As usual, the Crew had convened in a pub in Fountainbridge, its back room set aside for them by dint of a sign on the door saying Private Function. Rob Driscoll had tried his best to keep things focused, but his colleagues didn’t make it easy. Chris Agnew had started flicking foam from his pint at those nearest him, who’d retaliated in kind. Then the first beer mat had come whizzing across the room, and the place had become a school playground until Alan Fleck appeared through the door. Everything had calmed down fast after that. Three-plus years a civilian, but there was still something about the guy that made them behave themselves, and for the next hour they were good as gold.

Driscoll was the first to leave, being in dire need of a cigarette. Outside, he sparked one up and angled his head, sending the smoke skywards, feeling the knots of tension in his neck and shoulders. The rush hour was winding down, though a procession of crawling buses kept the thoroughfare noisy. People trudging past him on their way home had their heads lowered, unwilling to engage. He wished more of them would take off those bloody masks. He liked studying faces. They were like pages a life was written on. He had studied his own reflection half an hour back in the ­mirror above the sink in the men’s toilet. Handsome enough, though age was creeping up. ‘Single, solvent and fancy-free,’ as his mum had said recently. She’d never liked his ex, had phoned him on the day of the divorce and sung Cliff Richard’s ‘Congratulations’ down the line to him. He exhaled more smoke and was reaching into his jacket for his phone when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

‘You know smoking affects your insurance premiums?’ Alan Fleck said.

‘That’s why I always say I’ve never smoked. Sorry about tonight.’

‘It’s your job to rein in the numpties. That little pantomime in Newhaven was reckless.’

‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘Chris Agnew doesn’t have your brains. You need to control him.’

‘I do what I can, Sarge. You left a pair of pretty large shoes behind.’ Driscoll took another draw on his cigarette.

‘You need to dig deeper.’ Fleck prodded the younger man’s chest.

Driscoll nodded slowly. ‘You reckon our arses are covered, though?’

‘Like I said in there, you all need to clean up your phones and computers. It’s probably okay to send texts, but make sure and delete them after.’

‘Bit drastic.’

‘Malcolm Fox is a complete bastard, but he’s also forensic. If there’s something there to find, he’ll find it.’ Fleck watched as Driscoll studied the screen on his phone, as if evaluating its potential to become a grenade. ‘He’s not been in touch yet?’ he asked.

‘I was just about to check again.’

‘Don’t let me stop you.’