They pulled away slowly, neither of them noticing the man who was watching from the window of the chippy across the road, clutching newspaper-wrapped cod that he had no intention of eating. You had to have a death wish to consume that much saturated fat and salt. He smiled at the irony of it and wondered what Mrs Hawksmith looked like now, three weeks after he’d last seen her.

Chapter Eight

4 March

The Royal Infirmary’s emergency department was oddly quiet, but then there was a football match on. Most people would try to avoid serious injury until the pubs were kicking out. Callanach accompanied Ava to reception, knowing she’d play down the extent of the pain if left alone. She showed her badge and explained that time was limited. A nurse appeared immediately and showed them through to a cubicle.

‘I’ll give you some privacy to get undressed,’ Callanach said.

‘Not much point. You saw the wound last night and I’m guessing the sight of me in my underwear won’t be hugely thrilling at the moment. Take a chair and turn your head away.’ She unzipped her jeans and pulled them slowly down over the wound. ‘Shit,’ she muttered beneath her breath.

‘Everything okay?’ Callanach asked, keeping his focus on the sink in the corner.

‘Not really. I should have shaved my legs a fortnight ago. I look like a bloody yeti, and now I’m going to be stitched up by a doctor who’ll assume I’m some washed-up old maid whose idea of a good night is reruns of the TV series The Book Group while I sip vodka and Irn Bru, pretending it’s a proper cocktail because I dropped a maraschino cherry in it.’

A slim, tanned hand appeared and gracefully drew back the curtain to reveal Dr Selina Vega, the only woman in the world who could make a white coat look sexier and more glamorous than a red-carpet gown.

‘Selina,’ Callanach said. ‘That’s a coincidence.’

‘Not really. One of the reception staff recognised you and asked if I wanted to take the case,’ she smiled. ‘Hello, Ava. That’s a nasty cut. Why don’t you lie down so I can get a better look at it.’

‘Er, sure … I think I probably just need a prescription for antibiotics, though. We’re on the clock. It’s good to see you again. You keeping well?’ she asked, horribly aware of the tension between Callanach and his ex-girlfriend, and wondering if tea-party conversation was going to help or make things worse.

‘I’m going to have to clean it out then stitch it. The butterfly stitches aren’t pulling the sides together properly. Left like this you’ll have a serious scar and the underlying tissue will be painful for life.’