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We’ll obviously keep you and your ex . . . Sean’s mother . . . informed of any developments.
    — Sound, Frank Begbie says. He knows the drill. The polis wouldn’t be going the extra mile to find the guilty party here. To his dismay, he now finds that he can scarcely blame them. Sean, like himself, had probably long been lost, and would have gone on creating havoc around him. Why indulge people like that when they would simply take each other out if you left them to their own devices? Despite our limited and grudgingly unenthusiastic lip service, the truth is that we’ve moved beyond democracy, universality and equality in the eyes of the law and, de facto, embraced a hierarchial, elitist world view. Those at the bottom aren’t important, as long as they only threaten each other, rather than those at the top, or revenue streams like tourists. His own children, Sean, Michael and River, his ex-girlfriend Kate’s son (whom he’d practically forgotten about as he had commenced his long stretch just before the kid was born, splitting with her when he was inside): they are of no consequence to him. How can they be compared to Eve and Grace, born to aneducated mother in advantaged circumstances? You always bet on the sleek thoroughbred rather than the Clydesdale. If he differentiates his own offspring in this manner, how can he condemn the polis for their lack of interest, when some poor tourist is probably getting their bag nicked up the town?
    — One thing, Franco says, — who found him?
    — Somebody made an anonymous 999 call to the ambulance service, said there had been a bad accident, then hung up.
    Frank Begbie thinks about this. The caller is obviously implicated in some way. A straightpeg would have called the cops, as well as the ambulance service, and not described what happened to Sean as an accident. — Could it have been the caller that did him?
    — It’s possible. Or a friend or accomplice who witnessed the murder, and knew both him and person who did it. Perhaps had an attack of conscience later, Notman says, — but we don’t know.
    Franco ponders this, feeling that it’s about as much as he’s going to get from the cops.
    — You seem to have turned your life around. I hear that you’re doing well for yourself in the art world, Notman half smiles.
    — Can’t complain. I’ve had a wee tickle, Franco says, now fully realising that they would do fuck all about Sean. And he’s also worked out that their main reason for agreeing to see him so readily was to tell him that he should do fuck all as well.
    — I appreciate that you must be upset, Mr Begbie, Ally Notman states, his tone now professionally grave. — But it goes without saying that you have to leave this to us. Are we clear on that?
    — I’m happy to let you boys do what you do best, Franco smiles, then adds darkly, — and leave me to do what I do best.
    Notman’s face drops.
    Franco breaks into a beaming smile. — Which, of course, is painting and sculpting.

9
     
THE DANCE PARTNER 1
     
    They found themselves at the club’s outside veranda area to the rear of the building, drawn by the dance beats spilling from the sound system, courtesy of a DJ in the corner. After the drab, near-deserted interior, this proved to be an oasis: people were dancing, sitting at tables drinking and smoking, or loitering in small groups. Melanie and Jim immediately registered that they were two of the very few non-Latinos present; another white couple gyrated with some style and proficiency, while two black men leaned on the banister, alternately looking down into the street then turning back to appreciatively scan the crowd. At Melanie’s prompting, she and Jim took some seats positioned against the wall and opposite the bar area. As they looked out onto the polished wooden dance floor, the table’s red cloth brushed against their legs.
    They hadn’t been settled long when two strikingly beautiful women, dressed to kill and with matching