“They’re very loving,” I say again, and he starts to laugh. “You have to feed them and give them the odd cuddle and take them for walks,” I continue earnestly. “And then they leave you alone. No demanding that you take them to a restaurant, no tying ribbons to themselves, and practising signing their name as Mr Carlsen.” I nod. “You need a dog.”

“I need to clone myself,” he says idly. “I’m far too important to be just one body.”

“What a truly horrifying thought,” I say, mainly to see him laugh. “I’ll look for a dog for you,” I promise him.

“I’d rather you check me for piles,” he says acerbically. He reaches out to refill my glass. “Now enough of that shit. Let’s get some decent music on.”

After lighting a cigarette, he wanders over to the stereo, and I’m gratified to see him stagger slightly. A few seconds later, Primal Scream’s “Loaded” comes on, and he cheers and does a funny, jerky dance to it with his arms raised in joy. His shirt is untucked and unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and he grins at me drunkenly. “I love this song,” he exclaims.

Getting to know this carefree man might be the best thing I’ve ever done, I think. I throw my shot back and get up to join him in dancing.

Chapter Seven

Mags

The knock on my office door startles me from the depths of the case file I’m reading. I raise my head and stare at the door as if it’s going to answer itself. When it doesn’t, I call out, “Come in.”

I’m amazed to see Laurie pop his head around the door.

“What are you doing here?” I ask and then groan when his lips quirk. “Ack, that was rude. Come in.” I wave him toward a chair.

He rounds the door and settles into the leather chair opposite my desk. He’s dressed in a creased blue-and-white striped shirt which he’s teamed for some godforsaken reason with blue polka-dot shorts. The whole ensemble makes my eyes hurt.

“I came to see if I left some of my brains in your flat,” he says cheerfully.

I roll my eyes and immediately wish I hadn’t when the headache that’s been edging my temples all day flares. “Shit,” I sigh, massaging my forehead.

He starts to laugh. “How much did we have to drink last night, Mags?”

“The whole bottle,” I say gloomily. “It’s meant to be savoured.”

“We did that,” he says, settling back in his chair. “We just savoured it at top speed.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” I warn him. “My back is killing me after passing out on the sofa.”

“Well, it’s probably better than mine. I woke up under the coffee table, which is where I gather I fell.”