‘He’s not quite ready to ditch the core activities yet. Still makes too much from heroin to give that up, especially when smack is proven to be so much more dependable in volatile economic conditions. The Bay Tree is the apple of his eye, though. He lives just around the corner from it: a big original Thornton Bridge mansion house, you understand, not one of the ultra-modern footballers’ wives’ pads along in the new estates with a four-seater jacuzzi in the en suite and a plasma telly in the bog.’

‘Aye, I’d heard a few of the Old Firm players live here. Is that right?’

‘They do, and they often stop in at the Bay Tree, which considerably adds to the allure both for the clientele and for Frankie. He gets to be the genial host, friend of the famous, successful businessman and popular restaurateur, as opposed to back-stabbing, heroin-peddling murderous scumbag.’

‘Have to imagine a man like that wouldn’t want the polis making themselves conspicuous on his premises of an evening, eh?’ Laura suggested, clearly understanding why Catherine had waited until now to pay him a visit.

‘I find blokes like Frankie are less inclined to amuse themselves by dicking you about and playing wee power games when it’s their own precious time they’re wasting. You get more straight answers when they cannae wait to get rid of you. Besides, we’ll make up for any potential embarrassment with the air of class the pair of us will bring to the establishment.’

Callahan read the situation expertly, Catherine had to give him that. He must have clocked Catherine and Laura showing their warrant cards to the waitress who met them near the front door, and he swept through the restaurant to intercept them before they could make themselves any more conspicuous, all the while composing himself in preparation for dealing with them. He concealed whatever anger he felt at the deliberate timing of the intrusion, perfectly aware of the effect Catherine was hoping to have, and escorted them briskly but politely to the Bay Tree’s private dining room, out of sight of the other diners. If anyone caught a glimpse, they might well assume the two plain-clothes officers were there at his bidding, so calm was his demeanour.

Everything about Callahan was calm, in fact. In contrast to the way Paddy Steel exuded aggression like a Van de Graaff generator exuded static, Francis Callahan, as he liked to be known these days, did not exude, more absorb. He gave out nothing, the kind of man who, had he been a cop, could have elicited confessions merely by sitting there in unnervingly still and profound silence.