Hitting send, he realised how much he also needed to get out. Ava was going to be spending the evening with Natasha and contacting Selina was too complicated, so he texted Lance Proudfoot, a local journalist who’d proved to be not only a useful contact, but also a good friend over the previous year. Brighter than most people on their sharpest day, and more persistent than a salmon jumping upstream, Lance was semiretired and writing his own news blog, when he wasn’t helping Callanach out and getting injured in the course of semi-official police business.

They met up at seven in Sandy Bell’s on Forrest Hill, a new bar to Callanach, but Lance had made it easy to find, with its bright blue facade and the music that was issuing forth onto the street. Already at the bar and talking whisky, Lance was in his element. Callanach stood and watched him from the doorway for a few moments, noting that his friend was in his biking leathers, looking fit and well. He greeted Lance with a slap on the back.

‘Is there a pub in this city where they don’t know your name?’ Callanach asked.

Lance turned, hugging him warmly. ‘Not one worth spending your hard-earned in, I guarantee you that. Luc Callanach, you look like you haven’t slept for a month. You’ll ruin those boyish, European good looks if you don’t start taking care of yourself.’

In the corner, a folk band entertained the early crowd, strumming guitars and singing harmoniously about some long-lost sailor. The bar looked like a sanctuary for rare single malts and every seat was taken. Lance had saved a couple of bar stools for them by leaving his helmet on one and his gloves on another, which he shifted to the floor so they could sit.

‘Your ears must have been burning when you texted me,’ Lance said. ‘I was just talking about you.’

‘Good or bad?’ Callanach asked.

‘You’re too cynical, man!’ Lance bellowed. ‘Good, obviously. I was telling my neighbour how much more interesting my life has been since meeting you.’

‘Interesting perhaps, but you’ve also spent a lot more time at the hospital,’ Callanach grinned. ‘Have you been keeping out of trouble lately?’

‘Ach, the secret to life, Luc, is that it’s getting in trouble that keeps you young. My son finally moved out and got his own place, so I no longer have to listen to his girlfriend and him either rowing or doing God knows what else in my spare room. I love the boy, but there comes a time when you want to be able to watch the rugby, cook a curry and listen to the Beatles without anyone else criticising your choices. So what about you? How was your holiday?’

‘Complicated,’ Callanach replied. ‘Good to be back in Paris, though. I stayed away from France too long.’