She extended a warrant card towards the table, a prompt for him to look at it and by extension herself. He did, his eyes rising neutrally to take in the card and then to meet hers.

He didn’t acknowledge the name, but he didn’t deny it either.

‘And you must be Jasmine Sharp.’

The girl gave her an uneasy smile and a cooperative nod. She wasn’t so used to playing it cool around the polis.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘I think it’s residents only,’ Fallan replied.

Catherine ignored this and pulled out a chair.

Jasmine tutted, which Catherine interpreted as proof that she was learning fast from her mentor with regard to the attitude one presented to the police. Then it became clear that it was Fallan who was the target of her irritation.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Took me three days to get you to admit that, and now complete strangers are just walking up and calling you it.’

A waitress came over and asked Catherine if she’d like some tea or coffee. The percolated coffee smell was tempting, but she opted for tea, some wee girlie part of herself still viewing it as a special treat to get a steel pot and a jug of milk in a restaurant.

‘I’ll bring a fresh pot for everybody,’ the waitress said, oblivious of the tension at the table or simply helpless but to ignore it.

Fallan glared at her as she withdrew, in annoyance at her unwitting complicity, but only once her back was turned.

‘I take it Mr Fallan has been going by an alias?’ Catherine asked.

‘Tron Ingrams,’ Jasmine said helpfully, a lack of guile in her expression making it hard to tell whether she was too naïve to be protective of this information or merely trying to discomfort Fallan.

What are you two doing together? Catherine wondered.

‘My name is Tron Ingrams,’ he said. ‘Glen Fallan is a name I left behind more than twenty years ago.’

‘It’s a lot easier to leave behind a name than it is to leave behind a past. Especially a past like yours, Mr Ingrams.’

‘How did you find us?’ asked Jasmine, a little concerned.

‘Us public investigators have access to some useful resources,’ she replied, intending to put the girl further on the back foot. ‘For instance, you’d be amazed how many times your number plate gets scanned these days.’

The waitress returned with a large pot of tea and began to pour.

As she did so, Catherine found herself suddenly staring with horror at Fallan, briefly helpless to disguise her reaction as she realised that she had met him once before. She had seen his face and heard his voice this morning, but neither had piqued more than the minimum search of her memory she habitually conducted whenever she met anyone with a connection to the world of crime; a search that had turned up no results.