“Staff nurse,” she replied. “I’m the battle-axe on the ward.”

It was Corstorphine’s turn to smile, more out of a sense of relief that she couldn’t be that young, to be a staff nurse. “I can’t see you as any kind of murder weapon.”

She laughed, a good-humoured light sound that he felt he’d like to hear more of. “Well, I can see that you’re a policeman. Murder weapon indeed!”

He took his time reading the dinner menu as a companionable silence engulfed their table, a small quiet island in the sea of conversation that murmured restlessly around them. Couples out for dinner, families celebrating a birthday or some other event, a few first dates like themselves – too old for nightclubs, too young to have resigned themselves to a lonely existence. The sound of a grandfather clock striking eight o’clock brought him out of his reverie. A sombre-looking instrument, more than likely purchased from some house auction to provide much needed character to the otherwise anodyne restaurant interior. Now that his attention had been drawn to it he could hear the metronome tick tock that accompanied the pendulum’s swing.

“Can I take your order, or would you like some more time?” The waitress had materialised beside him, electronic notepad poised. Corstorphine didn’t need to check whether his table companion was ready, she reeled off her starter and main with decisive efficiency – ordering another glass of wine at the same time. He felt distracted, some vague coalescing thought was clamouring to be heard but it had departed without leaving any memory of its passing. He ordered automatically, safe choices that wouldn’t be challenging either to cook or to eat, listening with half his attention as Jenny asked him if this was a regular haunt of his.

“No, I don’t come here that often. I quite like the food here, not too keen on that picture on a plate nonsense the trendier places dish up.”

“You’re lucky if they serve it on a dish! These days they want to serve it on slates, or wooden boards – anything impractical that your dinner can just slide off. Totally unhygienic!” She paused as the waitress returned with the drinks, waiting for Corstorphine to touch glasses.

“Here’s tae us!” He voiced the words, wondering if she too was running the rest of the reciprocal Scots toast in her mind – ‘wha’s like us? Gey few, and they’re a’ deid’. The thought suddenly occurred to him that she may be a widow, another soul cast adrift by the early death of a loved one. “Do you do this sort of thing often?” The words came quickly, covering his momentary embarrassment.

“Date strange men?” Her eyes remained amused, focussing on the wine glass which she revolved slowly in long fingers. “I could ask you the same question. Are you a serial dater, James?” She looked at him directly, her interest in his response apparent in her quizzical expression.

Corstorphine struggled to answer. “I’ve been on a few dates over the last year, none of them particularly successful.” He sipped his beer, wishing it had an alcoholic content, something to erase the words he’d just blurted out without thinking. What was he even doing here, fresh from a murder scene? He sensed his wife giving him an encouraging look, willing him to keep at it. “I’m sorry, I’m really not very good at this.”