‘Let me ask you something else,’ she said. ‘Do you do much for the Mackenzies?’

‘Personally, no. The commercial side of my practice does. That’s who sent me to look after Gaby.’

Clarke was checking her phone, finding photos of Fraser Mackenzie. She turned the screen towards Leckie. ‘The man who picked her up in the Range Rover?’

‘God, no.’ Leckie took the phone from her as he studied it. ‘The driver looked more the sort you’d cross the street to avoid.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Clarke said, taking her phone back. She lifted her drink in silence and took a sip.

‘Maybe,’ Leckie said, ‘we can draw a line under the shop stuff and just talk instead.’

‘You mean like normal everyday people?’

‘You don’t think it can be done?’

Clarke met his gaze. ‘I suppose we can try,’ she said. ‘Are you a football fan?’

‘More rugby.’

‘Music?’

‘Modern classical.’

‘Books?’

‘Maybe the occasional thriller.’

‘You’re not making this easy, are you?’

He copied her smile. ‘How about you?’ he said. ‘What brought you into the police?’

‘Doesn’t that qualify as shop talk?’

‘Not if it’s telling me more about you.’

‘How long have you got?’

‘You’re the one with a later engagement.’ He eased back in his seat, readying himself to listen.

‘Just don’t let me drink any more of these,’ Clarke said, gesturing towards her glass. Then she began to tell him.

19

Fox was waiting for Clarke outside the Elemental Club, standing slightly apart from the cluster of young smokers and looking more like a concerned parent ready to escort his daughter home than someone ready for a loud and sweaty dance floor. He was wearing a jacket suited to woodland walks, beneath which Clarke could make out a pale blue polo shirt.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Your party shirt?’

‘It’s got short sleeves. And look.’ He hoisted one leg. ‘Jeans.’

‘Nicely pressed, too. Come on then, let’s see how you blend in.’

The two burly doormen, dressed in regulation black, checked them out but saw no reason to stop them going in. A steep staircase led down below pavement level. There were plenty of these under­ground venues on and around Cowgate. It made sense, Clarke supposed, in that it provided a level of natural soundproofing. The bass grew more insistent as they paid at a makeshift desk and allowed the staff member to stamp their wrists.

‘Do you want us to track and trace?’ Fox enquired.

‘If your phone can get a signal,’ she told him with a shrug.

‘Vaccine passport?’ This time she shook her head.