were three deep on each side of the square and she had to strain to see the rally cars all lined up along the perimeter. It was, as her colleague had pointed out, a little bit of history. Decades before, amateur rally drivers had left the front of the stately building that was now the Blythswood Square Hotel to make the journey through Britain and France; something that had captured the imagination of the entire country. In those days the hotel had been the premises of the Royal Automobile Club.
Diana had told her that there were certain bits of memorabilia still in the place, though Barbara had never been over its threshold in her life. A spurt of envy surged through her as she looked at the steps leading up to the entrance, a commissionaire in top hat and tails standing looking down on them. She’d never get to stay in a classy place like that on her salary, would she? Yet Diana had been there. Och well, she was here to see the cars, not to hang out with the clientele over there. And so it was to the cars she turned her attention as one of the men nudged her arm.
‘Hey, check out that one, Knox!’
Barbara blinked in the gathering twilight, following his finger towards a chocolate-coloured Porsche.
‘Cool, eh?’
She smiled and nodded then her eyes widened as she saw a blue Morgan gleaming under the lamplight, its running board a graceful curve along the length of the car. The policewoman took in every detail of the bodywork, sighing over its curved chrome radiator and frog-eyed headlamps. Next to it was a black Lancia, covered in signs that showed it to be a veteran of this rallye classique as one metal plaque proclaimed. Barbara moved a little to see the car behind, a red sports car with the familiar silver wings that were, she knew, etched with the Austin Healey name. She’d been a car nut since childhood, much to the despair of parents who had once hoped to encourage her towards more gender-appropriate interests. Somehow the boys at Pitt Street must have sussed this out, she mused, wandering further along to admire the classic cars with their drivers all ready to set off on this historic rally.
Tag Heuer signs were plastered everywhere, reminders that this was big business and only the few wealthy or well sponsored owners of these fabulous cars could take part in something as prestigious as this. Nevertheless there was an atmosphere around the square that Barbara felt: this was Glasgow and these were Scottish drivers. National pride hung in the air, evident without anyone needing to say a word.
A disembodied voice from a loudspeaker was telling them all about the cars, their drivers and co-drivers, but Barbara’s attention was suddenly taken by a tall figure moving along the path inside the private park.
Pushing her way out of the crowd gathered by this side of the square was no easy matter but her bulk and her stern look made a few of them move as she tried to cross the road.
‘Sorry, miss, no one’s allowed to get closer than this,’ a man with a steward’s armband informed her, lifting his hands and directing her back.
For a moment Barbara was tempted to whip out her warrant card and say she was on official business but her colleagues might notice and, besides, it was bad form to use it like that. Instead she made her way back, pushing through the press of people, one eye on the corner of the square where she thought that Diana might emerge.
The dark silhouette flitted across the road away from the square and, just as Barbara opened her mouth to call her name, a roar went up as the first car set off, preventing any thought of following her friend.
It was no use, Barbara fumed. She was going nowhere fast and would just have to wait until all the cars had left the square. A sense of disappointment filled her and with it an unnatural disquiet. Hadn’t Diana said she was going to be out of the city tonight? But then, a small voice suggested, had it really been Diana after all? Perhaps she was becoming so besotted with the woman that she had begun to imagine seeing her wherever she went?
As she watched the line of cars drive off amid cheers to the south of France, Barbara Knox reflected gloomily that she wasn’t going anywhere glamorous any time soon. These