He rubbed his temples, trying to replace his bleak thoughts with the joy he’d felt when he’d pushed the old man into the water. But it wasn’t working. He put the old Ford in gear and headed back to the docks. He’d always known there must be a reason for what had happened to him. The brutality, the segregation from other kids, the refusal to let him have anything more than a basic education because cleverness got you into trouble; that all had to have come from somewhere. But whatever he had imagined, it hadn’t been this. Now at last, he had someone to blame.

Tony pulled up in the drive of Frances’s semi-detached house. Everything about it was squared off and neat. Built before developers started putting flourishes on their executive homes, it was entirely plain in its appearance and, unlike several of her neighbours, Frances had steadfastly avoided anything that would break up the straight lines of doors and windows, gable end and garden. No fake Georgian bottle-glass window panes for her, no elaborate front door with panels and mouldings. No island beds or wishing wells in the garden, just neat rectangular borders with roses pruned to within a bud of their lives. At first, Tony had liked the orderliness of it all, a contrast to the blurred edges and confusion of his own life.

But now he acknowledged that there were good reasons why he had chosen an old cottage without a single wall that was plumb, and a patch of garden filled with rambling geraniums and overgrown hebes. As he had come to know Frances better, he had been reminded that those who impose such regimented order on their surroundings are also inclined to hedge in their internal lives with restrictions and barriers for fear their unruly souls might burst forth and create an unmanageable chaos.

There were times when he longed for chaos.

This evening they were due to play bridge with some acquaintances over in Cupar. Frances, he knew, would have dinner cooking, ready to serve within minutes of his arrival so that they would be sure of getting to Cupar in good time. He wanted to speak to Carol, to find out how her undercover day had gone, but he knew that there would be no chance later. He’d tried to call her before he left the office, but she hadn’t been home. Maybe in the ten minutes it had taken him to drive across St Andrews she’d have returned.

He keyed her number into his mobile and waited. Three rings and he was connected to her machine. ‘Hi, Carol, it’s Tony. I was wondering how …’

‘Tony? I just walked through the door. Hang on.’

He heard the electronic beep of the machine being turned off. Then her voice again. ‘How lovely of you to call.’

‘Put it down to professional curiosity. I was interested to hear how it had gone.’