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half.’
    ‘More or less.’
    ‘Aye, well, we weren’t. What I remember is the odd rumpus, the occasional one-night stand, a lot of parties, a lot of laughs, a good time. For me, Archie was just a part of all that. What they call a wasted youth.’
    ‘Except it wasn’t.’
    Meikle gave him a sad smile.
    ‘No, I don’t think it was. It was what came later that was the waste.’

Chapter Four
    HE’D MISSED THE main thrust of the rush hour, but most of the seats on the Edinburgh to Glasgow Express were taken. Murray squeezed himself into a spare place at a table for four, smiling his apology at the businessman opposite as he felt the softness of one of the man’s smart shoes beneath his own scuffed trainer. The man winced but nodded his acceptance without raising his eyes from the spreadsheets in front of him. Murray glanced down the carriage at the tired eyes and limp collars, the half-read novels and glowing laptops. This was what people called the real world, he supposed, a mortgage, kids and a commute that added a day to every working week. It wouldn’t be so bad. He would make it reading time and fuck the spreadsheets.
    A recorded message trailed through the scheduled stops as the train slid out of the station. Murray leaned back in his seat, keeping his knees bent to avoid contact with his opposite neighbour.
    Meikle had looked tired by the time they’d finished. Murray had offered to get the bookfinder a taxi, but he’d produced his bus pass from his wallet with an ironic flourish.
    ‘No need. I’ve got this, a licence to ride.’
    ‘Brilliant.’
    The older man’s surliness had returned.
    ‘Aye, great compensation for fuck-all of a pension. Take my advice, if you’ve got any money spend it now while you’re still young enough to enjoy it. Don’t get conned into saving it for bankers to piss up the wall, the way we were. Old age is no fun when you’re skint.’
    Murray almost told him that old age had let him in on its dubious charms early and it was no fun full-stop, but there was no point. Instead he smiled to show he agreed and cut the sympathy from his voice because the older man would dislike it.
    ‘Better than the alternative.’
    Meikle gave Murray a tough look, and then granted him a grin.
    ‘Mibbe so, mibbe no. I guess we’ll all find out eventually.’
    He’d headed towards his bus stop, wherever it was, raising his hand in a wordless goodbye as he turned away.
    Murray felt infected with Meikle’s weariness. He could see the glowing squares of house windows as they passed Broomhouse. It made him think of when he and Jack were boys. The kitchen window steaming with condensation as their dad cooked the dinner, Jack watching Vision On or Blue Peter while Murray did his homework at the table in the corner of the living room. Eventually there had been the second-hand paraffin heater in their shared bedroom so Murray could study in heady fumes and privacy.
    The woman sitting next to him was reading a gossip magazine, flicking through photographs of celebrities shopping on sunlit streets, large black shades and pained expressions. He glanced at her, half-expecting a cut-price version of the girls in the pictures, but she was in her forties, neat rather than fashionable, her clothes carefully chosen. Did she wish herself young and in LA? God knows he did, though the idea had never occurred before. Maybe he could go there, become a movie star. That would show them. It would indeed.
    The woman gave him a sharp glare and pointedly turned the page. He looked away. They were out of the city now and there was nothing but darkness in the beyond. He could see his own face reflected in the window; the shine of his glasses against the pits and bumps on the lunar landscape of his skin. Maybe he should shelve the idea of a movie career.
    Murray unzipped his rucksack and slid out the manila folder containing the letter from Christie’s agent.
    Dear Dr Watson
    I have passed on your letter to Ms Graves, who