‘So far, so good,’ Malcolm Fox said. He’d pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and was blowing his nose.

‘Drinks on you tonight, then?’

Over at his own desk, Tony Kaye had been listening. He leaned back in his chair, establishing eye contact with Fox.

‘Mind it’s nothing stronger than a milkshake for the wean. He’ll be after long trousers next.’

Naysmith turned and lifted a hand from its pocket just long enough to give Kaye the finger. Kaye puckered his lips and went back to his reading.

‘You’re not in the bloody playground,’ a fresh voice growled from the doorway. Chief Inspector Bob McEwan was standing there. He sauntered in and grazed his knuckles against Naysmith’s forehead.

‘Haircut, young Joseph – what’ve I told you?’

‘Sir,’ Naysmith mumbled, heading back to his desk. McEwan was studying his wristwatch.

‘Two bloody hours I was in that meeting.’

‘I’m sure a lot got done, Bob.’

McEwan looked at Fox. ‘Chief thinks there’s the whiff of something septic up in Aberdeen.’

‘Any details?’

‘Not yet. Can’t say I’ve any enthusiasm to see it in my in-tray.’

‘You’ve friends in Grampian?’

‘I’ve friends nowhere, Foxy, and that’s just the way I like it.’ The Chief Inspector paused, seeming to remember something. ‘Heaton?’ he enquired, watching Fox nod slowly. ‘Good, good.’

The way he said it, Fox knew the Boss had qualms. Back in the mists of time, he’d worked alongside Glen Heaton. McEwan’s take was that the man had done solid work, earned any advancement that came his way. A good officer, for the most part…

‘Good,’ McEwan said again, even more distantly. He roused himself with a roll of the shoulders. ‘So what else have you got on today?’