Daguerreotype VII

The three of us were met by a taxi afterwards. Doubtless Tam's secretary had organised that. The black cab's driver was on the point of pulling away, when the man in the hounds-tooth suit jerked the door open and fell in, rather uncomfortably close to me. I edged away and his dark-chocolate voice offered an apology. Tam's eyes were bulging and a vein on the side of his neck stood proud of the skin. Sheena seemed elsewhere, a cow-like blink being her only reaction.

'We'll be having a drink to see him off, then?' the stranger said.

'I hardly think...' Tam began.

'Hanover Street, driver,' I said.

He grunted in reply and the cab left the crematorium with less decorum than it might have.

'Who are you?'

'Surely your father mentioned me?' the man raised his eyebrows, perhaps even in genuine surprise.

I looked at him more closely then. At close quarters the dye-job seemed more obvious. He was wearing make-up, perhaps theatrical. Not sufficient to give a performance on stage, but enough for whatever show this was.

'No,' I got no further.

'No, he did not,' Tam interrupted,' you two can get out at Hanover Street, but we'll be going on home, thank you.'

His lower lip came out in a way I remembered. When we were ten it had made me want to punch him. It seemed I had changed as little as he had, in some ways.

'Let's find out who he is. Besides I could do with a drink myself.' I wanted several

'Me too.'

It was Sheena who'd decided, although she got an old-fashioned look from Tam for her trouble.

We were silent for the fifteen minutes it took to get to the centre of the city, but only the stranger seemed comfortable in it.

The secretary's arrangements for the taxi did not stretch so far as billing it to Tam's practice account, so I paid, tip and all. We'd pulled up outside 99 Hanover Street. Clouds had replaced the cerulean blue and it was just beginning to rain. On the point of going in to the bar, the stranger said,

'I think another bar would be more suitable.'

He led us onto Thistle Street, and, to my surprise, we all followed. Even Tam, although he was muttering to himself like a derelict until we reached our destination. It was a sandstone building, squat, ugly, utilitarian. The only touch of colour was the traditional inn-sign hanging outside. It showed a smirking gentleman in 18th century clothes. An appropriate-looking script read 'The William B'. We went in.

It was dark and looked smoky, although of course it couldn't have been. Oil portraits in similar style to the inn-sign hung on the plaster above half-panelling. The public bar was little more than a large rectangular room. The bar ran the length of one of the short sides of the oblong. There was no-one drinking at any of the tables. Behind the bar stood a rough-looking character in a collarless shirt. Clearly he knew our guide, he poured a glass of malt and barked,

'An fae thon, whit air thiz wantin'?'

I wanted a bottle of Sol, but settled for a warm half of bitter. Tam ordered a pint for himself and a mineral water for Sheena.

'Ah've water fae the tap, an' ye wantit.' our host said.

The stranger paid for and fetched the drinks. We were sitting under one of the portraits. It showed a handsome chap with hair receding at the temples. The eyes were intense, he looked as though he might be about to smile. His stock had been painted a gleaming white and the artist had depicted him wearing a lovat-green topcoat. The initials 'HR' were in the bottom right corner, presumably they were the artist's. Our unknown friend caught me staring at the painting,

'A man's a man for aw' that,' he said. He held out a hand - to me,not Tam - and went on, 'Callum Alexander, pleased to meet you, Ms Feuerstein.'

I shook his hand, and he held it momentarily, as I tried to withdraw it. He offered his hand to Tam, who cleared his throat and said,

'Tam Moffat, what do you want?'