I hurried along the canal and then up the steps that took me to street level so I could cross the bridge.
And right there, slumped against the railing so inconveniently that I nearly tripped over his feet, was Billy Boyle, Jessi’s stalker-paparazzo.
I’d only met him a couple of times before, and on each occasion I’d afterwards found myself the subject of some nasty column inches, mostly speculating about which of the Bloomberg's I was banging. I didn’t like him, is what I’m saying.
He used his teeth to pull a Lucky Strike from the packet he was holding, and lit it with a flick of his lighter. “All right, Niel?”
“No comment.”
“You know nobody really says ‘No comment,’ don’t you? Only Tory MPs when they’ve been sending pictures of their willies to fourteen-year-old girls.”
“Thanks fo
