“Oh yeah, fuck it, I forgot.” His face fell. “Oh God, Carmen, I’m really lazy and useless, and I like getting other people to do stuff for me—is that any better?”

“Does it still end up with me on hold for an hour to an airline?”

“Let’s eat somewhere really, really nice.”

They had landed at the bottom of Victoria Street, where there was a little shop in blue with a beautiful window decoration of robins and holly and lots of expensive country-style clothes, Burberry and Harris tweeds.

“They must do wellies,” said Carmen. “I wonder if they’re open.”

There was someone inside. Goodness, thought Carmen. Did everyone on Victoria Street live inside their shops at night like little dormice?

“Hello! Are you open?”

The door was flung open by a large, red-faced man.

“You’re asking if a shop selling kit for inclement weather is shut in inclement weather?” boomed the man. He had the same kind of voice as Mr. McCredie: technically Edinburgh but sounding not completely unlike a posh English person. “Come in!”

“Thanks,” said Carmen. “I’m from McCredie’s?”

He frowned at her. “He’s hired someone? He’s selling things?”

“He’s trying to,” said Carmen.

“Hi, I’m Blair Pfenning?” said Blair, giving it the full teeth.

The man ignored him. “Well, blow me down.”

“He’s out there now, clearing the snow.”

“He’s out?”

The bluster left the man.

“Well. Goodness, young lady, I don’t know what you’ve done, but that seems rather impressive.”

“I haven’t done anything,” said Carmen.

“We’ve all got that rent rise, you know. Well. We will all be so very pleased he’s making a go of it.”

Once again, Carmen reflected on what a community the street was and wondered why Mr. McCredie wasn’t a part of it.

“My feet not getting notably drier,” observed Blair.

The man shook his head. “Bad business there.”

“With Mr. McCredie? Why? How?”

The big man turned and went back into his shop. “I’m Crawford,” he said over his shoulder. “Crawford Finnieston.”

“Got any Wellingtons, Crawford?” said Blair.

“So, hang on, what bad business?”

Crawford blinked rheumy blue eyes. “He hasn’t told you?”

“No!” said Carmen.

Blair found a shelf full of green Wellingtons.

“What is it?” asked Carmen.

Crawford shrugged. “Oh, I won’t tell tales out of school, young lady. Nothing, nothing, just town gossip.”

Carmen looked around. It was an extraordinary shop: flowered wallpaper, antique dressers and mirrors, as well as stuffed animals—not for sale, it appeared, just there because Crawford liked them—and body warmers and hunting clothes.

“This is the poshest shop I’ve ever been in,” said Carmen.

“I can well believe that,” said Crawford. Then, slightly more gently: “Where did you work before?”

She told him.