“I might try one of those,” Galvin told the waiter. Then, to Clarke: “Busy day?”

“Not particularly. How about you?”

He offered a shrug. “Same old same old.”

“What did you make of the Chief Constable’s leaving do?”

“It was nice to be invited.”

“Was that the Solicitor General’s doing?”

“She does like to travel with a few bodies.”

“To make her feel important?” Clarke guessed.

Another shrug. Galvin was concentrating on the menu. “Everything here’s good,” he said.

“Salmon rillettes, and then the lamb shoulder,” Clarke decided.

“That didn’t take long.”

“I’m not one for dithering.” Their drinks were arriving. They clinked glasses and sipped.

“How are things working out with your old sparring partner?” Galvin asked.

“John? He’s doing okay so far.”

“Toeing the line? Obeying orders?”

Clarke looked at him. “Something on your mind, David?”

Galvin shook his head. The waiter was hovering, so they ordered. There was bread on the table and Clarke tore at a chunk, realizing it had been some time since her last meal.

“Are we ordering wine?” her companion asked.

“A glass of white will do me.”

“House?” the waiter asked.

“House,” Clarke agreed.

“Small or large?”

“Large.”

“Same for me,” Galvin told him. Then he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a second.

“Nice to switch off?” Clarke guessed.

“I’m not convinced the likes of you and me ever switch off, Siobhan. The motor is always idling.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw me slouched on the sofa with a tub of ice cream. But since we do seem to be talking shop…”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever met Patrick McCuskey?”

“The Justice Minister?” Galvin raised an eyebrow. “Well above my pay grade. I mean, I’ve been in rooms when he’s been speaking.”

“I looked him up on Google—Scottish National Party stalwart…face of the Yes campaign…married to a lawyer called Bethany…”

“She’s American, I think. Practices commercial law in Glasgow.”

“He’s not got a legal background, though?”

“Studied it at university but ended up in politics instead—I dare say he did some cramming before taking on the Justice portfolio. What’s this all about?”

“There’s a son called Forbes. He goes out with a student called Jessica Traynor.”

“No relation to Owen Traynor?” Galvin interrupted.

Clarke realized she didn’t know Traynor’s first name. “Who’s Owen Traynor?”

“A businessman down south. There was a case a while back. It was in the papers.”

“What happened?”

“One of his companies crashed and burned. A lot of angry investors.”

“And?”

“The loudest and angriest investor got beaten up on his doorstep.”

“This was where—in London?” Galvin nodded. “So what drew your attention?”

“It reminded me of a case we studied at university, that’s all.”

Clarke was picturing Jessica’s father. “This Traynor has friends high up in the Met.”