Where Have All the Boys Gone?(18)

“So, what’s my first assignment?”

Derek returned, bearing three cracked mugs bearing pictures of trees on the side. They said “Don’t commit TREE-son, come see us this SEASON.”

These people need help, thought Katie.

“The prickwobbling dicko,” prompted Derek.

“Oh, yes,” said Harry. “Iain Kinross. Iain Kinross of the West Highland Times. Yes, yes. Iain Kinross.”

“Our evil arch-nemesis,” added Derek helpfully.

Harry brandished the paper and threw it down on the desk. “You have to sort him out.”

Katie picked up the paper.

“He’s pursuing a vendetta against us,” said Harry gravely. The headline read “Further Deciduous Cuts.” It meant nothing to Katie.

“He writes that we’re killing all the trees.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “We start by weeding out the gay and disabled trees.”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Derek.

“No,” said Katie, who’d come to this conclusion on her own.

“Yes!” said Harry indignantly. “Wages paid by me, both of you. Now, you—” he pointed at Katie “—go into town. Introduce yourself to Kinross. Simper a bit, you know, do that girlie thing. Toss your hair a little.”

“I will not,” said Katie. “I’m not a horse.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Just tell him you’re new here and that you were kind of hoping he’d go easy on you until you’ve settled in.”

“That’s not the kind of thing I’ve usually found works on journalists,” said Katie. “Especially not evil ones.”

“Well, what’s your great plan then, Miss Whoever-you-are?”

Katie didn’t know, but given the atmosphere of outright hostility, she was on Iain Kinross’s side pretty much already. “Let me go and talk to him,” she said, trying to sound professional.

“Exactly. Bit of the old eyelash-fluttering. See, Derek, I told you a lassie would help things around here.”

“Of course, boss.”

“THEY’RE LIKE MR. Burns and Smithers.”

Katie had run into Louise with comparative ease, given that there were only three streets in Fairlish, and only one person on any of them.

“Great,” said Louise. “I’m starving. Let’s cut our losses and run. We could be in Glasgow in five hours, and it rocks.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” said Katie, looking around her. “Do you know, Starbucks would clean up around here.”

“Who from? Mrs. Miggin’s pie shop?” Louise pointed to a little bakers-cum-teashop. It still had the original round glass panes in its tiny windows, and was painted pink. It looked cosy and welcoming, with condensation fogging up the glass. “Why isn’t it that easy? They can take the high road, and we’ll take the low road, and we’ll be shopping at LK Bennett’s before them.”

The heavy bakery doors clanged as they walked in. The shop was hot, steamy, and full of old men chattering away in a musical brogue. Everyone fell silent immediately. Katie and Louise were about the same height as most of them.

“Do you sell coffee?” Louise asked the friendly-looking red-haired chap behind the counter, which would have been fine if she hadn’t felt the need to over-enunciate in a very posh-sounding way while making the international signal for coffee by shaking imaginary beans in her hand, and looking a bit of a Gareth Hunt in the process.

Alongside the chap there was a tallish, angular young girl, with a sulky expression and a face that was quite possibly rather beautiful, if it were not crowned by a ridiculous pie-crust, olde-world elasticated bonnet and a murderous expression.

“Aw, caawww-feee?” she said, shaking her hand in the same stupid gesture Louise had used. “Ah dunno. Mr. MacKenzie, dweez sell CAAWWW-FEEE?”

Mr. MacKenzie looked at the two girls with some sympathy. “Don’t be stupid, Kelpie,” he said. “Serve theys.”

Kelpie gave the all-purpose teenage tut and walked over to a silver pot in the corner, slopping out two measures of instant into polystyrene cups before adding half a pint of milk and two sugars to each without asking them.

“Anything else for you girls?” said Mr. MacKenzie pleasantly. “Macaroni pie?”

“Let me just check my Atkins list,” said Louise. Katie kicked her.

“Umm.”

Nothing in the case laid out in front of them looked in the least bit familiar. There were pale brown slabs of what might have been fudge, only harder, lots of circular pies with holes poked in the middle of them which seemed, on closer examination, to hold anything from rhubarb to mince. There were gigantic, mutant sausage rolls and what may or may not have been very flat Cornish pasties. But both girls were starving. Suddenly Katie’s eyes alighted on the scones.

“Two . . . um, of those please.” She couldn’t remember how to pronounce the word. Was it scawn or scoone?

“The macaroons?”

“No, um, the . . .”

“French cake?”

What on earth was a French cake?

“The scoones,” said Louise. Katie winced. There was a pause, then everyone in the shop started laughing.