But he had taken the telling-off. He had had no alternative, and now Cyril Bentwood was making sure that he curbed Maxwell’s wandering instincts by getting out of him as many work-hours as he possibly could.

Maxwell leaned back in his chair and linked his podgy fingers behind his head. It was going to be a long evening. He had been reading the wretched document for nearly two hours now and he hadn’t even reached the end of the background report. His mind was far too active for this kind of work. That was his problem. He was better suited to the realms of nationwide administration, applying his brainpower to the running of his beloved country. It was he who should be throwing documents onto the desks of insignificant little pricks like Cyril Bentwood to read.

He got up from his chair and picked up the electric kettle from on top of a filing cabinet and gave it a shake. He reckoned that there was enough water in it for one small cup of instant coffee. He certainly wasn’t going to be bothered to go through the rigmarole of contorting his way out of the office just for a half-pint of water. He pressed the switch on the kettle, and then, pushing his chair hard into the footwell of the desk, he walked across to the tall, dirt-smeared window and looked down onto the crowded street.

With Christmas just two weeks away, the shops in Inverness were remaining open every night until eight. He loved the atmosphere of the bustling crowds, yet it was not so much that it put him in the joyous spirit of Christmas, but more that it resembled what he had always imagined that living in a big city, like Edinburgh or Glasgow, would be like. And that, above all, was what he yearned for.

He pulled a silk handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped away a bead of sweat from his enormous brow, a late reminder of the delicious tangy heat of the vindaloo curry that he had enjoyed at lunchtime. He stopped suddenly, his handkerchief pressed to his face, and stared down at the two figures that picked their way, side by side, through the crowds on the pavement. Well, speak of the devil, he thought to himself. Look who’s turned up in Inverness. Seascape’s own bloody Dan Porter. Maxwell cupped his hands against the glass to get a clearer view of his companion. He knew that he recognized her. Yes, of course, it was Trenchard’s wife. He was sure of it. What on earth were they doing together so far from home at this time of the day?