The cafe Robbie suggested wasn’t a greasy spoon, but rather a cool, upmarket place. On entry McNab could find no one sipping a latte that he thought might be the man he sought, so he headed for the counter and ordered two double espressos, to save him returning after the first was consumed.

Carrying them to a seat near the window where he might keep an eye on the door, McNab settled down to wait, hoping the description he’d given Robbie of himself would be sufficient. He was giving his mobile his undivided attention, like most of the others in the room, when a deep voice beside him said, ‘Detective Sergeant McNab?’

McNab looked up to find a fit-looking guy, dressed smart-casual, who McNab would have taken for late forties, early fifties. His hair was still predominantly dark, with only a sprinkling of grey. In fact, McNab decided, the current version of Robbie McIntyre surprised him.

Ollie had only investigated police files on the younger Robbie, so McNab had no idea what the man did now. Whatever it was, it looked as though he’d made his way up in the world.

McNab rose. ‘Robbie McIntyre?’

‘I call myself Robert now. Or at least my partner, Andrew, and my work colleagues do,’ he said, a little stiffly.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’ McNab asked.

‘I ordered one, then spotted you over here,’ he said in an accent that bore no resemblance to McNab’s obvious Glasgow tone. ‘It should be ready by now.’

McNab watched as McIntyre fetched his coffee, which turned out to be the largest latte available. The strange juxtaposition of McNab’s tiny espresso cup next to the newly arrived soup-size bowl struck McNab as rather absurd. He only hoped their conversation didn’t turn out to be the same.

McNab waited for the extra-large coffee to be lifted, drunk from, then replaced on the saucer prior to saying, ‘Before we talk, I should stress that the body found on the moors hasn’t been identified as yet.’

‘Oh, it’s Mary all right,’ Robert McIntyre told him. ‘I know it and so does the man who searched for her all those years ago.’

‘We’re talking about DI Jimmy McCreadie?’

McIntyre nodded. ‘We’ve kept in touch. It was McCreadie who helped me get back on the straight and narrow as a teenager. No doubt you’ve looked up my chequered history? Stealing cars, gang fights, drugs?’

When McNab didn’t respond, McIntyre continued anyway, the neutral voice disappearing, replaced by something more akin to McNab’s own accent.

‘I lost the head after Mary. The whole family did. Dad used to do that fucking whistle out the window, like she would suddenly come running back. Mum’s life ended the day her wee girl disappeared. And my sister married Sammy Barclay just to get out of the house. As for me . . . I hated the police because they fucked up so badly.’

McNab didn’t mind the man’s anger or his accusation. He’d seen what such a loss could do to a family. It wasn’t only the victim who died. The impact was devastating on everyone around them, especially when it involved the loss of a child. And it was even worse when they never got a body to bury.