‘Might have talked his way out again this time if he hadn’t started mouthing off, then given one of them a shove. Have you seen the flat?’ Clarke had shaken her head. ‘I went for a look-see. New development in Newhaven, close by the harbour, views across the water from the balcony. The neighbours work in finance. They told me the wall insulation’s really good, which is how they knew the screams were serious. You saw the photos of her injuries?’

‘New and old, Christine. I’ve memorised the descriptions. I’ve read the interviews you did with her.’

‘Sometimes being a spinster’s not so bad,’ Esson had sighed.

The two women had locked eyes and shared half-hearted smiles.

Walking home, Clarke considered the relationships she’d had. Plenty of them down the years, always spluttering to a halt like a car with a leak in its fuel line. She had come to the eventual realisation that she was fine on her own. She had her flat, music and books and TV. She had friends she could hang out with or whose dinner tables she could share. They had mostly stopped trying to pair her with eligible men (and women, come to think of it). Edinburgh wasn’t the worst place to be single. She didn’t look out of place at concerts or the cinema or theatre. Okay, she’d been bored for stretches of the COVID lockdown, but she’d also enjoyed the silent city and its emptied streets.

The flip side, of course, was that while some crimes had fallen off a cliff, others had increased, including incidents of domestic abuse. Relationships had become pressure cookers. With pubs and clubs closed, drinking took place at home. Tempers frayed; insults were hurled – followed by fists and whatever came to hand.

That was the card she’d been expecting Haggard to play when he sat down in the interview room. Not bloody PTSD.

She had reached her building and was fishing her keys out of her bag when she heard a noise behind her. She wedged one of the keys between her fingers, turning it into a short stabbing weapon, bunched her fist and turned, coming face to face with someone she recognised.

DI Malcolm Fox.

He’d been seated in what looked like a brand-new Mercedes. For once he wasn’t in one of his many well-tailored work suits. His hands were deep in the pockets of a dark nylon puffer jacket. Noting the key Clarke was holding, he raised both hands in a show of surrender.

‘Nice to see you too,’ he said.

‘You never call, you never write,’ Clarke replied. ‘It’s almost as if the longer you’re based at the Big House, the easier it is to forget all us little people.’