Derek was her childhood nemesis on steroids. He oozed self-satisfaction. At the coffee stand Mary said: ‘It should be “an MRA”. The article is decided by pronunciation. But I’ve read your blog, so I know grammar’s not your thing.’

‘You’ve read my blog? I’m flattered.’ Derek hailed himself as a ‘proud Scot’ but he was educated at Gordonstoun and spoke like Prince Charles would if Prince Charles was trying not to speak like Prince Charles. His blog was called The Lion’s Roar. Mary couldn’t read it for more than three seconds without needing alcohol. The guy had a face you’d never tiring of slapping, probably why his mama sent him to the Highlands to build rafts, hone sexism and puff his chest about the Union. When his father’s dotcom business went downhill, Derek was forced to leave boarding school. He travelled ‘extensively’, meeting and marrying Pretty Pam from Renfield, who was beneath him in every way except reality (now rid of him, she wore heels whenever she wanted). They shared five years together, all of them unhappy according to his social worker, Nel. Their two boys, Freddie (four) and Oskar (two), now lived with their battered mother and her parents, and Derek spent most of his time arguing – as publicly as possible – that he should be allowed to see them whenever he wanted, at the same time as failing to attend supervised contact week after week, leaving the wee lads sobbing in a sad room on the ground floor of Kenneth House. Derek’s brief career with the police force had been brought to an abrupt halt after his first conviction for domestic assault, but he continued to ooze authority with mind-blowing arrogance. Mary already hated Derek more than anyone she’d ever met, and she’d met the Symington Strangler, but that was another story.

Macdowall had invited his lawyer as well, who didn’t need to be on the personal invite list, plus a balding alcohol counsellor called Tracy and his twenty-six-year-old daughter, Holly.

Six days earlier, Mary had visited Holly to compile a way-overdue home background report. It was a day after she’d made her decision to resign. For one freeing day, she had stopped thinking of herself as a social worker. Her boundaries, which had been withering for a while, were almost totally gone, and it was wonderful. Speaking her mind didn’t seem dangerous at all.

‘Your father’s asked if he can stay here,’ she explained to Holly. ‘Apparently you’re okay with that. How ’bout you make us tea and we get these questions out of the way? I’m white with one.’ She paused and looked at the kettle.

Holly looked at the kettle as well, then at her. ‘I’m uncomfortable with your expectation of tea.’

Mary didn’t flinch. ‘Would you like to make a formal complaint?’

‘What? No.’