When James had gone, I left the room, so Fiona and Dougie could decide without me.

I stood by the window in the corridor, looking out at the cranes, for twenty minutes.

Then Fiona came out.

“The panel's view is unanimous,” she said. “He's very clever. He's not right for us. He doesn't understand what we do, and he doesn't want to.”

She handed me a small yellow sticky note.

“This was on my desk when I came back up. From Morag.”

The handwriting was neat and old-fashioned.

Candidate for 11 o'clock clicked his fingers at me for water. Then asked the Chief Executive to put in a good word for him while she was carrying the tea. Thought you'd like to know. M. I laughed. I couldn't help it.

“Morag's been here thirty years,” said Fiona. “She's seen every candidate who's walked through that door. She says you can tell everything about someone by how they treat reception.”

Dougie came out behind her, putting his good jacket back on.

“I'll tell you what I wrote down,” he said. “When he said he's never been wrong about anybody.”

He showed me his notepad.

One word, underlined twice.

Holly.