‘I was up in IT. Did he leave a name?’

The sergeant handed him a slip of paper with a number on it. ‘No name, but he asked if you could give this number a call. A snitch, maybe?’

McNab had built up a few informants over the years, but checking the number, he knew this wasn’t one of them. There was, of course, one way to find out who it was. He hesitated for a moment, then stuck the paper in his pocket.

Whatever it was, it could wait. He had other non-police-related plans for tonight.

When he arrived at the Rock Cafe, the row of motorbikes parked outside suggested it was as busy as usual.

Heading downstairs, he stopped halfway so that he might observe Ellie in her place behind the bar. She had her hair up, so the tattoos that encircled her lovely neck were in full view. McNab knew every one of them by now in minute detail. Her skin was a story he loved to reread. For every picture painted, there was an accompanying story of why Ellie had chosen to be inked with that particular pattern.

As for McNab, he had only one story and one tattoo . . . on his back, where a bullet hole had become the empty eye of a skull, and it had been Ellie who had been the one to ink him. It was the sweetest pain he had ever endured.

Spotting him on the stairs, Ellie waved him over.

‘Just in time,’ she said, in a voice that suggested she might have been giving up on him. ‘I finish in fifteen minutes.’

‘I know,’ McNab said with a suggestive smile. ‘I left my bike at the station.’

‘So I’m running you home?’

‘I hope so, or else I’m walking.’

‘So what are you having?’

‘A single malt,’ McNab told her.

‘A bad day at work?’ Ellie said.

McNab smiled. ‘Forgotten already.’

‘Is that a promise?’

‘It is,’ McNab reassured her.

Seated at a table with his dram, curiosity got the better of McNab and he fished for the piece of paper the desk sergeant had given him and dialled the number. It rang out only once before a male voice said, ‘Is that Detective Sergeant McNab?’

‘It is,’ McNab said cautiously.

‘McCreadie told me to contact you. He says you’re working the Mary McIntyre case.’

McNab’s ears pricked up at this. ‘Who am I talking to?’

The caller skipped the name request, saying instead, ‘It’s about who killed wee Mary McIntyre.’

In the seconds that followed, McNab contemplated the possibility that he had a nutter on the line who had not yet given his name but could somehow get in touch with a former DI who was now a crime writer.

‘Name?’ he demanded again.

‘Robbie McIntyre. We need to talk.’

15

Extracting herself from Sean’s arms, Rhona grabbed her dressing gown. Her sudden departure from the bed, she knew, had little chance of waking Sean.

His untroubled and easy sleep was something she envied him for. It was said that to sleep well, it was better to sleep alone. That didn’t appear true for Sean, but it was for her.