We hired our General Counsel two weeks later.

Her name was Kirsty Lennox. She was forty-one, from Granton, just along the coast. She'd been the lawyer at a small housing charity for twelve years, helping families who were being pushed out of their homes.

She wasn't the flashiest candidate. She'd never worked in London. She'd never negotiated with an American bank.

But when Fiona asked her the question about being wrong about someone, she told a story about a teenage boy she'd assumed was a troublemaker, who turned out to be caring for his little brothers on his own. She said it changed how she saw everyone who walked through her door.

And when I asked her the rule on the front page, she didn't even hesitate.

“Build it with the people who live here,” she said. “I read it on the crane on my way in. I stopped and took a picture. My mum grew up in the Kirkgate flats.”

Dougie Paterson stood up and shook her hand before Fiona had even finished writing her score.

On her first day, Kirsty came into the kitchen while I was making the tea for the morning meeting.

“Is it true you make the tea for every interview panel?” she asked.

“It's true.”

She picked up the tray.

“Then I'll carry it,” she said.