‘I – she had a flat in the East End. I can’t think of it now. Wait, I’ll look for it.’

He struggled to think of the last time he’d spent any proper time with her. Her birthday party – before that? Passing her in the foyer of a concert hall, a quick hug and a promise to catch up.

‘Sir? We’ll need a name and address.’

‘Clio Campbell. Her name is Clio Campbell. And I don’t know her address. I’m sorry. You’ll know her, though. She’ll be on your books, surely. She’s somewhere in Glasgow, I think, or she was the last time I saw her.’

‘And you believe she’s sent you a suicide note? How long have you known Clio Campbell for?’

‘I know. I know. I wasn’t expecting this – well, you wouldn’t, would you. But can you find her? You must have people’s addresses registered or something – the electoral register. I’m sure she’ll be on that. Please find her. I’ve tried – she’s not answering her phone. That’s all I’ve got.’

The late squad had come on, over in the far corner, were laughing and typing and taking calls, but this barn of a place, with its seventy unoccupied post-redundancy desks, ate up their sound.

Then he was swiping his pass through the security gates, stretching his hands out into the cracked pockets of his brown leather jacket. He hadn’t worn this for ages, he realized, rubbing rotted-off lint in between his fingers. Years, even. And he’d picked it up today.

He shoved the pass into his pocket and headed down the hill, over the self-consciously shiny pink flagstones the paper had put in seven years ago, just before they announced the first round of redundancies. It was wet out; he felt it soaking through his jeans.

Clio.

She’d been wearing her red lipstick, that time he’d seen her recently, in the crowd after the Patti Smith gig, had smelled of rotting flowers, gin and something sickly as he’d bent in to kiss her and she’d placed a hand on his shoulder to guide him. She’d been with people. There hadn’t been time to talk long, but she’d held his hand and swung it, squeezed it tightly even as she moved on.

He’d done all he could, really. He didn’t know where she was. He’d phoned her. He’d phoned the police.

Now he was in the Albannach, with a tired young girl staring at him from behind the bar. Yes, a drink.

‘I might be in shock,’ he heard himself saying, ‘so I think I need a whisky.’

‘Are you all right? Have you been hurt?’

‘No.’ He waved a hand, held it there in the air, looked at it. ‘Bad news. No.’