Maxwell drew himself up in his chair. “I am my own boss, Billy. I have been for some time now. I am one of two coordinators of business development for the Highland Regional Council.”

Billy scratched his head quite theatrically, giving the impression that he was totally perplexed. “Aye, that may be so, but are we not in Argyll at the minute?”

“Well, yes, but . . .” Maxwell spluttered.

“Maybe he was just wanting to give the car a wee bit of a run,” Ronnie said to Billy, a wry smile on his face. “It’s still going well, I suppose?”

“Like a dream,” Maxwell replied, glad that the direction of the conversation had changed. “I had it tuned the other day by Frangalini Motors in Inverness.”

“Tuned, eh?” Ronnie sang out as he drained the last of the tea from his mug. “Well, there’s a thing.”

Maxwell glanced over both shoulders, and then leaned forward in his chair. “I got it up to a hundred and fifteen miles an hour on the A9 this morning.”

Billy had taken a tin of tobacco from his pocket and was busy rolling an anorexic cigarette. “In that case, ye’d better watch oot for yersel’, boy.” He licked the paper, squeezed the cigarette, and put it in his mouth. “Itherwise ye’ll soon be withoot yer precious car.”

Maxwell flumped back in his chair. “Oh, I don’t worry about that kind of thing. I’ve got a radar detector fitted.”

“Aye, I reckon you would have,” said Ronnie, picking up his notebook and mobile phone. “Well, gentlemen, it’ll do me no good sitting around gossiping all day.” He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “So if you will both excuse me.”

“Aye,” said Billy, hurriedly getting to his feet. “And I’ve got tae see a man aboot a dog.”

Maxwell watched the two men as they hurriedly paid Eck at the counter and then jostled with each other to get to the door. He turned back to the table and finished off his cup of coffee with a smack of his lips. So the trip had been worth it. He had found out about this new Englishman working for Seascape. That was not good news. That bloody man Trenchard had always got up his nose. Maybe the time would be right to have a quick word in the ear of Allan Duguid in Buckie. His prawn business had been suffering from the day that Trenchard took over Seascape. A little leverage on his part in Allan’s favour might well be rewarded quite handsomely.

As Maxwell pushed himself to his feet, pulling the folds of his overcoat around his stomach, a mobile sounded in his pocket. He extracted it from the depths and pressed the button.