Fox worked at Gartcosh, Police Scotland’s nerve centre. She wasn’t sure why his career had taken off while hers was stuck in the bus lane, though her one-time colleague John Rebus had taken to calling Fox ‘the Brown-Nose Cowboy’, meaning he was a yes man, a willing and eager toady, and he looked good parked behind a desk in one of those suits.

‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ Fox gave a fulsome shrug. As well as the jacket, he was wearing blue denims and tan-coloured brogues, none of it quite working. His dark hair was cut close to the scalp, gelled at the front, and his cheeks gleamed as if they saw more of a razor than was strictly necessary.

‘It’s eight o’clock at night, Malcolm.’

‘You weren’t at the office.’

‘I have a phone, though.’

He gave a twitch of his mouth. ‘I wanted to see you in the flesh.’

‘Why?’

He turned his head in the direction of Broughton Street. ‘Grab a drink?’

‘I’ve had a drink.’

‘With Christine Esson – your front desk told me. I did look in at one or two places in the vicinity …’

‘Still got a bit of the detective left in you.’ Fox had worked CID and then Internal Affairs before the big move to Gartcosh’s Specialist Crime Division.

His hands were back in the pockets of his jacket, as if to signal that he was feeling the cold. ‘Maybe a coffee, then?’ His eyes were on the door behind Clarke.

‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty exhausted.’

He nodded his understanding. ‘The Haggard case.’

Clarke couldn’t help her eyebrows going up. ‘You’re well informed.’

‘He’s playing the PTSD card, isn’t he? Or hasn’t he told you that yet?’

Clarke gave him a hard stare. His eyes were almost twinkling. He knew he had her.

‘You’ve got precisely ten minutes,’ she muttered, shoving the key into the lock.

They climbed the stairs in single file, Fox to the rear. ‘Saw you clocking the car,’ he said. ‘I could probably get you the same deal, if you’re in the market.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Well, bear it in mind. Is Rebus still driving that old Saab of his?’

‘How would I know?’

‘You don’t see him these days?’

‘Who I see and don’t see is none of your business.’

‘Just making conversation.’

‘Well don’t.’ They had reached her landing. She opened the door and stalked down the hall. A quick survey of the living room told her she had nothing to worry about. Relatively tidy and evidence-free. She draped her coat over a chair and sat down, facing the doorway, where Fox now stood while he examined his surroundings.

‘Cleaner’s week off?’

‘Says the man whose best friend is a microwave.’

‘I actually know a few recipes these days. I’ll cook for you one night.’