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for the better part of an hour while Mycroft
thought over other pressing concerns the government wanted him to
deal with. Twice he answered messages his secretary sent to his
phone, but neither were particularly difficult.
    When they were
close to the Scottish border, Amelia stopped what she was doing and
sighed.
    “Struggling?” he
asked, expecting her to say yes.
    “My phone's almost
out of battery,” she replied. “But I think it's Stephen Kendel. He
often writes about political issues, and he was charged with some
kind of infraction to do with obtaining source information a couple
of years ago. He's also very much for Scottish independence.
    “Good.” It was the
same person Mycroft expected.
    “You knew?”
    “Of course.”
    “Then why... Wait,
don't answer that question. You want me to learn, so you let me
try.”
    He nodded.
    “How long did it
take you to work out who it was?” She tucked her phone into her
pocket and sat back.
    “Less than a
minute. I already knew of him. He was the only logical option.”
    For the next few
minutes, Amelia elaborated on how she'd discovered it. Given that
she'd not had the information he had already known to give her
guidance, she'd done a good job of reading relevant articles in the
online archives and searching for further information on the
writers.
    He pointed out
where she might have been quicker and which thoughts were
redundant, and by the time he was done with that they were in
Scotland and on their way to Lockerbie.
    “So, who are we
visiting first? The source or the reporter?”
    “Who do you
recommend?” he asked, wanting her to think through the logical
course of action for herself.
    “The reporter...
No. The source. He's a father, right?” Mycroft gave an affirming
gesture. “If we see the father first, we can get him to confirm
which reporter and also make sure he doesn't tell anyone else. Then
we can go see the reporter.”
    Mycroft nodded. If
it had been a bigger newspaper with more tight schedules, he'd have
suggested the opposite, but the news was unlikely to be splashed
anywhere until the following day, giving them time to stop it
before it did.
    Half an hour later
they were in Lockerbie and pulling up outside Mr McGregory's house
on Kintail Park. The father didn't have a job to be at, as he'd
been made redundant a couple of months earlier, so Mycroft had
little doubt he would be inside.
    When Daniels let
them out of the car, Amelia lingered on the pavement, waiting for
Mycroft to take the lead. Both of them took a moment to look over
the house they were going to. It was one of several houses in a
recently constructed terrace, and reasonably neat and tidy on the
outside. As were most of the houses. Insurance had paid for most of
them to be rebuilt after the plane crash had killed so many people
there in the late twentieth century.
    “After you,”
Amelia said a few seconds later and motioned for him to go through
the low garden gate first. He obliged, feeling the gravel crunch
underneath his thinly soled shoes as he made his way to the
door.
    He knocked twice
in a firm manner and waited for an answer. When no one opened the
door after a minute, he knocked again. A few seconds later, Amelia
crossed her arms and tucked her hands out of the way. It was a cold
day to be standing outside for long, but he fought back any of the
signs his own body might give off to indicate his own coldness.
    After what felt
like another minute of waiting, but was in reality less than half
that time, the door opened. Mr McGregory stood in his dressing
gown, just the other side. His hair was unkempt and he had the
stubble of a several-day-old beard on his chin. Mycroft hid his
reaction to the sight.
    “What do you
want?” he asked in a Scottish accent.
    “I believe you
have some information regarding your MP that I have a great
interest in,” Mycroft replied, and before the man could respond or
otherwise cause a fuss, he pushed through the doorway into the
house, using