She was wondering if this was a waste of time when she spotted him coming out of the office. He was tall and broad, not muscle-bound but solid all the same, wavy black hair and a black suit that fit his body well. The suit looked more expensive than your typical civil-service outfit.

She shrank down in the car as he passed then watched as he turned along the lane. She got out, looked again for traffic wardens, then followed. Finally she felt like a PI, collar up, following some guy wherever he went. She had no plan, but maybe that’s all this job was, following people until something interesting happened.

He didn’t look round, didn’t suspect. He went over the Water of Leith and along Bernard Street then turned into the narrow lane of Maritime Street. This was old Leith, ancient bonded warehouses, some turned into hipster offices, others still derelict. There were fewer people in the street now and she saw him disappear into a tiny vennel. She reached the vennel moments later, slowed but didn’t stop, glanced in. Just a little square, a dead end flanked by terraced buildings, old brick and thick walls, low doorways set back from the cobbles.

She couldn’t see Liam, which meant he’d gone into one of the buildings.

She hesitated then entered the square. The windows were small on all sides, and she hoped he wasn’t looking out of one. She got her phone out and pretended to be absorbed by it, checking a map 111having taken a wrong turn. She went to the first door and took a photo of the name, Red Box Design. Then she wandered to the other door and took a picture of the sign without breaking stride. It was cheap metal, bolted to the stone, Maritime Artist Studios. She walked out of the vennel then along the street and into a café thirty yards back down the road. She ordered a black coffee and sat at the window, glancing through the glass and Googling both names. The first place had a snazzy website, bespoke graphic design for trendy clients. Maritime Artist Studios just came up with a link to the map on her phone. No phone number or website, just a couple of mentions on a sculptor’s blog, some pics of recycled metal installations in a small studio.

She drank coffee and waited. Being an investigator was boring ninety-five percent of the time, sure, but she had the bug now, she needed to find out what this was about.