1. What was the name of Simon Gallacher’s Pakistani neighbour, and did the neighbour have a wife or a job or business or relatives or girlfriend or children or car or pets or any contact whatsoever with the nominal*?
   (*nominal = evil bastard)
2. Was the Pakistani’s* family known***?
   (*Pakistani = potentially from Pakistan or a place like that)
   (***known = fucked)
3. Simon Gallacher had commented on Derek McLaverty’s Cuck Facebook page. Did they know each other? Had they attended protests or events together?

Mary had thought mostly about noodles throughout the MAPPA. She would get them in Shawlands before making an unscheduled visit to Macdowall, before whatever awfulness she had diarised from 12.30 on.

She stopped at a red light. Time to glance at the diary – there were coded appointments for 12.30 and 1.00 and 1.30 and 2.00 and 2.30 and maybe even 2.45. Her diary was hard to read now with all the changes and additions she’d made, some in eyeliner. 3.00 and 3.15 and 3.45 and 4.50 and 6.00. Fucking 6.00? She was supposed to do ‘domestic-abuse modules’ with William McInnes from 6.00 until 7.00 at night, because the fucker worked, had a job, and she wasn’t allowed to discourage that, no matter how inconvenient for her, nor how little it reduced the likelihood of him fracturing his wife’s skull.

That’s right, Mary had set aside an optimistic and forward-thinking thirty minutes to write two court reports from 12.30 to 1.00, both of which were due at 12.00.

Noodles.

Macdowall didn’t answer, so Mary palm-pressed the buzzers for all eight flats until someone let her in. She managed to finish most of the noodles before she reached the landing. Before knocking, Mary peeked through the letterbox (no obvious sign of life in the hall) and snooped through the rubbish bag at the door, which was filled with empty beer and wine bottles. When there was no answer, she checked under the mat, and then under the small pot plant. The key was there. She knocked more loudly and was about to give up when Holly answered the door.

‘Is that…?’ Mary sniffed at the smoke-filled hall. ‘Jesus Holly, now I’m stoned too. Where’s your father? You stayed here overnight?’ Mary barged her way in, and Holly was too wasted to stop her.

‘I didn’t stay here. I came this morning to help him prepare. He has an event at the Edinburgh Book Festival at two. He’s not here. So, can you go? Oi!’