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I had worked with Helen Ensfield, off and on, for a great many years: me providing tip-offs for hot stories about the rich and famous and the occasional juicy item of gossip, while she in turn had provided background information on the occasional client or suspect. Ill-health and, frankly, office politics had forced her to retire quite a few years ago, and we had had lamentably little contact since then. Maybe I still owed her a favour or two? Or was it the other way around? Who knew? Who was even keeping score anyway? But I figured that Helen might consider one more favour for an old friend - especially one who had come prepared with a decent bottle of scotch. Helen settled herself comfortably in her armchair, rested her sticks close at hand, and carefully picked up the glass of whisky I had poured. She didn't need to use both hands, not just yet, and there was a barely perceptible shake as she lifted the tumbler in salute. "Your good health," I said politely, barely touching the glass to my lips. I wasn't going to get leathered, at least not just yet. She took a decent swallow, smacked her lips appreciatively, and then very carefully returned the glass to the table. For the first time since I had got there, she looked directly at my face. Her eyes, once a clear and piercing blue, had lost only a little of their brightness and none at all of the penetrative qualities. For all her physical infirmities, it seemed she was still equipped with a full complement of marbles. "So, Findo, you still have need of something from me?" I felt that honestly was the best policy, at least here and now. "I do," I said bluntly, "What can you tell me about Mister Dalgrin Balloch?" "Dalgrin Balloch," she repeated softly, sitting back in her chair, "Mister Dalgrin bloody Balloch." There was a pause while she stared into space for a while. There was clearly some history here. Helen's gaze returned from somewhere in the past and refocussed on me. I looked at her quizzically. "So what’s the story with Balloch, then?"
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Part 38