“The Yes campaign will have a field day with this,” he had complained to anyone who would listen, including, eventually, Siobhan Clarke and Malcolm Fox. All three sat in a makeshift interview room, with recording equipment standing by. They were awaiting the arrival of Gilmour’s expensive lawyer.

“You’re not being cautioned or anything,” Clarke had sought to reassure him.

“Nevertheless,” Gilmour had replied. He kept casting looks towards Malcolm Fox, as if wondering how much Fox might have told Clarke about the meeting in Glasgow.

The solicitor, when he arrived, introduced himself as Alasdair Traquair and apologized for his “tardiness,” before handing an embossed business card to both Clarke and Fox. The cards smelled of sandalwood aftershave.

“Bit of a circus out there,” he commented. “Not particularly helpful—and such a charming part of town…”

Traquair rested a black leather-bound notebook on the table and opened it, unscrewing the top from a fountain pen before checking his watch and marking the time.

“Let’s make a start, shall we?” he suggested.

“Your client,” Clarke obliged, “has already been questioned—in a more informal manner—concerning the disappearance of a former acquaintance called William Saunders. Mr. Saunders has since turned up dead, so we thought it would make sense to have an official record of events.”

“As I understand it, Detective Inspector,” Traquair drawled, “there are no events—merely a single, abbreviated phone call from Mr. Gilmour to the deceased.”

“Is that correct, Mr. Gilmour?” Clarke asked. Gilmour glanced towards the solicitor before answering.

“It is,” he said.

“You had William Saunders’s number?”

“Hard to make the call otherwise.”

“How did you happen to have it? I was under the impression the two of you had lost touch…”

Another glance towards the lawyer, who merely indicated with a twitch of the mouth that Gilmour could answer if he wished.

“It wasn’t hard,” Gilmour conceded. “There’s a company I use.” He leaned forward in his seat, as if to take them into his confidence. “In business, sometimes it helps to have an edge over whoever you happen to be dealing with.”

“And this company helps with that?”

Gilmour nodded. “They’re private investigators. Give them a name, a car license plate or a business address and it’s quite gobsmacking what they can dig up.”

“What did they ‘dig up’ on William Saunders?”

“All I wanted was a phone number.”

“Did they know why?”