They had sat and giggled over it like a couple of old friends. Catherine found this both a reassurance and a bit of a disappointment at the same time, because she didn’t want to settle for it, and certainly didn’t want Drew to think she had. They were old friends, but they were supposed to be lovers too.

There still wasn’t much she could do about that, even if they hadn’t both needed to be up at dawn. She didn’t mind snuggling chastely against Drew on the sofa, but she didn’t want to be held, didn’t want to be naked. When she thought of Drew naked, she pictured him all burnt up like Callahan and Fleeting, sensed his vulnerability, his mortality. And God, that smell had been about her all day. Even after a shower, she could smell it from the laundry basket, adhering to her clothes.

There were things you couldn’t just wash off at the end of the day.

There’s this dark place you go. You’re angry on the road to that place and you’re unreachable when you get there. But what’s hardest is you’re numb for days afterwards.

I always come back though, Drew. Please wait for me.

Catherine spotted them in a corner, furthest from any windows. Neither of them appeared to be saying very much. Fallan was sitting with his back to the wall, with a clear view of all exits. He had noted her entrance but was pretending he hadn’t. Perhaps he didn’t view her as a threat.

Jasmine Sharp was slight and pretty in a fresh-faced, girlish way. Catherine knew from her details that she was twenty, but she could pass for a schoolgirl, or maybe that was simply because she seemed so small next to Fallan. Catherine suspected she could look a lot different if she wanted to. Jasmine wore no make-up and her hair was tied back, something of laundry day about her. Catherine had wondered why a girl with a flat on Vicky Road would be staying in a hotel only a few miles away. Now she knew.

She had the look of a fugitive.

Catherine approached the table. The girl turned to look at her, but Fallan remained intent upon his black pudding and scrambled eggs. Nonetheless, he spoke before she had the chance to open her mouth.

‘How can I help you, Officer?’ he asked, without looking up from his breakfast, and without any hint that he had any intention of helping her. The only thing he truly wished to communicate was that he had recognised her for what she was the moment she walked through the double doors into the room.

‘Glen Fallan, I presume?’ she asked. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Catherine McLeod, CID.’