Smart came about because of her life, not some random act committed by a madman, of that he was certain. I owe it to her, he told himself when he started delving to better understand why she was killed. But really it had been that terrible night when he couldn’t remember her Christian name that had stabbed his conscience. And McAllister had a deep conscience—when it mattered to him. “I’m off to see your father,” McAllister told Rob. “What about?” Rob asked knowing that his father, a respected local solicitor, would never divulge information on his work or clients. “Mind your own business.” “Really? I thought a journalist’s job was just the opposite.” McAllister stepped out into a grey September day, an opalescent grey, not a slate-grey, so, for this part of the world, at this time of year, a good day. The cheeky grin from the bright-young-going-places-self-styled-star of the Gazette had cheered him. That young man will go far. I hope we can keep him a year or two more.
