Impossible, a figment of his overactive imagination. But here she was, walking towards him, her light footsteps on the polished floor. She was smiling, holding out her hands in welcome.‘Jeremy Faro! What on earth are you doing here?’Taking those warm hands in his own, his power of speech returned.‘I might ask the same.’Her laugh as she tilted her head back was so familiar – he had heard its echoes throughout his long-lost Orkney years.She nodded towards the restaurant and took his arm. ‘Come and I’ll tell you about it.’Shown to a table by the window overlooking George Square, sitting primly opposite one another, wasn’t enough for Faro. Still wondering if this was a dream that he might prolong before waking up to reality, he longed to be at her side, touching her, holding her hand, breathing in the perfume she always wore. Her eyes, blue as violets, smiled at him. ‘I expect you are here on police business.’When he nodded and asked: ‘What about you?’ she sighed.‘I have a job of work.
