‘That’s not a surprise at all, darlin. Ha. You know who runs the Big Rock Festival? Mr Mansfield Music himself? My ex-husband. Yeah. He’s not going to do anything so kind as give me a break, the petty vindictive fuck. Some men just can’t cope with being dumped, can they? Not even – God, what was it? Fifteen years ago.’

‘Fucksake!’ said Ruth, topping up Clio’s glass sympathetically. ‘What an arsehole. I did think it was a bit weird – we usually do manage to get most of our acts on at the folk stage at Big Rock, at least.’

Clio put on an American accent, a bruised, bold Lauren Bacall.

‘That’s men for you, sweetheart.’ And she took a long drink, smacked her lips.

Glasgow, 23 January 2018

Donald Bain. Of course he should know. Ruth scrolled back through her email, found something in there from 2009, with a landline phone number, lengthy Highland area code. Then she sat and looked at it for a while. Then she decided to open all the windows – the living room, the tiny, grimy bathroom, the overstuffed bedroom with its faint tang of unwashed sheets and female sweat; the hot dead fruit of the kitchen where she registered the plates and cutlery stacked in the drying rack by an empty sink thankfully, then stopped herself. You’re giving thanks, she thought, that in the middle of this horrible thing this woman has visited on you, you don’t also have to do her dirty dishes? You flaccid great doormat.

She wanted to leave, get another expensive taxi back to Alison’s and sleep and sleep, but had a nagging feeling that she needed to do something more. She crashed back into the armchair, suddenly exhausted, and noticed that wedding photo, lying on the floor. Clio pale and young and lovely, tiny against the background of that big cathedral in Edinburgh; the husband seeming much larger, more present, with a very Nineties goatee beard and datedly baggy suit. There we go.

‘Hello, Mansfield Music, Francesca speaking.’

‘Hello, my name’s Ruth Jones. I need to speak to Mr Mansfield on a very urgent personal matter. It concerns his ex-wife, Clio Campbell. I have some bad news. I understand this is irregular, but do you think you could put me through straight away?’

She hadn’t expected that to work; had assumed there would be a finely honed machine of secretarial protocol preventing access to The Man. But here he was on the end of the phone, sounding irritated and busy and possibly a bit scared.

‘Dan Mansfield speaking.’

‘Mr Mansfield – you possibly don’t remember me. I’m a friend of Clio’s – I used to work for Vey Records, but I’m not sure if we ever – no, just email probably. Sorry.’

Pull it together, Ruth.

‘Uh-huh. Go on.’