She turned off the main road and threaded her way through the back streets till she found the slightly shabby 1960s block of flats where Ostler lived alone. His big silver Buick was parked outside, looking like a dinosaur among the Japanese runabouts scattered along the rest of the street. Lindsay found a nearby parking space and carefully set the car alarm. She pushed open the doors and walked up one flight of concrete stairs. The block had grown even more seedy since she’d last been here, with graffiti on the walls and the smell of stale urine in the air. Obviously Barry Ostler wasn’t doing too well, or he’d have found himself somewhere more salubrious to live.

Lindsay rang the bell and waited. There was no reply, so she rang again, then banged on the door for good measure. She was soon rewarded by the door opening a crack. Barry Ostler’s unshaven face appeared, his white quiff awry, eyes screwed up against the light. A blast of sour breath and stale tobacco smoke hit Lindsay as he growled, “What the hell’s going on?”

“Hello, Barry,” Lindsay said with a smile. “You going to leave me standing on the landing like the rent man?”

“Lindsay Gordon? What the hell are you doing here?” he mumbled as he opened the door wider to reveal a beer-gut in an off-white singlet hanging over a pair of striped pajama trousers.

“Did I get you out of your bed? I’m really sorry,” Lindsay lied. “I just wanted a wee word with you about something. I could come back later if it’s not a good time.”

“You might as well come in now you’re here,” he said grudgingly, turning his back on her and padding down the hall in bare feet.

Lindsay followed him, closing the door behind her. The flat smelled of too many cigarettes and fry-ups. The frowsty hall led straight into an untidy living room, with several empty beer cans and the remains of a Chinese takeaway littering the floor round a single armchair that faced the television. Lindsay perched gingerly on the edge of a sofa whose Dralon cover felt slightly tacky to the touch.

“There’s no milk so I cannae offer you a coffee,” he said brusquely as he lit a cigarette and shook with a spasm of coughing. “So what the hell brings you out here at this time of the morning?” he finally gasped.

“I want the stuff that was nicked from Harry Campbell’s desk,” Lindsay said bluntly.

Ostler ran his hand over his stubbly chin and gave the chesty wheeze that passed for laughter with him. His gut wobbled sickeningly in rhythm with the wheeze. Lindsay struggled to keep a sneer from her face as he recovered himself and said, “Christ, I see your interviewing technique hasnae improved any. Lindsay, I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re on about.”