‘He’s all yours,’ Ava said. ‘I’m seeing someone, anyway. To be honest, Luc’s not really my type. All style and no substance, if you know what I mean.’

Astrid paused, looking from Callanach to Ava and back.

‘You … you don’t need to be rude about him. You shouldn’t be. He works for you. You’re supposed to respect him.’

‘Respect him?’ Ava laughed. ‘After that sordid fling he had with the Spanish doctor? My God, she was all over him. It was embarrassing. She used to turn up at the station all the time – I actually had to ask her to leave once.’

‘What Spanish doctor?’ Astrid demanded. ‘Who was she?’

Her attention turned to Callanach, who sighed deeply and rolled his eyes.

‘No one. She was no one. It was a passing phase, nothing more. Don’t get …’

‘Are there photos of her on your phone?’ Astrid demanded. ‘Give it to me. I want to see.’

Callanach paused.

‘Let her see,’ Ava said. ‘She killed the men who raped your mother, Luc. I think Astrid has a right to know what you’ve been doing while she was out there plotting and planning to assist you.’

‘It’s charging in the lounge,’ he said. ‘Help yourself. The unlock code is 9004.’

Astrid moved cautiously towards the doorway, peering into the lounge.

‘You,’ she motioned at Ava. ‘Get it for me.’

‘Fine,’ Ava said, drawing her hands out of her pockets to push herself up from the bed, sliding Rune Maclure’s gun, still in the evidence bag, under Callanach’s ankle to shield it from Astrid’s line of vision.

Walking slowly into the lounge, hands raised, she noted the part-open window and wondered how Maclure was doing. More importantly, how Lance Proudfoot was doing. Callanach would want to be at his bedside as soon as possible. She detached the phone from its charging cable and typed in the security code, swiping through until she found the photo gallery.

‘Here.’ She held out the phone for Astrid, who carefully swapped the grenade to her left hand, looping the new thumb through the pin.

Ava cast a look at Callanach, who’d taken the opportunity to reach down and take the gun in his hand, tucking it close in to his hip.

‘This is her?’ Astrid yelled, holding up a photo of Dr Selina Vega with her arms wrapped around Callanach, in some bar judging by the background. ‘This skinny little bitch? Is this what you were doing while I was helping you to get justice for your mother?’ She flicked through more photos, scrolling – staring – scrolling, swearing to herself, beginning to pace. ‘How could you do this to me?’ she screeched, holding up a picture of Selina in a bikini that would have made the most secure of women turn green. ‘I want to know where she lives. Is she in the city?’