As he sped away into the shed, there was a squeal of tyres and Ronnie’s little Peugeot came careering into the yard. He pulled to a halt and emerged slowly from the van, his eyes fixed on the BMW teetering up on its perch, his mouth bearing the expression of a surprised goldfish. “Now what, may I ask, is going on here?” he asked in a voice that trilled with laughter.

“Sorry for not making the rendezvous, Ronnie. I had a bit of a run-in with our friend Mr. Borthwick. He parked his car right in front of the gates so that I couldn’t get the van out.”

Ronnie’s shoulders had begun to shake with silent mirth. “Oh, boy,” he said, still staring at the car, “wait until Patrick hears about this. He will surely laugh himself clean out of his bed.” With a click of his fingers, Ronnie hurried round to the back of his van. “I think we should get you away from here before the local constabulary hear about your wee escapade.”

Less than a minute later, the Campbeltown consignment was loaded into the refrigerated van. Dan slammed shut the back door, pulled hard on the levers, and turned with his hand outstretched to the still-chuckling buyer.

“Good to meet you, Ronnie.”

“Aye, and it’s been a pleasure meeting you too, Dan Porter. You’re a man after Patrick’s heart, and I dare say that you’ll be making a good few friends while you’re up here in Scotland as well.”

Dan raised his eyebrows. “And probably one or two enemies as well.”

Ronnie glanced up at the BMW. “Aye, that is probably quite an understatement of fact.” He gave Dan a friendly slap on the arm. “But no doubt you’ll be able to cope with that.”

Dan walked around to the driver’s door and pulled it open. “I’ve coped with worse in my time.”

Ronnie shot an index finger at him and winked. “I’m sure you have, Dan Porter. I’m sure you have.”

19

The new full-time receptionist at Rebecca Talworth Design Ltd. sorted through the morning’s post with practiced speed. Even though still at the tender age of nineteen, she had had the experience of working for a large litigation law practice in the Docklands where filing precision had been considered an essential and integral part of the firm’s success. She checked each envelope first to make sure that it didn’t bear a mark of confidentiality, and then, slitting it open with a letter knife, she discarded the envelope into the wastepaper bin and placed the letter in its relevant in-tray. Once she had finished, she gathered up the contents of each tray, slipped them into individual cardboard folders, twanged on the elastic retainer bands, and then, cradling the folders in her arms, she went off to deliver them to their respective recipients.