The streets were deserted as I kicked the Fat Boy into life, turning left up the hill to Hanover Street where the black top was as shiny and black as Moses Tierney’s nail varnish. It meant only one thing; any cobbled road in Edinburgh would be as slick and dangerous as if it were covered in ice. A quick mental calculation meant I would have to take a detour through the Grassmarket. The Grassmarket is a half-trendy area filled with boutique hotels and expensive restaurants, but for years it was the haunt of the hopeless alcoholics, down-and-outs, and the homeless. A few shelters for these men and women are still there, and they manage to stop the area gentrifying into what it wants to be. It’s not a bad place–there are some nice shops and clubs, but I wouldn’t want to hang around there at night any longer than I had to, outside of Festival weeks. There are usually cops hanging around, though, so I stopped at a red light, even though there was hardly anyone about to potentially run over. As the engine idled I looked around, remembering it was Kailash’s birthday soon. I was trying to squint into the window of the cashmere shop. I had to shake my head at what I saw, not quite able to believe it.

Dr Graham Marshall was the last person I expected to witness wandering through the entrance door of the Mission hostel. I was so shocked the bike wobbled beneath me, and for a sickening moment I thought I was going to lose control. Last time I came off the bike I broke my arm–I couldn’t afford to let that happen again. Lavender would kill me, for starters.

What on earth was Marshall doing here? He was hardly homeless, or the do-gooder type, and, unless there was more money in begging than I’d ever imagined, he wasn’t going to pick up any new patients by hanging around here. Not only did I want to know why he was here, I needed to talk to him. The morning had come with a lot of questions I wanted answering. Despite last night’s activity with Joe, I had woken up needing to get more information on my new client. I was still burning to know how the hell he’d got the firm’s bank details for one. I parked the bike. What I had to say to Marshall would only take a minute; nonetheless I put the lock on the front wheel, remembering my own concerns about the place.