her a sly look. Callum and Sean Ogilvy weren’t members of her family. People forgot that she had been engaged to Sean and that he wasn’t her cousin. She herself forgot sometimes.
    “George, what does your man think about you outing gay men in your paper?”
    McVie’s face tightened. “The judge was picking up teenage junkie prostitutes and fucking them in his car.”
    “Still,” she sipped her mineral water, “it was a bit of a gay bash.”
    He excused himself with a wave of his cigarette. “Sells papers. That’s the business we’re in.”
    The Standard guys were sniggering at the waitress, who was trying to lift the plates from their table. “Aren’t you frightened those bastards’ll out you?”
    “No,” said McVie, but he looked worried.
    McVie had left his wife seven years ago and had gradually come out to the industry. Under the unspoken rules of engagement his sexuality had never been mentioned in the press, even when he took over the Scottish Mail on Sunday and became a name, but the Standard’s spite knew no bounds.
    “If they decide to out you it’ll be ugly.”
    McVie wriggled as if he had a cockroach between his shoulder blades. “Shut up about that.” He took a slice of bread from the basket and then a butter portion, cracking it back and forth in the paper to thaw it. “What did Hatcher say about Terry?”
    As luck would have it, the butter was frozen solid and McVie didn’t notice the moment’s pause before she spoke. “Kevin Hatcher?” she said as if she was correcting him.
    “Mmm.”
    “Nothing much.”
    “He must have said something. He left Terry outside the casino.”
    Paddy took a slice of bread too, pulled the soft guts out of it and chewed. “Just, you know . . .” She took a guess. “They lost money.”
    McVie unwrapped the butter portion and put it on his bread, trying to spread it with his knife. The frozen butter gathered the soft bread to it, pulling the slice into lumps.
    “So,” said Paddy casually, “Kevin was the last person to see Terry? Where is he now, the Express?”
    McVie looked angrily at the mauled slice of bread. “Freelance. Got his own agency.” He picked the bread up, used both hands to form it roughly into a ball, and threw it towards the startled waitress, who was taking a pudding order from the romantic couple. The ball of bread hit the curtains and dropped to the floor. He didn’t need to raise his voice: everyone was looking at him already. “I want butter that isn’t frozen fucking solid.”
    The couple looked appalled. The Standard boys cheered, because they always cheered bullies, and the Mail clapped halfheartedly because he was their boss.
    “You’re an arsehole.”
    He sat back and sucked his cigarette. “When’s Ogilvy getting out?”
    “Shut the fuck up.”
    The waitress brought the plates of haggis and ham over, apologizing for the butter and explaining that the chef had forgotten to take it out earlier but as soon as it was softened