Fiona screwed up her face. ‘Suitably? Has Mark become a twelve-year-old with a penchant for Noddy?’

‘Always so amusing, Fi,’ said Struan as he gave a twirl. ‘I told you Mark’s back for good? Remember he went to work in Bermuda straight from college, lived there all his life. Better bloody money designing beach houses than my tenement block conversions over here, I can tell you. Anyway, he’s just retired and come home, poor bugger.’ He flicked the kettle on. ‘So, I thought I’d give Bermuda shorts a go in his honour.’

‘But they’re not Bermuda shorts, Dad, they’re just big baggy shorts. And are you meant to wear long socks like that?’

‘Yes. Remember Mum and I went to stay with them once? I found it so funny that they all went to work dressed in shorts with a jacket and tie. Thought I’d leave off the tie though. Coffee?’ He peered at the coke. ‘Or perhaps another can of death wish?’

‘Needs must, Dad. Hangover cure.’ She shook her head as she looked at his shorts again. ‘Mum’s my only hope for the sanity gene in this family. And yes please to coffee, make it strong.’

‘So, presumably you had a good catch-up with Martha? How is she? Does she still think she prefers girls to boys?’

Fiona sighed. ‘She’s gay, of course she bloody does, Dad. She’s coming round tomorrow, just behave yourself, will you?’

Struan put down a mug of steaming coffee in front of her and took his to the door.

‘Thanks. Oh, Dad, before you go. Whaling, whale oil – why does that ring bells? Was Dundee into that?’

‘Yes, Dundee was into that, Fi. What did they teach you at school? It was one of the most important centres of the industry in the world. If memory serves me right, Dundee was the only whaling port left in Britain in the late nineteenth century. Whaling worked in a kind of symbiotic way with the jute industry – whale oil was used to soften the jute fibres before production.’

‘Oh, yeah, it’s all coming back. Thanks, Dad.’

Struan looked at his watch. ‘Right, tutorial over. Got to finish a drawing before lunch.’

‘You still working on that house for the Blacks?’

‘Yes, I promised I’d do it even though I’m meant to be retired and enjoying a summer of fun and games with our lodgers.’ He peered out the window. ‘How fares the Little Prince today?’

Fiona smiled. ‘Great, look at him, he’s in heaven,’ she said, watching him and Jack dribble their footballs along the Green.

She turned back to the laptop. How on earth could she find someone called Gibson in a town at the other side of the world? Was there a kind of database she could get into? Martha might know, she’d ask her later.

Her phone rang. Fiona peered at the screen; it was an Edinburgh number.