He retrieved a cardboard storage box from below his desk and brought it to the coffee table. ‘I was the youngest DI in the force back then, although I didn’t last long in the job.’ He gave McNab a swift glance, as though they might share that in common, then placed the box in front of him. ‘Take a look in here.’

McNab lifted the lid. Inside was a collection of standard black covered notebooks.

‘I’d like these returned, of course,’ McCreadie said. ‘There could be inspiration in that lot.’

The housekeeper appeared again at that precise moment, causing McNab to think the timing had been pre-arranged to let them know the show was over.

‘Apologies,’ McCreadie said with a half-smile. ‘I have a deadline looming. Publishers, eh? Worse than my bosses of yore,’ he added with a short laugh.

McNab wasn’t convinced they’d heard everything Smart McCreadie had to tell them. However, like any good thriller writer, he would likely choose to hold on to his secrets for as long as possible.

When they reached the door, as though on cue, McCreadie suddenly recalled something else as a parting gift.

‘Mary McIntyre had a pal called Karen Marshall who lived two doors down from her. The kid was a mess when her pal disappeared. Could hardly speak at all. Her dad was a detective constable himself. I heard he died maybe ten years after Mary’s disappearance. Karen might still be around, with luck. I always thought the wee lassie knew more than she said, but back then kids weren’t believed in principle. They were seen as unreliable witnesses. You’ll find my interviews with her in there.’

And with that, their chapter in the tale he was weaving ended, and they were dismissed.

12

When she’d been drinking heavily, the car, Jack’s car, had remained in the garage. When still caring for him, she hadn’t needed the car, because she never left the house. Ever. Even to buy food.

Karen wondered now whether the nice man who’d brought the shopping she’d ordered online had spotted just how many bottles of wine she was consuming. If he had, it was never mentioned, not even in a joking fashion.

He always asked after Jack though. Told me his mum had gone the same way.

It was the dead Jack who had pointed out, in one of their many silent conversations, that now she was sober, she might drive the car again.

It was after she’d first seen the advert in the local paper about the women’s recovery cafe, and was wrestling with herself as to whether she should go. As usual, she could find plenty of reasons not to, including working out how she might actually get there.

As she’d mumped on about buses, Jack had silently countermanded her excuses by telling her to start driving again. And he’d been right, both about driving and about going to the recovery cafe meetings, Karen acknowledged, as she turned left onto the Raploch Road, with the Stirling Castle rock rising steeply on her right-hand side.