‘Annabel’s cleverer than you and me combined – and wilier, too.’ Breck had risen to his feet.

‘Sorry again to burst in on you…’

Breck waved the apology aside. He opened the front door for his guest and stood there as Fox made his way back along the path towards the pavement.

‘Malcolm!’ Breck called out, causing Fox to stop and turn towards him. ‘How did you know my street? The night you dropped me off, I don’t remember mentioning it.’

But instead of waiting for a reply, Breck just closed the door. A few seconds later, the music had been turned up again. Malcolm Fox was still rooted to the spot.

‘Shit,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

Tony Kaye was in a restaurant with his wife. He seemed to have excused himself from the table and was dodging waiters and other diners as he talked. Fox was back at his car by this time, seated behind the steering wheel but with the key not yet in the ignition.

‘Just exactly what did you think you were doing?’ he asked. ‘And when were you going to tell me?’

‘I’ve got a more interesting question for you, Foxy – who the hell told you?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’

‘You went round to Jude’s Monday night.’

‘What if I did?’

‘Why in God’s name did you do that?’ Fox was massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

‘Christ, Foxy, you’d just told me he’d broken your sister’s arm.’

‘My problem, not yours.’

‘But we both know, don’t we? We know you weren’t planning on doing anything about it!’

‘And what were you going to do, Tony? Take a swing at him?’

‘Why not? Might’ve stopped him doing it again.’

‘And both of them would think I’d put you up to it.’

‘What does it matter?’ Kaye’s voice was rising. ‘He wasn’t at home.’

Fox gave an elongated sigh. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘Your sister was paralytic – I reckoned she’d have forgotten about it by morning.’

‘Instead of which, you’re now going to have Billy Giles crushing your nuts in a vice.’

‘Make a change from the wife.’

‘Don’t go thinking this is funny – it isn’t. Giles is going to want to know everything you did on Monday evening. If there are gaps, suddenly you’re a suspect. McEwan’s already lost one man, Tony…’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Giles would love to blow our whole show to smithereens.’

‘Received and understood.’

Fox paused for a moment. ‘Which restaurant?’

‘Cento Tre on George Street.’

‘Special occasion?’

‘We’re celebrating not killing each other so far this weekend.

Mind you, that makes it like every other weekend. Did you catch the Hearts game?’

‘Be careful tomorrow.’

‘You mean at Torphichen? It’s a Sunday away from home… far as I’m concerned, that’s a holiday and a lotto win rolled into one.’ The background noises had changed – Kaye had obviously stepped outside. There were shrieks of drunken female laughter and the sound of a car horn. ‘You’d think people would have the decency to stop having fun,’ Kaye commented. ‘Does nobody realise this is Credit Crunch Ground Zero?’

‘Be careful tomorrow,’ Malcolm Fox repeated, watching the woman detective called Annabel returning with the pizzas in Jamie Breck’s Mazda. ‘And let me know how it goes.’

Annie Inglis lived on the top floor of a Victorian tenement in Merchiston. Her name was on the intercom, and when Fox pressed the buzzer a male voice answered.

‘Who is it?’

‘Is that Duncan? My name’s Malcolm Fox.’

‘Okay.’

Fox pushed open the door and found himself in a tiled stairwell with two bicycles parked just inside the entrance. He climbed the stairs slowly, peering up towards the glass cupola, through which the lunchtime sun was streaming. His morning had comprised coffee, shopping, and more newspapers. He carried a bag within which lay a bottle of wine and a bunch of early daffodils for his hostess, along with an iTunes token for her son. Duncan was waiting for him at the top, loitering just outside the door to the flat. Fox tried to make light of the climb.

‘Must keep you fit,’ he offered. Duncan just grunted. He had lank brown hair falling into his eyes, and was tall and gangly. His chosen outfit of denims and T-shirt would have fitted someone twice his girth. He headed indoors and crooked a finger to let Fox know he should follow. The flat’s main hallway was long and narrow with half a dozen doors off. The original flooring had been sanded and varnished. There was a cycle helmet next to the phone on the only table, above which was fixed a row of hooks with keys dangling from them.

‘Mum’s…’ Duncan pointed vaguely, before disappearing into his bedroom. There was a ‘Legalise Cannabis’ sticker on the door, and Fox could hear the low hum of a computer’s cooling fan. At the far end of the hall was an open door leading to the drawing room. It looked spacious, with a bay window allowing views across the chimneypots north to the city centre and beyond. But just before Fox reached it, he heard sounds from the room to his immediate right. The door was open an inch, allowing him a glimpse into the kitchen. Annie Inglis was stirring a pot. Her face was red and she seemed flustered. He decided to leave her be, and walked into the drawing room. A table had been set next to the window, laid for three. Fox placed his carrier bag on it and took a look around. Sofa and chairs, TV and hi-fi, shelves filled with books, DVDs and CDs. There were framed photos, too – Annie and Duncan, an elderly couple (presumably her parents), but no indication that Duncan’s father played any role in the family’s life.

‘You’re here.’ She was standing in the doorway, carrying three wine glasses.

‘Duncan let me in.’

‘I didn’t hear you.’ She placed the glasses on the table, then noticed the bag.

‘For you,’ he said. ‘And something for Duncan, too.’

She peered inside and smiled. ‘That’s kind of you.’

‘If you’re busy in the kitchen, don’t worry – I can entertain myself. Or I can come and help…’

She shook her head. ‘Nearly done,’ she said, grabbing the bag. ‘Just give me two minutes.’

‘Sure.’

‘I can fetch you a drink.’

‘I’m not really a drinker.’

‘Cranberry juice? It’s just about the only source of vitamins Duncan gets.’

‘Cranberry juice is fine.’

‘Two minutes,’ she repeated, making her exit. Fox recommenced his tour of the room. Her preferred Sunday paper was the Observer. She liked the novels of Ian McEwan and films with subtitles. Her taste in music stretched from Alan Stivell to Eric Bibb. All of which left Fox not much the wiser. He returned to the view, envying her this sweep of the city and of the firth to its north.

‘Mum says to say thanks.’ It was Duncan in the doorway this time. He was waving the credit-card-sized token.

‘I wasn’t even sure if you used downloads,’ Fox said.

Duncan nodded to let him know he did. Then he waved the token a final time and was gone again. Fifteen years old – Fox tried to think back to himself at that age. There’d been rows with Jude, and plenty of them. He could always wind her up until she was at screaming point. Throwing things at him, even. Fifteen… he’d started drinking by that stage. Bottles of cider in the park with his pals. Screw-top wine and quarter-bottles of whisky.

‘Here you go…’ It was Annie Inglis again, bringing him his tall glass of cranberry juice. She looked around. ‘I told Duncan to…’

‘He did. Seems a nice kid.’

She handed him the glass. ‘Why don’t you sit down? I’ll just fetch my drink.’

It was white wine in a tumbler. She decanted it into one of the proper wine glasses on the table, then brought it over and sat next to him on the sofa.

‘Cheers,’ she said, chinking glasses.