Irene snorted. “Aberdeen! What do they know in Aberdeen?”

Dr. Fairbairn’s expression now began to show signs of irritation. “A great deal, I would have thought,” he said. “It is one of our most distinguished pre-Reformation universities. It is a very prestigious institution.”

“Oh, I know all that,” said Irene quickly. “It’s the place I was thinking of.”

“And the city too,” said Dr. Fairbairn. “As a city, Aberdeen has an illustrious history. It’s a very significant place.”

“And very cold too,” Irene interjected.

For a few moments nothing was said. Irene reached out and picked up a pencil that was lying on Dr. Fairbairn’s desk. “Of course there are other considerations,” she said, almost casually.

Dr. Fairbairn watched her. He said nothing.

“I would have thought that you would have rather too many commitments in Edinburgh to leave,” she said.

He waited. Then, in a hesitant voice, “Such as?”

“Oh, your practice?” said Irene airily. “Your patients. Wee Fraser…” She was not going to mention Bertie… yet.

“Wee Fraser is no longer a patient,” said Dr. Fairbairn defensively. “He is a former patient with whom I have not had any dealings for some considerable time.”

That was not true, of course, and he knew it; but by dealings he meant professional dealings, and the punch to the jaw that he had administered – in a moment of madness, and in response to being head-butted by the now adolescent Wee Fraser – on the Burdiehouse bus did not count as a professional dealing.

Irene knew about his burden of guilt. She knew full well – because he had, in a moment of weakness, told her all about it – she knew of how he had gently smacked Wee Fraser when the boy, then three, had bitten him in the course of play therapy involving small farm animals.