Orla shook her head. ‘I deal with staff.’ She was hunched forwards, supping her wine like it was bedtime cocoa. ‘You should see what some of these professors get paid for working five hours a week. And the pensions and perks, it’s unbelievable.’

She took another hit of wine as a row of maroon buses went 148past on the road, blocking their light for a moment. Obviously Edinburgh Uni payroll didn’t mind you working the afternoon half-pissed.

‘So where’s the brown envelope?’ Orla said.

‘What?’

Orla nodded at Jenny’s bag. ‘You’re supposed to give me evidence in a brown envelope, isn’t that how these things work?’

Jenny suddenly realised how nervous Orla must’ve been. Jenny had phoned her at work earlier and Orla arranged this lunchtime meeting. Maybe she was expecting the worst, wanted to get some Dutch courage, as well as time to compose herself.

‘That’s just old movies,’ Jenny said.

Orla’s leg was twitching. ‘Give me the bad news.’

Jenny sipped her gin and tonic. ‘It’s not what you think.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘I followed him. You’re right that he’s not working late.’

Orla glugged wine. ‘Come on.’

‘He left the office on time and went to a studio off Maritime Street.’

‘A studio?’

‘An artists’ studio.’

Orla made a face. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘He stayed there for two hours then went for a drink in The King’s Wark.’

‘Alone?’

Jenny nodded. ‘He spoke to the barmaid for a while.’

‘Like, chatted up?’

Jenny pressed her lips together. ‘No. I went back the next day and spoke to her, she doesn’t know him.’

‘Was he waiting for someone maybe, someone who didn’t show?’

‘It didn’t look like it. He had a drink then left, I followed him to your place around nine o’clock.’

A group of male students strutted past, shoving each other and 149laughing, one of them swinging a backpack over his head. Kids in sunshine. Orla watched them until they passed.

‘So what is this about a studio?’

Jenny leaned forwards. ‘I went back there yesterday and asked around. Someone knew him.’

‘A woman?’

‘Yes, but I don’t think that’s it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He has his own room in the place.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Jenny reached into her bag and pulled out the printouts. She’d printed off a few snaps of the paintings. She slid them across the metal table and Orla stared at them.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘Liam’s a painter.’

Orla looked up, eyebrows raised, then down at the printouts. She shuffled between them and Jenny saw some of the shapes, a distorted spine, red and yellow blossoms spindling from either side.

‘You’ve made a mistake.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Liam does not have a creative bone in his body.’

Jenny pointed at the pieces of paper. ‘There’s the evidence.’