‘It was nearly thirty years ago. And it wasn’t just the once or twice I’d done it before.’ She winced, troubled and embarrassed by the memory. ‘There were a lot of names: I did it six times over the years, maybe seven. I can’t remember. I’m sorry. I can tell you what I told Mr Sharp, though. If you go to the registrar, you can look up male births registered for that date. Not from this unit, though,’ she added. ‘It was the Victoria I worked in back then.’

Secret Trades

Catherine was starting to worry that she had been spotted. She couldn’t see much more than the passenger-side flank of the Mondeo in her wing mirror, but it did give her a clear view of the full width of the pavement in front of Fullerton’s house, and Abercorn had not yet crossed it. He must still be in the car, but if so, what was he waiting for?

She cursed her own overcautious patience. She should have pulled in fifty yards sooner, into that big space between the blue Corsa and the grey A5. She’d have been able to see right into the Mondeo from there, not blocked by the big builder’s van that was four vehicles back. Or perhaps she hadn’t been patient enough, and should have driven a bit further before doubling back. That way she could have parked on the opposite side, facing Abercorn’s vehicle from a safe distance.

Wait and see. Wait and see.

She wanted to twist in her seat and check if a change of position afforded any better view past the builder’s van, but she knew she couldn’t, mustn’t take her eyes off the wing mirror. The whole purpose of her day, and perhaps the whole key to this investigation, was concentrated upon the image reflected in that little round-cornered rectangle of glass, so she remained focused entirely upon it, barely daring to blink. Which was why she almost hit the ceiling when a fistful of knuckles chapped the driver’s-side window, only inches from her ear: three short raps.

She turned around in fright, rapidly transforming into shock, horror and ultimately bafflement as she was confronted by the sight of Dougie Abercorn, an admonishing frown on his lips but a wry hint of amusement in his eyes.

Catherine climbed out of the BMW, feeling her cheeks burn, at a loss for what she might offer by way of explanation. All that came to mind was ‘It’s not what it looks like’, which was particularly hopeless because it was obvious to both parties that it was exactly what it looked like.

‘Nice ride,’ said Abercorn drily.

‘It’s my husband’s. How early did you spot it?’

‘As a tail? It wouldn’t be fair to say.’

‘No need to be polite. Christ, I thought I was good at this.’