‘Odds and ends.’ Fox was blowing his nose again.

‘Have you not shifted that cold yet?’

‘It seems to like me.’

McEwan took another look at his watch. ‘It’s already gone lunchtime. Why not knock off early?’

‘Sir?’

‘Friday afternoon, Foxy. Might have something new starting Monday, so best get those batteries recharged.’ McEwan could see what Fox was thinking. ‘Not Aberdeen,’ he stated.

‘What then?’

‘Could well peter out over the weekend.’ McEwan offered a shrug. ‘We’ll talk Monday.’ He made to move away, but hesitated. ‘What did Heaton say?’

‘He just gave me one of those looks of his.’

‘I’ve seen men run for the hills when he does that.’

‘Not me, Bob.’

‘No, not you.’ McEwan’s face creased into a smile as he made for the far corner of the room and his own desk.

Tony Kaye had tipped back in his chair again. The man had ears as sharp as any bit of electronic kit. ‘If you’re heading off home, leave me that tenner.’

‘What for?’

‘Those drinks you owe us – couple of pints for me and a milkshake for the bairn.’

Joe Naysmith checked that the Boss wasn’t watching, then gave Kaye the finger again.

Malcolm Fox didn’t go home, not straight away. His father was in a care home over to the east of the city, not far from Portobello. Portobello had been quite the place at one time. It was where you’d go at the summer. You’d play on the beach, or walk along the promenade. There’d be ice-cream cones and one-armed bandits and fish and chips. Sandcastles down near the water, where the sand was sticky and pliable. People would be flying kites or tossing sticks into the surf for their dog to retrieve. The water was so cold you’d lose the ability to breathe for the first few seconds, but after that you didn’t want to come out. Parents seated on their stripy deck-chairs, maybe with a windbreak hammered into the sand. Mum would have packed a picnic: the gritty taste of meat paste on thin white bread; warm bottles of Barr’s Cola. Smiles and sunglasses and Dad with his rolled-up trousers.