The key’s not under the mat. I use a paperclip to unpick the lock because I am very good at that, but the neighbour hears me and calls the police. The police officer is called Callum Hendrick. He has strong arms and is checking out at my breasts…

…Three minutes later…

The key’s not under the mat, and I do not know for certain how to download a pen drive onto a MacBook or how a MacBook works even.

Intrusive thoughts.

Mary phoned a taxi. She needed to see her husband.

By the time she was inside the rotating glass doors of Lowfield, she felt certain she’d pass as sober in reception. (She wouldn’t have a lengthy driveway ago.)

‘Hey Davie.’ Davie had been an officer for more than thirty years. He was one of the gooduns in Mary’s opinion, but in Mary’s opinion he was also a prick.

‘Which bad boy brings you here on a Sunday morning?’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you be at St Patrick’s?’

‘You know me, Davie boy, I’d rather go to a mass shooting than to Mass.’ Mary had decided halfway up the drive that she wanted to see Roddie in agent’s, where they’d have their own room to talk; where there’d be no prisoners eyeing them. To ensure this, she needed to pretend her husband was a client. ‘Um it’s Roderick Lawson. He’s on remand.’

Davie checked his antiquated paperwork. ‘You didn’t book this, Mary?’

‘Did I not? Oh my God, it’s the menopause.’ Mary loved telling men ovary-related stories. ‘I keep forgetting things, losing things. You watching the Winter Olympics?’ She changed the subject.

‘Aye with the grandweans, the curling anyway.’ Davie’s tone indicated that he either hated curling and his grandkids, or that he was from Fife.

‘Did you see the paired figure skating? German, whatshername. Wow. The bladder control. There’d be a wet patch on my fanny every twirl.’

Davie had gone pale and was phoning the remand hall. ‘Roderick Lawson. Can you bring him over immediately? It’s his social worker.’

After she was scanned, Mary put her shoes and belt back on and took a seat in the waiting area. She’d been in this halfway room on hundreds of occasions and always used the time to read records, case notes, and any previous reports, so she knew the score before she met the guy, unless he was a first-timer like Roddie. If she was doing Roddie’s court report, she’d have to start from scratch. The ones she started from scratch were always the most satisfying.

At last the door opened, but the wrong door. It was Davie from the foyer area, which was almost the real world. He looked mad.

‘Roderick Lawson is your husband…’

Mary gasped at the revelation. ‘Fucking menopause.’