Adele had forgotten how the old building smelled. It hit her like taking a step back in time as she walked into her high school. It wasn’t quite the sharp, chemical cleaning smell that filled the air now, but the older scent buried beneath it, damp coats, the faint sweetness of cheap deodorant clinging to the lockers. As she stepped through the entrance hall, the building seemed to exhale on her return. Twenty years had passed but it still recognised her.

I stand outside the bookshop fumbling for my keys. Stepping into the shop, a gust of Glasgow wind sweeps over me, cold, damp and a faint smell of wet pavement. The windows are fogged from yesterday’s downpour, and the air inside holds that familiar scent of old paper, dust and the aroma of a cinnamon candle long burned out.

Lee always parked in the same spot in the carpark near the pub. Back row, closest to the pavement, tucked into the corner where the streetlight had burned out two months ago. No-one had ever come to fix it. He’d read somewhere that spots like that were CCTV blind spots. He was wrong. There was a camera bolted to the gutter of the bookies next door, angled just enough to catch the tail end of the row. Not that it mattered tonight. Marcus wasn’t planning on being caught on anything.