His apartment in Albany Street was the front first floor of a Victorian terraced house. He ordered her to sit on his sofa while he made up an ice pack and fetched her a blanket.

‘I’m running you a bath,’ he said. ‘Can you get your jeans off or do you need help? Your left leg’s badly cut and I need to take a look at the damage.’

Ava stared down at her jeans, cut almost in two on the left where she’d snagged them on the wall.

‘Hadn’t noticed,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any whisky? Brandy or port would do at a push.’

‘I’m making coffee,’ he replied, running a flannel over the bump on her head before putting the ice pack on it. ‘I’m afraid alcohol and head injuries don’t mix, whatever you Scots might regard as being traditional in these circumstances.’

‘Killjoy.’ She unbuttoned her jeans and wriggled out of them, inspecting her left leg by kicking it out from under the blanket. ‘I guess I’m not going to be wearing a skirt for a few weeks. That’s nasty.’

The leg was blotched purple and black down her shin from the knee to the ankle and a four-inch cut, thankfully not too deep, was going to make an impressive addition to her collection of scars.

Callanach handed her a steaming mug and perched on the end of the sofa.

‘Are we going to talk about what you did tonight?’

‘Are you going to psychoanalyse me, because you know I find that boring?’ She took a sip, screwing her nose up at the strength of the coffee. ‘This stuff can’t be good for you.’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ Callanach said, kicking off his shoes and rolling up his sleeves. ‘If you’d really wanted to scope the outer wall for forensics, we could have got a team in there. I know it would have taken longer, and it’s still a fishing expedition until Ailsa’s finished her report, but what you did broke all the rules. It’s my fault too, I shouldn’t have let you, but I didn’t think you’d be so …’