Autumn 2015 roared in on Glasgow with biblical fury. It had been a mild, dry summer with rainfall well below the historical average, but as September arrived, the heavens opened their reserves and spared no effort in making up for lost time. Gale-force winds pummelled the city, the Clyde threatened to burst its banks, and flood warnings were issued for low-lying areas. Mother Nature, it seemed, was determined to inflict a reckoning for sins as yet unatoned for – a reckoning which, judging by the unrelenting ferocity of the assault, would not be complete until blood had been spilled.

On the night of Tuesday the eighth of September, Mother Nature got her wish.

Gil McLaren hadn’t wanted to be out tonight. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as a good time to be asked to work the 1900–0700 shift, but a night like this one made him crave his warm bed and electric blanket all the more fervently.

The call had come through at 0045: Road traffic accident on the M8. Driver killed on impact. No other persons in the vehicle. Road Policing shift sergeant required to coordinate at scene.

As he roared up the dual carriageway, tail-lights of the car in front shimmering on rain-slick tarmac, he took one hand off the wheel and slid it inside his coat, feeling the contours of the hip-flask in his breast pocket. Only the challenge of simultaneously unscrewing the lid and maintaining control of the wheel stopped him from helping himself there and then. Hopefully, if the locus was as chaotic as he was anticipating, he’d manage to secure a crafty swig once he got there.

Up ahead, the flashing lights of a stationary police car blocked one lane, while a constable in a hi-viz jacket occupied the other – a last defence against any driver who’d ignored the ‘ROAD AHEAD CLOSED’ sign some way back. McLaren leaned forward, peering past the swishing wipers to get his first glimpse of the scene that awaited him. The unfortunate vehicle, a blue hatchback, had careened off to the right, the metal barrier having done nothing to halt its trajectory. That task had finally been accomplished by the granite pillar supporting the A814 overpass as it crossed over the M8 before curving round and joining the main expressway some two hundred yards further back.

The cop in the hi-viz jacket waved him through. He continued for another fifty yards before coming to a standstill. He steeled himself, his hand once more straying automatically to his breast pocket. Then, suppressing the urge, he pulled on his peaked cap – less a nod to protocol, more a forlorn attempt to keep his head dry – and got out.

There were three other cop cars present; six officers in total milling about in their waterproofs. No sign yet of the Ambulance Service – but they could afford to take their time. As McLaren tramped towards the mangled hatchback, one of the plods – a babyfaced lunk who looked like he probably got carded at off-licence checkouts on a regular basis – approached and fell into eager step with him.

‘Looks like a straightforward case of the perils of driving in adverse weather, sir. Consensus is the brakes were to blame.’

‘That right, is it?’

‘Aye. One of the lads was saying these old Honda Civics are notorious for it. Rainwater gets on the discs and then they don’t kick in when you need ’em to.’

‘I’ll be sure to convey your hypothesis to the Fatal Accident Inquiry.’

The plod grinned eagerly. Either he was thick as mince or McLaren was losing his sarcastic edge in his old age.

They halted in front of the hatchback. There wasn’t much left of its front end, and the driver hadn’t fared much better. His face – which, judging by the blood splatter, had bounced off the steering wheel upon impact – resembled battered roadkill. And yet, as McLaren gazed at the man’s ruined features, it dawned on him that he’d seen them somewhere before. The gears of his mind, impeded by a lack of sleep and a surfeit of something else, cranked slowly as he tried to match the face to a name, and to recall the context in which he’d previously encountered both. As these three disparate elements finally aligned, like pictures on a slot machine, a trickle that wasn’t rainwater ran down his back.

He stirred, becoming aware of a hubbub developing behind him. He turned as an unmarked black sedan drew up, waved through by the hi-viz-jacketed officer on traffic control duty. The driver scrambled out, unfurling an umbrella. Holding it aloft, he hurried round to open the rear door. A figure stepped out: short, unimposing, his unassuming presence belying the waves his arrival had created.

‘What’s the Chief doing at an RTA?’ McLaren heard one of the plods asking in an awed whisper.

Peter Strickland, Assistant Chief Constable (West of Scotland), strode across the tarmac towards McLaren, his driver hurrying after him, umbrella shielding him from the rain. The babyfaced PC quickly melted away. All around McLaren, a newfound spirit of industriousness had taken hold, as officers who five minutes ago had been catching flies all suddenly seemed to find tasks which demanded their urgent attention.

Strickland came to a halt facing McLaren. He took in the sight of the totalled hatchback, then gazed at McLaren with his sad, hangdog eyes, and shook his head ruefully.

‘My God, this is a rotten business. No way for a man to go.’

‘Yes, sir,’ McLaren agreed obediently.

Strickland took the umbrella from his minder, dismissing him with a barely perceptible nod, then turned to McLaren with an inviting hand.

‘Shall we?’

Mystified, McLaren allowed himself to be led along the road, away from prying ears.

‘You look tired, Gil.’ Strickland’s hand hovered behind the small of McLaren’s back, guiding him.

‘It’s one in the morning, sir.’

Strickland smiled slightly, conceding the point. ‘And no time for an old sea-dog to be abroad. This job makes old men of us all sooner or later. It’s a youngster’s game, perhaps more so now than ever.’

‘I cope, sir,’ said McLaren, the response mechanical, unfelt.

Strickland slowed to a standstill. The two men met each other’s eyes – one small and slight, the other a stocky, ungainly giant. And yet there was no doubting where the balance of power lay.

Strickland sighed. ‘I thought we’d turned a corner with you, Gil. You promised me you’d turned over a new leaf.’

‘Sir, I don’t know what—’

‘Please don’t embarrass us both by denying it. Every man and his dog knows it’s still happening.’ The same reproachful look. The same bitter disappointment. ‘I can smell it on you.’

McLaren was suddenly acutely aware of the hip-flask in his breast pocket, burning a hole in the fabric, scalding his skin. He opened his mouth to – what? Protest his innocence? Come clean and throw himself at Strickland’s mercy?

Strickland beat him to it. ‘I don’t hold it against you, you know.’

His manner was sympathetic, but tinged with a weary disgust which he couldn’t quite manage to conceal – like a grown-up child who’s come home to discover an elderly, infirm parent lying in their own filth and too incapacitated to do anything about it.

‘It’s simply who you are,’ he continued, his tone philosophical. ‘I know it, you know it, so let’s not make a song and dance about it. Better to cash one’s chips on one’s own terms and leave the table with some degree of dignity than to lose everything and be escorted out by the in-house muscle. Better to avoid any unnecessary embarrassment – both to oneself and to the house.’

Until now, Strickland’s tone had been philosophical – speaking, it seemed, more to himself than to McLaren. Now, his expression intensified, those hangdog eyes suddenly sharp and piercing.

‘Do we understand one another?’

McLaren swallowed heavily. Oh, he understood. He understood all too well.

‘Yes, sir.’

Strickland smiled. He patted McLaren’s arm kindly: the level-headed child telling the embarrassed older man that there’s no need to worry – they’ll take care of the mess.

‘Time to call it a night, I think. You’re no good to anyone – not in your present state. Go on – home to your bed. We’ll soldier on without you.’

The conversation over, Strickland turned to go. His driver was by his side in an instant, hair plastered to his forehead from exposure to the elements. Taking command of the umbrella once more, he escorted his master back to the sedan, deftly thrusting the rear door open for him while simultaneously shielding him from the downpour. McLaren watched, rainwater running into his eyes from the brim of his hat, as the sedan performed a one-eighty-degree turn and departed the scene, rear lights receding into the distance.

McLaren remained there a little longer, watching the plods hurrying to and fro. Already, it was as if he no longer existed. A bystander at his own incident scene, his presence immaterial to the smooth running of the operation. A relic of the past. An unperson.

He realised it came as something of a relief. It wasn’t so much that he was leaving with his dignity intact. That had been expunged long ago, along with his self-esteem, self-respect and belief that what he was doing made any sort of difference, let alone one for the better. But at least it was an end of sorts; a line drawn in the sand, a laying to rest of the ghosts of the past. He took out the hip-flask and, in full view of his colleagues, downed a hearty draught. No one paid him the slightest attention.

He screwed the cap back on, turned and squelched back towards his waiting car.

On a street corner near the city centre, soaked by both the rain and the periodic splashes from vehicles howling past at full speed, a man waits, clutching the strap of the laden rucksack weighing his shoulders down. He’s been standing there for over an hour, his windbreaker barely protecting him from the thundering downpour.

The person for whom he is waiting will not come tonight, nor indeed any night. Factors and forces beyond his control have put paid to that, though he doesn’t know it yet. It is now 2 a.m. – more than forty-five minutes past the agreed rendezvous time.

And yet still he waits.

Thursday 24 September 2015

The figure had been standing at the back of the lecture hall for at least the last ten minutes, leaving Anna wondering what precisely he thought he was doing here. There was something purposeful about his presence; something unapologetic, as if he had a God-given right to be here.

What made it doubly frustrating was that she couldn’t see his face. The room was built in the old theatre style, with two columns of benches on an incline running down to the stage where she currently stood. As such, he was standing the equivalent of two or three storeys above her, and every time she looked up at him her eyes caught the full glare of the ceiling-mounted lights pointed at the stage, all but blinding her in the process. All she could tell was that he was male, that he was wearing a suit, and that he was tall and broad-shouldered. Beyond that, he was just a hazy, ill-defined shape. A shadow.

In the pocket of her slacks, her phone hummed: her two-minute warning.

‘So,’ she addressed her assembled first-years, ‘we return to our original question: what is criminology? We must be able to define our topic before we can successfully study it. And before we can define criminology, we must first answer another, more fundamental question: what is crime?

‘It’s tempting to think we all have a solid understanding of what constitutes a criminal act – some innate knowledge that we’re all somehow imbued with. But in reality, there are multiple variables at play. There are acts which are considered crimes in some jurisdictions but not in others. Some acts were criminal in the past but no longer are, and vice versa. Who decides what is a crime and what isn’t? Governments? Academics? Broad public sentiment? And how do we approach legislation like the Nuremberg Laws, duly enacted according to the rules of the German constitution but themselves now considered to be crimes against humanity?’ She raised her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. ‘I’m not posing these questions because I have definitive answers for you. I’m posing them to give you some idea of the complexity of your chosen topic of study.

‘Over the next several weeks, I want you to do your best to clear your minds of what you think you know about crime, about criminals and about their victims. Let go of your assumptions, be willing to embrace new and sometimes challenging ideas. If you were hoping for an easy ride, this is not the class for you. But, if you’re willing to park your preconceptions at the door and approach the subject as open-mindedly as possible, you should find the next three months both stimulating and intellectually satisfying.’

Sensing that she was done, and no doubt as aware of the hour as her, the students began to gather their belongings. It took a few minutes for the room to clear. As the last remaining stragglers headed for the exit, the stranger strolled down the steps towards her.

‘Dr Anna Scavolini?’

Anna glanced up from jamming her laptop into her shoulder-bag. ‘That’s right.’

‘Oh, super.’ The man grinned, flashing twin rows of even teeth. ‘And there I was worrying I’d come to the wrong place. An honour to make your acquaintance. Detective Chief Inspector Vasilico, Major Investigations Team.’

He was, as she’d already surmised, tall, and in his mid-thirties. He was also impeccably groomed, his suit clearly expensive and cut to measure, hinting at the well-honed muscles that lay beneath it. She eyed his outstretched warrant card with some suspicion. As far as she was concerned, anyone prepared to launch such a transparent charm offensive had to have an ulterior motive.

‘What can I do for you, Detective?’

‘I was rather hoping you’d consent to sparing a few minutes of your no doubt invaluable time.’

‘As long as it really is just a few minutes. I’ve an appointment I can’t be late for.’

‘Naturally. Rest assured, I’ve not the slightest intention of detaining you any longer than absolutely necessary.’ His extended pause gave immediate lie to this claim. ‘Derek Sullivan. What can you tell me about him?’

Anna zipped her bag shut and turned to face him. ‘He’s one of my postgrad students. Been doing a part-time Masters in Criminology with us for the past year.’

‘And presumably you’re aware that, in addition to being a part-time student, he’s also a serving police constable?’

Anna nodded. ‘The department has a partnership with the police – providing opportunities for officers to expand their knowledge-base and develop their analytical skills. Derek’s one of four who are with us at the moment. Why? Is he in some sort of trouble?’

‘That rather depends. When was the last time you saw him?’

‘We had a supervision meeting just over three weeks ago. Since then, we haven’t had any contact.’

‘And is that normal?’

‘More or less. We’re scheduled to meet once a month, and he attends group lectures in between, some of which I teach. I don’t remember seeing him at any of mine since our last supervision – but then, his attendance has always been…’ She hesitated, unable to shake the feeling that she was somehow betraying a confidence. ‘…spotty.’ She put one hand on her hip, gazing up at him entreatingly. ‘Look, I’m really not sure what I can realistically tell you unless you give me something more to go on.’

Vasilico was silent for a moment, as if considering how much he should say. At length, he exhaled a breath.

‘Derek Sullivan was last seen leaving work just over a fortnight ago. He failed to report for duty on Friday the eleventh of September, and since then has made no contact with his colleagues, friends or family.’

The silence that followed was so absolute Anna could hear the creaking of the building’s foundations.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said eventually, not knowing what else to say.

‘As you can no doubt appreciate, the more time that passes, the more concerned we grow about his wellbeing. I take it from your somewhat tongue-tied reaction that he hasn’t made contact with you.’

‘No, and I wouldn’t expect him to.’ Anna shrugged helplessly. ‘I really didn’t know him all that well. To be honest, I find it hard to believe there’s not someone better placed to answer your questions than me.’

Vasilico winced, as if this pained him on a personal level. ‘That’s just it. I’m not sure there is.’

‘You’ll have to explain.’

‘If I asked you to describe Derek, what would you tell me?’

It was a trickier question to answer than she’d anticipated. ‘Quiet, I suppose,’ she said after a moment. ‘Not especially talkative or outgoing. From what I gather, he kept himself to himself.’

‘Then we’re on the same page. Over the last few days, I’ve spoken to more of his squadmates than I’ve eaten hot dinners, and they all described him in more or less the same terms as you: quiet, preferred his own company, didn’t go in for socialising out of hours with the other lads.’

‘That’s not a crime.’

‘No. Does make it markedly harder to build up a picture of his movements, though.’

Anna studied Vasilico’s face, taking in the knitted brows, the pensive frown. She still wasn’t sure she altogether trusted him, and there was an overbearing slickness about him that set her teeth on edge, but he seemed sincere in his concern for the missing constable, and she found herself wishing she could do something more to help them both.

‘Well,’ he said, stirring, ‘I suppose it always was a long shot. I shan’t detain you further. I appreciate you taking the time to…’ He stopped, frowning for a moment as if he’d lost his train of thought, then smiled knowingly. ‘I’ve just realised.’

‘What?’

He wagged a knowing finger at her. ‘I know where I know you from.’

‘Oh?’

‘You’re the Anna Scavolini. The one who wrote that screed in the Tribune about the toxicity of police culture – how we’re all a bunch of unreconstructed bully-boys who go around breaking skulls and trampling on folk’s constitutional rights. What was that phrase again? “To be the law is not to be above the law”?’

There seemed little point in denying it – not least since she stood by every word. A few months earlier, the Glasgow Tribune had invited her to contribute to a package of articles about the changing face of the modern police force – though, as she’d insisted in the piece she subsequently penned, the words ‘changing’ and ‘modern’ could scarcely be less appropriate when applied to the Strathkelvin Police Force, the body which served the entire Greater Glasgow area. She’d been forthright in her language, highlighting both the moral conservatism that multiple studies had shown to characterise law enforcement officials in general, and a string of recent scandals that had dogged the Strathkelvin force in particular. The former included accusations of an aggressively macho ‘canteen culture’ which ostracised and targeted those who failed to fit in; the latter the heavy-handed treatment of protesters at a recent climate change rally, which had left one teenager with a fractured zygoma, as well as the burial of a report on institutional sectarianism within the force, the contents of which had only come to light following a lengthy Freedom of Information battle. She’d ended by calling for – amongst other measures – a root-and-branch overhaul of internal and external complaints procedures, and the establishment of a new supervisory body consisting solely of non-police officers to review all operational policies. ‘The Strathkelvin Police Force,’ she’d concluded, ‘is the oldest in the world, but it’s time they joined the rest of us in the twenty-first century.’

‘Yes, I rather enjoyed that.’ Vasilico was still smiling – an arch, self-satisfied smile that left her with an overwhelming urge to wipe it from his face by any available means. ‘You’ll be pleased to know you made waves at HQ. Wouldn’t believe how exercised the head honchos were by it. I gather the phrase “set public relations back to the Palaeolithic Age” was uttered.’

‘I’m glad it provided you with some amusement,’ Anna said, not sure which irritated her more: his implied belittlement of her or his seemingly blasé attitude to the serious charges levelled against the organisation he worked for.

Vasilico raised his hands in a gesture of truce. ‘Of course. Forgive me. Rest assured, we treat all accusations of misconduct with the utmost seriousness. Tricky though it may be to believe, the vast majority of us are in fact fine, upstanding individuals.’

‘Present company included, naturally.’

Vasilico chuckled. ‘Perhaps the problem is one of perspective. Walk a mile in another man’s shoes and all that. Now don’t mistake me,’ he added quickly, forestalling whatever objection he’d anticipated her making. ‘I understand the need for accountability and due process. But I also understand the practicalities – that, in life-or-death situations, it’s not always possible to dot every “i”, say “please” and “thank you”.’

This time, it was Anna’s turn to smile, though hers was considerably more saccharine. ‘Or perhaps you’re just too close to the action, Detective. Perhaps you lack the necessary distance to see what’s screamingly obvious to the rest of us.’

Vasilico threw back his head and laughed – a rich, deep laugh that reverberated in the high rafters. ‘Touché. I suppose I should have known better than to get into a battle of words with someone who bandies them for a living. And now I really have exhausted my welcome.’ He gestured to the stairs with a grandiose sweep. ‘Go! Attend your appointment, and let it not be said that the officers of the Strathkelvin Police Force are guilty of preventing citizens from going about their lawful business.’

Anna turned to go, hiding the involuntary smile that was threatening her lips. As she shouldered her bag, a thought occurred to her. She turned to Vasilico once more.

‘If there’s any news about Derek Sullivan…’

‘…I assure you, you’ll be among the first to hear it.’ Vasilico paused, fixing her with an earnest look. ‘We’ll bring him home safe – just you watch.’

Anna smiled, this time not entirely insincerely. ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Detective,’ she said, and headed up the stairs.

‘All right now, this may feel a little cold.’

Cold and more than a little invasive was Anna’s considered assessment as she lay, shirt open, slacks unbuttoned and lowered to her hips, while the sonographer pressed the plastic probe to her exposed stomach, under the watchful eye of Dr Nuala Byrne. She watched as a fuzzy black-and-white image took shape on the portable monitor nearby: the flickering, somehow not entirely corporeal form of the tiny humanoid creature growing inside her.

‘You get a good view of the brain and other internal organs at the twenty-week scan,’ Nuala explained as the sonographer continued to move the probe this way and that, pressing a little firmer here, a little lighter there. ‘The further gone you are, the thicker the bones become, and the less effective the ultrasound is.’

It was actually Anna’s twenty-second week, and the tail-end of it at that, but she had a feeling such pedantry would be ill-received, not to mention draw unnecessary attention to how late she’d left it to book an appointment. So she said nothing and gave a neutral grunt instead, hoping it conveyed polite interest, unbridled joy or whatever was the correct sentiment with which to respond to such information.

Nuala peered over the sonographer’s shoulder, examining the image on the monitor. ‘This is all looking very positive,’ she purred in that soft, lilting voice that supposedly made her such a hit with nervous mums-to-be. ‘Baby’s skull is developing nicely, and we can rule out both spina bifida and cleft palate…’

Baby. Why did those in the healthcare profession feel such a compulsive need to omit the definite article? Was it some aversion to basic grammar? Or was it just another part of the infantilising process, treating the mother as every bit as simple-minded and in need of wrapping in cotton wool as her offspring?

‘…and the brain, kidneys and other internal organs all look as they should.’ Nuala paused to glance at the laptop angled towards her on the nearby desk. ‘You’ve had all the standard antenatal screening tests: Down syndrome, Patau’s and Edwards’ syndromes and so forth.’

‘All clear,’ said Anna, conscious that none of this information was new to either of them.

‘Would you like a picture to take home?’ The sonographer’s finger hovered over the console under the monitor.

Anna shook her head.

‘Sure? It’s all part of the service.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I’ll save one for you anyway. If you change your mind, you can let us know.’

Before Anna could lodge any objection, the young woman had already tapped a button.

‘Right then,’ the sonographer said brightly, ‘all done. You can get cleaned up.’

As Anna took the proffered tissue and wiped the sticky gel from her stomach, Nuala swivelled round to face her laptop, her long fingers dancing across the keyboard as she wrote up her notes, while the sonographer, her role in the proceedings completed, gathered her things and slipped out, shutting the door to the consulting room behind her with a soft click.

‘Have you given any thought to prospective birthing partners?’ Nuala asked as Anna sat up to button her shirt.

‘I’ve had thoughts. Nothing definitive, though.’

‘What about the father?’ Nuala’s piercing eyes glanced up at her from behind her tortoiseshell glasses. ‘How involved is he?’

‘He’s not part of the picture.’

‘Is that by choice? Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry, but you shouldn’t underestimate the value of support, be it emotional or—’

‘It’s less complicated this way.’

Awkward silence. Nuala’s lips puckered, her disapproval clear even if she wasn’t voicing it.

‘Fair enough – though I’d strongly advise settling on a birthing partner sooner rather than later. Things always go more smoothly when they’re involved as early as possible.’

‘Noted.’ Anna stood to tuck in her shirt.

‘Now.’ Nuala crossed one leg over the other and steepled her fingers together, swivelling round to face Anna. ‘We also need to talk about how you’re managing your condition.’

Here it comes.

‘Am I right in thinking you’re still off the lithium?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Even though, beyond the first trimester, the concerns about heart defects no longer apply.’ It was a statement of fact, not a question. ‘All things considered, I’m of the view that it would be safe to resume your normal dosage now. In fact, from the point of view of your own mental wellbeing, I’d strongly recommend it.’

Anna had been ready for this. ‘The baby’s brain continues to develop right up until birth, so there are ample grounds to believe that taking lithium at any stage in the pregnancy could potentially cause lasting developmental defects. Plus, I know what being pregnant does to your body. Your hormones, fluid levels, kidney functions are all over the place…’

‘We can monitor these things—’

‘…all of which’ – Anna, speaking calmly but firmly, raised her voice over Nuala’s – ‘impact the amount of lithium in the bloodstream, putting the mother at risk of overdose or any number of other side effects. And there’s the increased risk of stillbirth.’

‘A tiny increase.’

‘But an increase all the same. Besides, I’m planning on breastfeeding.’

‘You still could, potentially. You’d need to have Baby’s lithium levels and kidney function tested frequently, but the risk—’

‘Is more than I’m prepared to countenance.’

‘What about the risk of a severe manic or depressive episode? Are you prepared to countenance that? The risk of a post-delivery relapse is dangerously high in mothers with bipolar disorder. Lithium won’t eliminate that risk, but it will reduce it considerably. We need to balance the dangers associated with taking it against those of not taking it.’

Anna sighed inwardly. Why did it always feel like she was under attack whenever she visited a medical professional? No matter how rigorously she researched her options, weighing up risk and reward with the same diligence she applied to her professional life, her choices were invariably met with judgement, disapproval and the implication that she didn’t know her own mind.

‘Let me ask you this,’ she said. ‘Imagine you’re a psychiatrist and I come to you as a pregnant woman newly diagnosed as bipolar and with no prior history of treatment. In that scenario, would you be advising me to start taking lithium?’

‘Well…’ Nuala met her eyes, though it took some effort.

‘You know as well as I do that you wouldn’t. I can quote the SIGN guidelines chapter and verse. I know all the recommendations for health practitioners. I’ve reduced my dose gradually, in consultation with both my GP and my psychiatrist. I’ve been completely lithium-free for three months now, without any hint of a change to my mood levels. I know what I’m doing.’

Nuala gave Anna a hard look, consternation writ large. ‘It’s your decision,’ she said eventually, ‘and one I respect, though I will be recording my reservations in my notes.’

But of course you will, Anna thought.

They ran through a few more points of order: whether Anna had been experiencing any back or hip pain (a little), whether she was getting enough sleep and exercise (she was), whether the morning sickness had cleared up (it had). The whole performance left her feeling like a child waiting to be granted permission to leave the table. Yes, I have eaten all my greens. May I please go out and play now?

‘In that case,’ said Nuala, ‘I think we’re done here. I’ll see you again at twenty-eight weeks.’ She wagged a chiding finger at Anna. ‘And remember what I said about a birthing partner. I’ll be expecting an answer next time I see you.’

As Anna walked up the hill towards the university, she replayed the conversation with Nuala in her mind, wondering whether things would have gone more smoothly if she’d succeeded in reining in her combative side. On the face of it, Nuala’s concerns were far from unfounded, and Anna supposed that, if the boot had been on the other foot and she’d been the one dispensing medical advice, she’d have raised precisely the same concerns. Plus, she supposed medics were all too used to patients who either knew nothing and had to have their hands held every step of the way, or came armed with reams of crap they’d read online about how the MMR jag caused autism and whatnot. But she wasn’t one of those people. She knew the difference between peer-reviewed research and the deluded ravings of the tinfoil hat brigade. She just wished the likes of Nuala Byrne could see that, and that this wasn’t some mad flight of fancy on her part.

As she turned up the steps to the university’s rear entrance, still slick from the near-endless downpour of the past few weeks, her phone vibrated in her pocket. She slowed to check the screen. Unknown number.

‘Hello?’

‘Dr Scavolini, it’s Paul Vasilico.’ She recognised the detective’s smooth, languorous drawl instantly. ‘We spoke earlier, remember?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Always straight to the point. I admire that about you, Dr Scavolini. I was calling to ask if you’d be interested in attending Monday’s case review of the Derek Sullivan investigation.’

Anna came to an abrupt standstill halfway up the steps, wondering whether she’d heard correctly.

‘In what capacity?’

‘As his university tutor, for a start. Someone with direct experience of the man.’

‘But I’ve already told you everything I know about him – which is next to nothing.’

‘Rack your brains over the weekend. See if there’s anything you can dredge up that you’ve overlooked. And even if there isn’t, your presence would still be greatly appreciated. You’re a criminologist, aren’t you? You can add your professional insight to the cacophony of white noise.’

‘I’m honestly not sure what you think I can realistically contribute,’ she said, her irritation growing rapidly. ‘My specialty is the criminal justice system and its impact on women. I’ve only the most rudimentary knowledge of the current thinking on missing persons. Some don’t even regard it as part of the discipline of criminology—’

‘Which, to be frank, still leaves you at an advantage over half the people who’ll be in that room on Monday morning. Come on, what have you got to lose?’

‘My time, for a start. I’m not sure if you noticed, Detective, but I do have a job, with contracted office hours and fixed commitments. I can’t just decide to roll in late when I feel like it.’

‘Ah, I’m sure you can spare an hour or two from your incredibly demanding schedule.’ He paused. ‘Unless, of course, you’re afraid.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ she all but spluttered. ‘What could I possibly have to be afraid of?’

‘Of having your preconceptions challenged, for one thing. Of discovering that we’re not all power-crazed, truncheon-wielding sadists – just a bunch of regular Joes doing our bit to make the world a better place.’ He chuckled. ‘Come on – humour me. If it all turns out to be a colossal waste of your time, I’ll buy you coffee afterwards.’

‘I can’t drink coffee. I’m pregnant.’

It was her last throw of the dice – a last-ditch attempt to come up with something, anything, to give her an excuse to bow out with her pride intact – and she immediately regretted saying it. Her pregnancy was hardly something she’d taken to shouting about from the rooftops, even to people she actually liked. That couldn’t continue indefinitely, but she was determined to cling to that last sliver of privacy until her bump got too big to hide beneath the loose tops and long cardigans she’d taken to wearing of late. All of which made her outburst all the more out-of-character, not to mention ill-advised.

Vasilico gave a low whistle. ‘You kept that quiet! In that case, warmest congratulations are most assuredly in order. And if it comes to it, I’m sure we’ll be able to rustle you up a decaf.’

He was persistent, she had to give him that.

‘Take some time to think about it, and get back to me when you’re good and ready. You’ll get me on this number anytime, day or night. Toodle-oo the noo.’

With that, he rang off, leaving her grappling with a mixture of exasperation and sheer disbelief.

It was getting dark by the time Anna parked her Citroën hatchback at the kerb and climbed the steps to her house on Clarence Drive, a stone’s throw from the busy West End thoroughfare of Hyndland Road. The house itself had once been part of a much larger property, built in the old Victorian-era townhouse style. But after falling into rack and ruin during the latter part of the twentieth century, a shrewd developer had bought it for a song, done it up and split it into several smaller properties, resulting in a row of tall, narrow residences, highly prized – and highly priced – both for their location and faded elegance. Shortly after she’d come home to Glasgow four years ago, Anna, having fallen in love with its high ceilings and large bay windows, had used the money left to her by her late father to put down a deposit, and was now forking over the better part of her salary on the monthly mortgage payments.

In times past, light would have been spilling out onto the street and the smell of cooking would have greeted her as she stepped into the hallway – accompanied, more often than not, by a gentle voice calling her name. Now, the house was in darkness, the oven was cold, and the only communication that greeted her as she crossed the threshold was the pile of mail on the doormat. She scooped it up and rifled through it on the way to the kitchen. It was mostly just circulars – one, as was periodically the case, addressed to Daniel Goldblatt. She used to make a point of sending them back with a note explaining that Daniel Goldblatt no longer lived here, but that only seemed to serve as an invitation for them to send yet more unwanted excreta addressed to him. So into the recycling bin it went. Out of sight, out of mind.

Later, she lay soaking in the bath, soothing her aching back and swollen ankles, gazing at the small, firm lump that was her stomach, protruding above the water like the tip of an iceberg.

Congratulations. It always struck her as laughable that people said that to women when they fell pregnant. It suggested there was some skill involved in the act, when in reality, unless there was some sort of biological impediment, it was no great achievement.

In fact, it can happen without you even intending it…

The real challenge, as far as she was concerned, was successfully raising a human being who wasn’t a mental and emotional fuck-up – which, based on all the evidence before her, was inordinately difficult to do.

And speaking of fuck-ups…

Derek Sullivan loomed large in her mind. Truthfully, she’d been somewhat more circumspect with Vasilico than she hoped he realised. She’d described Derek as quiet, but that had only been the half of it. She’d had misgivings about the arrangement between the university and the police force from the outset, feeling that it laid the door wide open to her department’s objectivity towards the actions of its newfound partners being fatally compromised. Adding an extra student to her roster of supervisory responsibilities would have been an inconvenience at the best of times, but Derek had ensured that their every interaction had been like pulling wisdom teeth. She recalled their drawn-out, monosyllabic supervision meetings; her repeated entreaties to him to identify a research topic for his dissertation; his singularly underwhelming attempts to put pen to paper. At first, she’d thought he was just introverted, though it hadn’t taken her long to revise that assessment to ‘lazy and feckless’.

She thought back to the last time she’d seen him, some three weeks earlier. As usual, he hadn’t done any of the preparatory work, and in fact had seemed even more closed-off than normal. Even now, she could picture him slouched in a chair in her office, arms folded, glowering at the floor, as if he actively resented being there. Well, now he was gone, and a part of her couldn’t help but feel just a tiny bit glad that he was no longer her problem.

Except it wasn’t really as simple as that, was it? It was one thing to be relieved at no longer having to deal with an uncooperative student, but what if something serious had happened to him?

Her thoughts turned to Vasilico’s invitation to attend Monday’s briefing. On the face of it, it seemed like an utter waste of her time. Vasilico was, it seemed, labouring under the belief that she was in a position to provide some startling insight that would crack the case wide open. She wasn’t sure whether he was deluded or desperate, but either way he seemed determined to use every trick in the book to cajole her into attending. Worse still, he’d known exactly how to push her buttons, appealing to the part of her that, above all else, refused to suffer the indignity of appearing afraid of having her beliefs challenged.

It’s only an hour – two at most. A small price to pay in order to save face.

‘What d’you think, Trouble?’ she asked the bump. ‘What should I do?’

This is ridiculous, she told herself. I’m having a one-way conversation with a barely sentient foetus.

Besides, she already knew the answer. Had known it, in fact, since before Vasilico had even ended his call to her. She just hadn’t wanted to give him the satisfaction of providing him with an answer then and there.

Ten minutes later, she was out of the bath and dialling his number.