‘There’s a circuit class on the day after tomorrow in Craighouse, 8 p.m. Want to come?’ asked McCleod. ‘You’d enjoy it.’
‘That’ll be great,’ said Hanlon. Solitary exercise was all well and good, but she was deeply competitive, she thought. I like beating people. She suddenly realised that she wanted to impress McCleod. God, I’m childish, she thought. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Good,’ McCleod said. ‘I’ll pick you up.’
The following morning, Hanlon was back on the ferry, this time heading for the airport. It was the same plane that she had flown in on but now she could see nothing out of the window after they had taken off except for the milky white swirl of the clouds. Occasionally they would part and she would catch a momentary glimpse of gunmetal-grey sea or dark green hills.
They landed at Glasgow Airport and she caught the bus from there into Buchanan Street and found The Sleeket Mouse without too much trouble. She was in Glasgow to check up on Kai. Something about the barman did not ring true. There was no reason why an ex-con shouldn’t have worked in a not quite Michelin-starred restaurant, provided he fitted the bill, and lots of people loved a reformed character, particularly if they had a sexily criminal past. Kai’s chequered history fitted that bill; he hadn’t done anything too outrageous. But he wasn’t smooth enough, competent enough, professional enough to have warranted being employed by a classy place. Donald had felt the same and he’d worked in Michelin-starred establishments. Well, she’d pull on this thread and see what unravelled.
The restaurant was centrally located in one of the dark red Victorian sandstone buildings that make up the West End of the city. A blue façade with a stylised silhouette of a scurrying mouse ran above the doorway. The name of the restaurant was printed in small, lower-case letters. It was the confident assertion of a place that did not need to advertise its presence too heavily.
Hanlon sat in the window of a Starbucks opposite and had a coffee while she waited for 12 p.m., opening time.
She walked inside at noon on the dot. Did she have a reservation? asked the charming girl on the desk. No. Frowns, checks on a computer screen while Hanlon looked around. It was classic, muted restaurant chic, greys, browns, white tablecloths, the waiting staff in black trousers, white shirts and black waistcoats. Hanlon noticed that the buttons had little mouse designs embossed on them. It was a look and décor that said no expense spared. Smiles now. Yes, they did have a table, could they have it back by 1 p.m.? Hanlon – certainly. She was led to her table by a tall, Glaswegian hipster with an ornate beard, a pierced eyebrow and exquisite grace. From the bottom of his cropped tartan trews to the top of his topknot, he exuded style. That was what Kai was lacking, thought Hanlon. Kai had no style.
The menu was modern French and at least twice as expensive as the Mackinnon Arms. Hanlon ordered a seared scallop on cauliflower puree followed by guinea fowl with a Sauternes jus.
Her eye was drawn to the manageress, a short, dark-haired woman who seemed highly efficient, as she would have to be in a place like this. She looked strangely familiar. Hanlon wondered why – maybe she just resembled someone well known. She could tell by the wary body language of the staff that they were all slightly scared of her.
Attentive, polite waiting staff brought her bread, olives, an amuse bouche made of pastry and seaweed, a bottle of water. They were fresh-faced and keen. She wondered again how Kai had managed to get a job here.
Hanlon had looked at their website before, now she re-checked it on her phone while she waited for the starter. She studied its information with more attention than she had previously. She read about its philosophy – Scottish classics (really? Guinea fowl? Was that Scottish? Sauternes? How Scottish were Pommes Anna?), its awards – numerous – and its team. Head Chef, Gisela Lennox and Sous Chef, Daniel McCullough, who had come from one of the Galvin restaurants in London a year ago. She had eaten at that particular restaurant three times; it had been a favourite with her former boss.
And then, out of the blue, there it was. The connection that she had half suspected, half known about between The Sleeket Mouse and the Isle of Jura. It was present in the attractive, smiling face of the manageress, and her name, Ishbel Campbell. Now Hanlon knew why the face had looked familiar. Campbell.
By quarter past twelve the tables were starting to fill up. Campbell was making her rounds of the tables, then she was standing, smiling down at Hanlon. A lot more welcoming than her brother had been.
‘I hope everything is all right with your meal…’
Hanlon smiled. ‘It’s delicious. Are you by any chance Murdo’s sister?’
She noticed Ishbel’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. ‘We’re colleagues… of sorts,’ Hanlon said.
Ishbel Campbell said, warily, ‘Yes, he’s my brother. Are you Glasgow CID?’
Hanlon shook her head. ‘Neither, I’m from London. I just met your brother a while back, by chance. I just wondered… you look very alike.’
Ishbel laughed. ‘People do say that, but he’s much better-looking… He’s got the Campbell hair, mine’s just boring old brunette.’
‘He certainly does have remarkable hair,’ Hanlon said. ‘I’m sorry, I’m holding you up.’
‘Och, don’t worry. Anyway, lovely meeting you…’
Ishbel moved off, exuding charm, efficiency and ability in equal quantities to attend to the other tables. When Hanlon paid and left, she noticed Ishbel on her phone, watching her leave and talking in that guarded way people have when they don’t want others to overhear. Perhaps I’m just overly sensitive, thought Hanlon.
An hour later Hanlon was back at the Starbucks opposite The Sleeket Mouse. Sitting in the window at a long counter, her eyes fixed on the restaurant. Her flight wasn’t until seven, so she had plenty of time before
