He was surprised to find it occupied by his wife. Isla grinned at him and glanced pointedly at her almost-empty glass. Ferguson nodded, and got a gin and tonic alongside his usual pint. Isla made room for him by shoving her coat on to the sill behind the seat. Isla was a small, dark-haired woman, her body language neat and self-contained, in such respects more or less Ferguson's opposite. He had the height and build more fit for a copper on the beat than for a detective. No one would ever put him forward for undercover work. In terms of career he and his wife were opposites too. He'd always aimed to rise through the ranks. Isla's ambition had always been to get better and better at the job she enjoyed, and certainly not to administer or organise or lead other people doing it. After ten years as a research technician in the cell-biology unit at the Western General Hospital, she could probably have supervised an entire PhD project or run the lab herself, but she preferred, as she put it, to work at the wet end.
