Or: I blew a man’s brains out the other day, darling. He was indirectly responsible for the attack on you and Monique. So I hunted him down and put a bullet between his eyes after he’d told me what I needed to hear. Oh, and the sort of ammunition I used created a vacuum wave inside his collapsing skull. Turned his brain to hot mush and sucked it out behind the bullet as it left the back of his skull. Hey, did I mention the ejecta – that’s what we call the shit that comes out of an exit wound at high speed – did I mention that it was black with crawling ants before it had stopped steaming? No? Oh, that’s right – I don’t talk about my work.

She tried to make out some details of the kitchen behind Bret. She wondered what he’d had for dinner, whether he fed Monique from a bottle or spooned out baby food for her. She obviously wasn’t sleeping through yet. It was even later in Scotland – about two in the morning, she thought shamefully – and the little webcam he was using wasn’t good enough to display much in the gloom behind him. She was just able to pick out some lonely-looking Christmas decorations, which made her feel even worse, as he spoke to her from shrouded darkness.

‘I’m not doing anything exciting at the moment,’ she reassured him. ‘Just lots of reading and talking to people.’

I’ve just been reviewing a case about a Mexican man named Miguel Pieraro. He and his teenage daughter escaped from Texas last spring after witnessing the massacre of their loved ones. It’s hell down there, my love. A madman has taken dominion. These poor people saw their whole family cut down. They believe the madman was ultimately responsible. And so do I.

‘Well, we saw the Loch Ness monster the other day, didn’t we!’ said Bret, patting their daughter gently on her back. ‘Daddy and some of the men from Mommy’s work went for a long drive. We visited the special farms where they make the firewater around these parts. And we went to the lake where they have the monster. But all we got was this . . .’

He held up a cuddly stuffed toy, which he had obviously meant for Monique to show her, before she’d fallen asleep. Caitlin had to force herself not to upbraid him for giving away operational security. He shouldn’t have been discussing his movements or mentioning a security detail, even on a scrambled link.

Fuck, Caitlin thought, rebuking herself instead. What the fuck am I thinking? They just had a nice day out, for a change. A tour of some fucking distilleries. It’s not like they’re trying to avoid a Stasi wetwork squad, for fuck’s sake.