‘Won’t be long,’ he said.

‘We’ll soldier on somehow,’ Kaye assured him.

The corridor was a few degrees cooler than the Complaints office. Fox didn’t rush, but it still took him only a few moments to reach 2.24. It was the very last door, and unusual in that it had its own high-security lock and entryphone. There were no names listed; the Chop Shop kept itself to itself – not unlike the Complaints. A sign on the door spelled out a warning: ‘There may be disturbing sounds and images in this room. When working at screens, a minimum of two people must be present.’ Fox took a deep breath, pressed the button and waited. A male voice came from the speaker.

‘Yes?’

‘Inspector Fox. I’m here to see Inglis.’

There was silence, then the voice again: ‘You’re keen.’

‘Am I?’

‘Ten thirty, wasn’t it?’

‘Says half nine here.’

Another silence, then: ‘Hang on.’

He waited, studying the tips of his shoes. He’d bought them on George Street a month back, and they still rubbed the skin from his heels. Quality shoes, though: the assistant had said they’d last ‘till Doomsday… or the tram line’s up and running… whichever comes first’. Bright kid; sense of humour. Fox had asked why she wasn’t in college.

‘What’s the point?’ she’d answered. ‘No good jobs anyway, not unless you emigrate.’

That had taken Fox back to his own teenage years. A good many of his contemporaries had dreamed of earning big money abroad. Some of them had succeeded, too, but not many.

The door in front of him was being opened from within. A woman was standing there. She wore a pale green blouse and black trousers. She was about four inches shorter than him, and maybe ten years younger. There was a gold watch on her left wrist. No rings on any of her fingers. She held out her right hand for him to shake.