The court date was fast approaching, and so far they had nothing. They had tailed him twice before: once being the occasion Jasmine lost the subject in that cinema car park in Paisley. On the other, he had raised their hopes by going into a health club: some footage of him swimming or working the weights would be all they needed. It turned out he was seeing a physiotherapist, most likely as another witness who could testify to having treated his nebulous injury. The only plus was that up until now he didn’t appear to be aware that he was under surveillance, though he was bound to have been informed by Scotiaclaim that it was a possibility. As it stood, there was still a chance, albeit slim, that they could catch him doing something he shouldn’t be.

‘It’s Last Chance Saloon now,’ Jim had confessed. ‘With a very strong possibility that he’s playing it canny and we won’t get a thing.’

‘Do you still get paid?’

‘Aye, but it burns to see a guy like this get away with it. Plus, if you don’t get results, the lawyers will say they understand, but the likelihood is you won’t get hired again.’

Jasmine watched Croft’s reflection pass across the window, this time resisting the temptation to look at his face for assurance that he wasn’t looking back. She turned her head slightly, enough to keep him in her peripheral vision until it was safe to commence walking again. She allowed him a longer lead than before, conscious of having had that almost-funny.

‘Subject is turning left left left on to Cresswell Street.’ She kept up the commentary even though Jim was off the follow. She was recording her progress on the bodycam, so it was partly for the benefit of the tape (or rather, memory card) and partly just for practice.

Jasmine felt anxiety seize her as she approached the end of the pedestrianised lane, in anticipation of what she might see – or more pertinently not see – when she turned on to Cresswell Street. It must be a documented phenomenon, she thought: the foot-follower’s fear of the corner. It was so piercingly acute that in recent days she’d been experiencing it even when she wasn’t on a follow, turns on busy streets becoming a Pavlovian trigger for a tightness in her chest.

When she turned this particular corner, the sight that met her truly was grounds for dismay. It wasn’t that she’d lost the subject: Croft was visible twenty yards ahead, approaching the junction with Byres Road. It was what else she could see. Charlotte Queen was sitting at a table outside a deli-café on Cresswell Street, she and two friends enjoying the atypically summery weather by sipping their coffees al fresco, and she was looking Jasmine’s way. Their eyes met: only fleetingly, and at a distance, but it was definitely reciprocal.