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time I walked up the two flights to my office, I’d reluctantly given Robertson Kat’s number and ended the call. He was my client. I wanted to serve his best interests, but it was hard when he failed to appreciate my efforts.
    He didn’t really want an investigator. He wanted someone who would reassure him that his brother’slife had been peaches and cream and what happened out in the woods was an aberration, perhaps even some perversely heroic gesture.
    That was why he wanted to talk to this woman. Maybe she would colour the story just right. Make everything seem perfect. Make Daniel’s life more palatable.
    Maybe she would lie.
    Bill updated me on admin. He mentioned that he would be leaving early. It was his boyfriend’s birthday and he’d booked an early meal at a restaurant on Brook Street.
    I asked him to pass on my best to Andy and locked myself in my office. Tried not to think about birthdays. Or the message on the answerphone.
    I spent the afternoon working on what little I knew about Daniel Robertson. Doing my best not to be judgemental but finding it hard to remain distanced.
    The truth: Daniel Robertson was a violent, self-serving bastard with little or no redeeming qualities.
    I couldn’t sugar coat this. And neither could I afford to shake my client’s fragile delusion that his brother had merely been a victim of circumstance.
    About nine o’clock, after Bill had left the office, my mobile rang. I answered quickly, not recognising the number.
    â€œI’m down on the street. The lights are on. I guess somebody’s home.” A Dundonian accent, thick with unrestrained contempt.
    I’d been hoping I wouldn’t have to hear those dulcet tones again. But in a city the size of Dundee you can’t avoid anyone forever.
    â€œYou and me, we need to talk.”
    Like fuck we did. Dreaming about him had beenbad enough.
    All the same, I went down to street level, and let him in. He followed me up the stairs in silence.
    In the front office, I didn’t bother offering him a seat. Just stood there and waited for him to say his piece.
    His muscles were tense, as though he was ready to run at a moment’s notice. I couldn’t blame him. Last time we’d been this close, I’d clocked him one. Broke his nose. Almost nine months later and it was still misshapen.
    The slightly bulbous bridge of his nose aside, he looked exactly as I remembered. He stood with his head slightly forward, his shoulders curved. His dark hair was cropped short and his suspicious eyes stared out from below his jutting forehead.
    If it weren’t for the suit, he would be proof, if any were needed, of Cro-Magnon man’s existence in the world today.
    â€œI got a call,” he said. “From an inspector working out of Cupar. He wanted to know why some arsehole is calling his station, pretending to be from the local paper.”
    I folded my arms, straightened my back. “Nice to know.”
    â€œDon’t fuck me about.”
    I kept quiet.
    â€œThe call came from this number.”
    â€œSeems an awful waste of resources, tracing one prank call.”
    â€œOne prank call that could impede an ongoing investigation.”
    â€œInto a suicide?”
    That was enough to give him pause. Like he’d given away too much.
    He raised his gaze to meet my eyeline as he continued. All confrontation. Giving nothing else away. But it was too late to throw me off the scent. So he went straight for the jugular. “They were, of course, very interested to learn about your, uh, past.”
    â€œI’m sure you took a great delight telling them about it.”
    â€œListen to me, you wanker,” he said, stepping forward, tilting his head up so I wasn’t just looking at the wee bald patch in the centre of his skull. “You were always a trouble maker. Surprised me you stuck things out as long as you did. This investigation crap, it’s a game to someone