The minivan slowed and it looked like he was about to pull in and park. He was a jammy sod finding a space on that stretch of Byres Road at this time of day, which meant the chances of her finding one an acceptable distance ahead were vanishingly small. She could be looking at setting a new personal best for eyeball time prior to losing a subject, at well under a minute. Not entirely her fault, circumstances outwith her control and all that, but having blown surveillances as often as she had, even genuine excuses rang hollow.

Oh, thank you. Magic. He wasn’t parking: it was the car in front of his that had been jammy enough to find a space, and he’d been forced to stop while it reversed laboriously into the gap.

She sighed, trying not to dwell upon how ill-suited she must be for this job if she could get so het up over every minor or even just potential hiccup.

She reached down and pressed the push-to-talk button mounted on the gearstick, the corresponding microphone embedded in the sun visor.

‘Uncle Jim … I mean Delta Seven, permission?’

‘Delta Seven, go ahead. You don’t need to ask permission when you’re eyeball. And for the umpteenth time, it’s your own call sign you say, not mine.’

‘Sorry. I mean Foxtrot Five, sorry. Just wondering where you are.’

‘My location is Hyndland Street, north towards Highburgh Road, where I’ll be hoping to make ground and re-obtain the subject vehicle when it reaches the lights.’

‘Yes yes,’ she said, though it was his reminder that she had once again failed to use appropriate terminology that she heard most loud and clear. How much patience could the man have? He deserved better: much better.

‘Subject is approaching the junction with University Avenue,’ she relayed. ‘Lights are red and he’s not indicating. Anticipate subject going straight on straight on straight on in the direction of Great Western Road.’

Straight on straight on straight on. That couldn’t be correct, surely?

Her doubt precipitated a gut-tightening recollection of Monday. A disaster on that scale usually prompted a telethon.

It hadn’t been a difficult task. It was an ‘establish’, nothing more: the proverbial barn door from six feet. Monday’s subject had been a small businessman who had done a runner while in heavy debt to one particular supplier. Rather than declare bankruptcy and go through insolvency proceedings, he had flown the coop in the knowledge that the supplier was in major financial difficulties arising largely from this unpaid debt. Put simply, if he stayed out of sight long enough, the supplier would go bust and his debt would disappear.