‘I was invited to the New Club last Wednesday. Have you been?’ he asked out of nowhere.

The New Club was a very old, distinguished club where the elite of Edinburgh meet. On Wednesday nights they debate obscure topics. I wasn’t sure what this had to do with whatever Marshall wanted me to help him with, but I had the right answer. ‘My grandfather is a member and I’ve had dinner there many times,’ I said.

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘I was otherwise engaged last week. I find it filled with irrelevant old men and equally irrelevant ideas, so I don’t go unless I’m dragged kicking and screaming through its hallowed portals.’ I got some pleasure from being deliberately combative.

‘Well, on Wednesday they were discussing something rather more relevant: should readers boycott books written by criminals when the proceeds are going directly to families of victims?’ It was getting late and I was in no mood to play his games; then I thought of the fee and remembered the client is always right. I cleared my throat and humoured him.

‘I take it that this theoretical book was bought by a publisher not because of the criminal’s talent as a writer but because the reader would believe it was a step-by-step manual of how a crime was actually committed?’

‘Oh, obviously. Lord McNair argued that such a book should not be published because of the pain and humiliation it would cause the victims–what do you think?’ The silence was heavy, my stomach rumbled; I hadn’t eaten since midday and my dinner at The Vineyard was on hold.

‘I believe in free speech and freedom of the press. I don’t believe criminals should profit from their crimes, but that wasn’t happening with this theoretical case, so the book should have been published.’ I wanted to stop playing games, but I also wanted the fee he had promised me. Marshall smiled at me and nodded before his hand went into his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed me a cheque for fifty thousand pounds. ‘Thank you for granting me an appointment, Ms McLennan,’ he said, smiling.

‘You’re welcome,’ I said, trying to sound as cool as possible while inwardly wondering if I could possibly hide my glee at all this desperately needed money.

‘I’d also be grateful–and I’d imagine you would too–if you would accept this additional sum as a retainer.’ He handed me another cheque–this one was for eight hundred and twelve thousand, two hundred and seventy-two pounds, and sixty-five pence. I stared at it. The amount was bizarre…and familiar. Confusion reigned on my face. Dr Marshall coughed to get my attention.

‘It’s the exact amount of the bank overdraft of Lothian and St Clair WS as at close of business last Friday,’ he said.