Read Online North Sea Requiem by A. D. Scott - Free Book Online Page B

you’re making me nervous.”
    Mae Bell did not look nervous. Joanne doubted anything could make her nervous.
    â€œYou obviously know something. Should I be nervous? At least give me a clue.” And that signature Mae Bell send-shivers-down-the-spine laugh filled the editor’s poky wee office.
    â€œAre you a singer, Mrs. Bell?” McAllister was staring at her.
    â€œSure am.”
    â€œDon’t know why, there’s no sun up in the sky Stormy weather . . .”
    The sound of her voice was loud; clear—clear as a bell—a phrase Don McLeod would delete if one of them used it in an article.
    â€œParis, 1948, that wee club on the Left Bank—but you weren’t Mae Bell then . . .”
    â€œOh, my, Mr. McAllister, now you’re giving away my secrets . . .”
    â€œI saw you. You were, are, marvelous.”
    â€œI took my husband’s name. I love the sound of Mae Bell . . .”
    â€œSo do I,” Rob joined in.
    â€œThe anonymous letters.” Joanne had enough of this heroine worship but immediately regretted sounding so churlish. Though no one else had noticed.
    â€œYes, the letters.” McAllister knew he had to call DI Dunne. “I’ll ask the inspector if he will come here to talk to you.” He thought it better that the inspector come to the Gazette, than that the unmistakable Mrs. Bell walk up the steps of the police station, alerting who knows who, maybe even the letter writer.
    â€œFiona also opened an anonymous letter addressed to the Gazette . I think from the same person . . .”
    McAllister turned to Joanne. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He meant it as a comment, a we-could-have-talked-this-over, but the pink cheeks as she looked at the floor told him he’d upset her.
    â€œMy fault,” Mae intervened. “I told the young lady always to ignore anonymous communications and chain letters.”
    Not quite accurate—Mae told Fiona to throw the note away.
    But Joanne was grateful for the intervention. Her arms wrapped around herself to hide her shaking hands, she was looking at the floor where a carpet had once lain, leaving a lighter mark on the wood.
    â€œSorry.” Face pink, furious that McAllister should pull her up in front of Mae, she stood. “I have some work to do.”
    Rob looked at his watch. “Me too. I’ll catch you later, Mae . . . Mrs. Bell . . .” He backed out of the room, clearly enchanted.
    â€œThank you for everything you’ve done for me,” Mae said to Joanne.
    Joanne thought Mae must be psychic—the way she seemed to sense the undertow in a conversation, an inflection in a voice, a remark that seemed casual but wasn’t. She nodded at Mae. There goes my story. No one was interested until it got interesting. Not looking at McAllister, she followed Rob to the reporters’ room.
    â€œDid you hear that voice? She’s a real jazz singer.” Rob spoke as though he’d just had an audience with Phil Everly, his hero.
    â€œI heard,” Don McLeod joined the conversation. “So who’s the singer?”
    â€œMy friend,” Joanne said. She sat at the typewriter and began banging on the keys, typing at hurricane force.
    Don looked at Rob. Rob shrugged. Ten minutes later, the sound of footsteps on the stairs made Rob look up. Joanne kept on with her work. The footsteps went into McAllister’s office. Rob half rose, thinking it might be Detective Inspector Dunne.
    â€œNone of our business,” Joanne snapped.
    Rob went back to his notes on the plans to demolish Bridge Street saying, “We’ll find out eventually.”
    â€œAye,” Don agreed, “and hopefully before deadline.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Joanne was out of sorts, was how she put it when she talked to Chiara later that day.
    â€œCome round after work and hold wee