Richard Richardson was quietly insistent when he phoned his old colleague. He wanted to have dinner with McBride and he wanted to pay for it. They would dine at 8 p.m. in Broughty Ferry and afterwards seek drink or women, more probably both.
He suggested they meet in the restaurant at the hotel situated where Queen Street meets Claypotts Road.
McBride asked the name of the hotel.
‘That’s all it’s called,’ Richardson explained. ‘Its official title is “The Hotel” – capital T capital H. Nothing else. Bloody stupid, I know, but that’s the label they saddled it with.’ It did not occur to him that there was an element of ‘pot’ and ‘black’ in his dismissal of the strange name.
McBride wondered aloud why he was being treated. ‘It’s not my birthday. Is it yours?’ he asked. ‘Have you come into money?’
Richardson tried to sound exasperated. ‘I haven’t come into anything – at least not for some time. Maybe later tonight … This is just a typically generous act on my behalf. Besides, I’ll fiddle it on expenses.’
When McBride arrived precisely on time at The Hotel, his benefactor was already there, seated at a corner table in the busy upstairs restaurant. A bottle of white wine that looked expensive was open and the glass at Double Dick’s right hand had only a mouthful left in it. McBride sensed it would not be the only bottle they would consume that evening.
‘You shouldn’t have bothered waiting,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Have you ordered? Maybe you’ve eaten as well …’
‘Now, now, old son, no need to be offensive.’ Richardson was in exuberant mood. ‘Plenty more left in the bottle,’ he continued, filling the empty glass on the opposite side of the table. ‘Drink up and let’s talk.’
McBride lifted his glass, held it theatrically up to the light and then sniffed the contents. He took a mouthful and made exaggerated swilling motions. ‘French, a Chardonnay, and probably early this century, unless I’m very much mistaken,’ he said, finally, after swallowing the wine.
Richardson’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. Then he realised that the label of the bottle faced his companion. ‘Very funny. You’d struggle to know the difference between gnat’s piss and champagne. Everything doesn’t have to come in a pint glass.’
McBride drained his glass in two quick movements and pushed it across for a refill. ‘OK, what do you want?’ he asked. ‘Has to be more than my company.’
Richardson tried to look hurt. ‘Do people never do anything nice for you, McBride? I just thought it was time we touched base again.’ He toyed with his drink. ‘Bring me up to speed. How’s this feature you’re supposed to be “working up”? Must be some size if it’s made you move back up from Pooftown.’
McBride raised an eyebrow. ‘You heard?’
‘You should know better. My spies are everywhere. Nothing moves in this town without Richard Richardson being aware of it. My sensitive finger is constantly on the grubby pulse of the city.’
The verbal sparring lasted until the food arrived. Then Double Dick appeared to lose interest in the man seated opposite. His concentration on his plate was awesome. He dissected and arranged, discarded and rearranged. Every mouthful was savoured.
It was only when his three courses had been consumed and a fresh bottle of wine was in place that normal exchanges were resumed. McBride concluded that, whatever his former colleague wanted from him, he also wanted a hunting companion that night.
It was only when they were ensconced in The Fort some time later that he fully appreciated Richardson’s need for female company. The wine had given way to lager and the combination of copious amounts of both seemed to open a verbal tap inside Double Dick’s mouth.
‘When did you last have a shag, then, Mr McRide?’ he asked abruptly, his face twisting to a leer. ‘Do you know that’s what they used to call you – Campbell McRide, the fastest prick in the west … and the south, north and east. The scourge of every housing scheme round the back of Kingsway.’ Richardson became conspiratorial. ‘Do you remember the days when we went hoorin’ together?’ he asked, nostalgia overtaking him. ‘We did OK, didn’t we? Except you always seemed to get the best-looking one. Still, that wasn’t always the one with the biggest tits. Suited me. Sometimes the ugliest were the most rewarding – and the most grateful.’
It was a philosophy Richardson had comforted himself with at the time. McBride would lay money he still adhered to it. Not that he was alone in the practice. McBride had even heard Omar Sharif admit to the same kind of selection process on a TV show interview. He reflected on this for a few moments and concluded that not in his wildest dreams would he have imagined himself ever finding a close similarity between Double Dick and a suave movie actor.
‘Never mind twenty years ago. Are you still getting your share now, Richard?’ McBride asked.
The man who was never lost for words when he penned his paper’s finest news articles struggled to respond. He rolled his head slowly from side to side, making up his mind what to say. Finally, he said, ‘A bit here, bit there – you know the way it goes. Not as much as I’d like. Same as everybody else, I suppose. Except you, maybe.’
McBride changed the subject – or tried to. ‘I ran into Dave Novak, the other day,’ he said lightly. ‘Met his daughter too. Petra. Didn’t recognise her. Hasn’t half grown up. Couldn’t believe she’s a cop.’
Richardson said nothing at first. Then he managed to combine another leer with a laugh. ‘No chance,’ he rasped. ‘You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, McBride. She wouldn’t touch you with a bargepole. I don’t care how often you get lucky with women. The girl has class – and sense. Forget it.’ He chortled, taking delight at the thought of McBride being rejected by the divine Petra.
Before McBride could retaliate, Richardson began to gesture across the bar towards two females. They had entered ten minutes earlier but he had not been aware of their presence. McBride had. Richardson pointed at them and made drinking motions. They nodded. He shouted to John Black behind the bar to give them what they wanted and handed him the money.
‘An investment,’ he explained to McBride, unnecessarily lowering his voice. ‘That’s Kate from the office with one of her mates. Good lass. You can have her. I’ll see what I can make of her pal.’
After they collected their drinks, he waved again, this time beckoning them over. The two women hesitated only long enough to take a sip from their glasses before joining the predators.
The quartet observed the ritual of witty conversation, which was polite but unnecessary. All four understood the protocols required of those who sought the company of the opposite sex in The Fort.