‘Been a while since I checked the various categories,’ Clarke answered, realising after a moment that he could no longer make out what she was saying. The dance floor was filling, people moving their hips and feet, holding drinks aloft. It was hard to tell if Gaby Mackenzie was pleased by the reaction. She was checking the screen of her phone, the bottom half of her face illuminated by its display. Clarke noted the arrival of another figure next to her, a different doorman though almost identical to the first in size and uniform. She thought of Leckie’s description of the driver who’d collected Gaby from Leith. Her parents had found her a solicitor PDQ – Clarke wondered if they’d sent the chauffeur too, or had it been someone Gaby herself knew and trusted?

‘She’s a popular young woman,’ she said. Fox cupped a hand to his ear, but Clarke just shook her head, the gesture telling him it wasn’t important. She rattled her drained glass instead and motioned towards the bar. He accepted the offer with a thumbs-up.

As she queued, Clarke saw a sign atop the bar alerting clubbers to a number they could text with requests. She added it to her phone before sending a message: Thanks for the BoC. See you around. Having collected her drinks, she turned towards the gallery and saw the nod Mackenzie gave in her direction.

Message received.

‘Can we go after this?’ Fox yelled in her ear as she handed him his drink.

‘The party shirt isn’t enjoying its outing?’

‘I just don’t want to get blood on it.’

‘I doubt there’ll be any trouble, Malcolm. Place looks well ­policed.’

‘I meant from my ears.’ He drained his drink in one go and waited for Clarke to do the same. She threw a wave towards the gallery as she followed him out of the room.

At the entrance, a party of young men was arriving. Despite the cold, they had no jackets, their tight short-sleeved shirts showing off gym-toned biceps. Clarke recognised a couple of faces from her visit to Tynecastle.

‘No fucking way,’ one of them barked, giving a harsh laugh.

‘Bit of powder still in your left nostril,’ Clarke advised him.

‘Who’s the lumberjack?’ another voice enquired, meaning Fox.

‘Seems you let all sorts in here,’ Clarke said to the nearest doorman.

‘Should have a policy on ugly tarts, though,’ one of the Crew said.

Fox tried to shove his way past Clarke to get to the speaker. She made sure he didn’t. A couple of the cops looked ready to square up to him, the doorman intervening.

‘They’re from Tynecastle,’ Clarke informed Fox.

‘Then I look forward to making their acquaintance in a Leith interview room,’ he said, teeth gritted.