It was the smell of the tea that did it, the sense most closely connected to memory. His face, his voice and even his posture were rapidly reassembled in a specific context: sitting at another table, a quarter of a century ago, drinking tea while she watched him in fear and hatred.

She couldn’t reach for her cup because she was concerned her hand would tremble conspicuously.

Fallan eyed her briefly, aware of her previous stare. Had he recognised her too? Unlikely. He would barely have noticed her at the time, just one more scared face, the kind he must have seen dozens of every day.

The memory came crashing over her like a wave. Fallan had been in her parents’ kitchen, along with that horrible little grey man she still saw some nights in her unquiet dreams: a wispy-haired walking corpse who smelled like he lived in an ashtray.

Sitting at her parents’ table. Drinking her parents’ tea.

Taking her parents’ money.

Catherine fought to control herself. A reservoir of hatred had been breached, something she thought had been locked down and secured long ago. She could do with a drink of tea, but she still couldn’t trust her hands; either to remain untrembling or to refrain from throwing the scalding liquid into Fallan’s face.

‘What are you doing back in town,’ she asked, trying but failing to quite keep the venom from her voice. ‘Here to pick up again where you left off?’

Fallan said nothing. The girl was less adept at waiting out an awkward silence, however.

‘My uncle’s gone missing. He’s also my boss. The police weren’t providing much assistance, so he’s been helping me.’

‘People disappearing? Yes, he’d certainly be an expert on that.’

Fallan calmly finished off the last of his breakfast and put down his cutlery, then looked Catherine in the eye.

‘Is there something we can help you with?’ he asked, his tone communicating that if there wasn’t, he would strongly prefer to be left alone.

‘James McDiarmid. Frankie Callahan. Gary Fleeting. Tommy Miller. Any of those names familiar to you?’

Fallan took a sip of tea with affected gentility.

‘Nope.’

‘All four of them have two things in common. They all have connections to drug trafficking and organised crime, and they have all died violently in the past few days. So in the same week that I get four dead criminals to play with, it turns out that Glen Fallan is back from the grave. Dead gangsters, Glen Fallan. Glen Fallan, dead gangsters. From what I gather, they tend to go together, like bacon and eggs, coffee and cream, guns and bullets. Can you understand why I might be inclined to connect these two developments?’

‘When did they die?’ he asked.

‘McDiarmid Sunday, the others Thursday.’

‘I was in Northumberland on Sunday,’ he said. ‘Came up here on Wednesday.’

‘He’s been with me the whole time,’ said Jasmine.