A Merc drove past so slowly he would have been quicker walking. There was a sticker in the passenger rear window–Taxi for Little Miss Perfect, it read. She let it pass. She didn’t see the driver well; if he knew what he was doing he’d drive past again. If he knew what he was doing, he’d put the light on so that she could see him. She slipped her hand into her bag to check that everything was there. She hated all of this; there was nothing she needed to get out of it except the final part. Once it was over, she would rest easy. Wouldn’t she?

The Merc was back. She’d had quite the hit-rate with those, she thought to herself. Maybe they were her good-luck charm. The light was on. He looked–he actually looked good. Early thirties, clean cut. Suit. Laptop bag on the seat next to him. He smiled at her and she smiled back. Cop? She’d soon find out.

‘Hi,’ he said, almost shyly as he pressed the window down. ‘How are you?’

Better than you could imagine, she thought. Nice manners. Nice guy. No doubt a good father and husband.

What a shame.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

DI Sam Jones was booked in at the Travelodge at Tollcross. ‘I’ve been trying her mobile all bloody morning,’ Bancho said agitatedly to his companion, PC Sheehy, trying to disguise the concern he felt as he walked in through the electronic glass doors.

Her failure to turn up at St Leonards had at first been an inconvenience. He gave her a couple of hours, assuming she was sleeping off her exhaustion. But, as his attempts to rouse her failed, he became increasingly worried. It was now after twelve, and all the business guests had checked out for the day, leaving the place almost deserted. Their feet clacked noisily across the shiny black marble tiles. The receptionist’s head was bent over the computer, checking the availability of rooms for a telephone caller–their arrival went unnoticed. Years of practice meant that Bancho could fish the warrant card out of his pocket without a second glance; he was flipping it open for presentation to the receptionist when he was still ten feet from the desk. Bancho was moving at quite a pace, and PC Sheehy was having difficulty keeping up with him. They stopped in front of the desk; the receptionist was still engaged on her call so she nodded at them and mouthed that she would be one minute. She held up her index finger to confirm it would indeed be just that one minute.

DI Bancho stared at his watch, tapped his feet, and then flashed his warrant card in front of the receptionist again.

She hung up, but still maintained her receptionist’s cool. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she said, just managing to curb the irritation in her voice.