He still had ten minutes to kill before he could leave. Staring up at his beautiful five-storey townhouse, he wondered how much it was worth at current market value. Part of a curve of terraced period properties, it defined classic Edinburgh architecture with its brown brick, arched ground-floor windows, wrought-iron balconies at the first floor and the basement flat he rented out.

In reality, he didn’t spend enough time in his home city to justify keeping a house there. Hotels when he visited would be cheaper, but there was something to be said for maintaining one’s investments. Property prices in the city were continuing to rise and Edinburgh was as popular with tourists as it had always been. It would be something to leave his daughter eventually and he was proud of his nationality.

Spain was all well and good, but Malaga had none of the cosmopolitan chic of Barcelona, nor the historic grandeur of Madrid. Edinburgh, in spite of the cold, the rain and the American-owned golf courses, was still home. He had enough cash to last him another ten years without dipping into any stocks or selling any of his properties. Enough to maintain his other ‘girlfriend’ he visited once a week in Spain and more than enough to buy his wife the trinkets that kept her from asking too many questions about what he got up to in his spare time.

All in all, life had treated him very nicely indeed. He’d earned it, too. Made tough decisions, been ruthless – which was what business required – made good calls when it came to buying in and selling out, which was why having a conscience about enjoying himself was foolish. What his wife didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, just as long as he avoided catching anything that required strong doses of antibiotics, or the regular application of unpleasant-smelling medicated creams.

He checked his watch again. That was enough waiting.

The engine turned over nicely, unaffected by the wet weather, and he set off humming to himself, imagining what awaited at the other end of his journey. He was hard before he’d even got out onto Doune Terrace, wondering exactly what Bruce Jenson had left him in his will. Jenson hadn’t done as well as him since they’d sold the business, but then his former partner had never been interested in long-term investments. He hoped to God Jenson hadn’t bequeathed him the collection of furniture he’d insisted on taking when they closed down Edinburgh Bespoke, accompanied by lengthy monologues about how the company had contributed to the city’s history of fine craftsmanship. Imagine the bonfire that would be needed to burn all those memories before he could get back on the plane to Malaga …