‘Paris is always a good idea. Damn, what movie’s that from?’ Lance took a sip of whisky. ‘Sabrina – Bogart and Hepburn – that’s it.’

‘Not you as well. Ava’s obsessed with old films.’

‘Speaking of Edinburgh’s loveliest detective chief inspector, how is she?’

‘Infuriating, unstoppable and funny. Same as ever,’ Callanach said. ‘But I need to talk about something other than work. What have you been up to recently?’

‘Sticking my nose into other people’s business and hoping the rest of the world wants to read what I have to say about it. Now that I’ve got you here, what’s the story with the body on Easter Road a couple of days ago? The street was cordoned off for hours and the flat still has crime-scene tape around it.’

‘Suspicious death, can’t say more than that.’

‘Come on, off the record, and I won’t release it until the formalities are completed. The city’s been remarkably quiet this month. Give me something,’ Lance complained.

Callanach considered it. They needed to find Alice Hawksmith and after a day’s research, MIT had come up with nothing. Fenella’s daughter had a string of old convictions but had gone off the radar six years ago and not been heard of since. No benefit claims, no doctor on record, no income or tax payments. She wasn’t just going to turn up without a push.

‘All right. You can have this. I’m in charge of the investigation, so you can quote me. We’ll do it officially. We’d like to speak to a woman called Alice Hawksmith, now twenty-nine years of age, on a witness-only basis. She was last known to be living in the Aberdeen area. The body is her mother’s – that’s Fenella Hawksmith – and the daughter is believed to be her only living relative.’

Lance had his mobile out and was typing notes onto the screen.

‘If you’re in charge, it’s an MIT case,’ he said. ‘So this must be a murder, right? You’re not just looking for a relative to inform. What’s the real story?’

‘You can’t publish the rest of it,’ Callanach said. ‘So you’re probably better off not hearing it.’

‘This is me. I stood in the basement of a Glasgow pub with you, convinced we were both about to die, covering for a former colleague of yours who’d stolen from the mob, and I still didn’t write about it. Just how much more loyalty do you need me to show before you believe you can trust me?’ Lance grinned.

It was a fair comment. Lance had broken the law with him and for him. If ever a man knew how to keep a secret, it was him.