He needed to know if Jimmy McPhee was alive. He needed his mother safe. And he needed a friend. He was a walking bag of needs. He was in reception in the Herald building and phoned upstairs to ask Sandy Marshall, “Have you time for a pint anytime soon?” “I’ll have the newspaper shout us lunch. We deserve it.” They met at Guy’s restaurant in Hope Street. It was busy, but the power of the Herald name secured them a table in a quiet corner. Sandy told the waiter to hold off on the menu but ordered a bottle of wine. Glasses filled, he listened to McAllister say his mother was fine, Joanne was fine, everything was fine. So, being McAllister’s friend, his conclusion was, Everything is definitely not fine. McAllister told him of last evening’s encounter with the Gordon brothers, his fears for Gerry Dochery’s safety—this surprised Sandy, but he made no comment. McAllister told him there were no hospital admissions that might have been Jimmy, no unidentified bodies in the mortuary, and no sightings from the river police.
