Fox, too, had opened up, telling her things she wasn’t supposed to know. Maybe they were on the same side and maybe they weren’t. She reckoned Malcolm’s ethics might be prone to shifts as and when required. He lived for advancement. Offer him that in exchange for Rebus and she doubted he’d think twice. Whatever an idealist was, Malcolm Fox was probably the opposite.

Then again, at least he had goals, and achievable ones at that. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth … Tell me I’m wrong … She thought of John Rebus, who had bent every rule to breaking point in pursuit of results, regarding every unsolved case as an affront. Illicitly, he’d taken copies of many of those case files home with him on his retirement. Every morning and evening they were there, taunting him with past failure. Did that make him an idealist or just an obsessive? Those cases would never be closed – he knew it and she knew it. Maybe it was guilt he felt, guilt at having let the victims down.

Had Francis Haggard too felt guilt? His lawyer certainly thought so. His confession would have incriminated those he’d worked with and called friends, possibly the only real friends he’d had. You didn’t go to those lengths in the hope of a lesser sentence or even no sentence at all. Talking entailed losing everything for only relatively minor gains. There had to be a compelling reason. Atonement was the only thing she could think of. Past sins acknowledged and paid for.

She picked up her phone again and was googling Haggard’s name­sake, St Francis, when a text arrived. It was from Laura Smith.

There’s someone outside.

She stared at the three words for a moment before making the call.

‘Are your doors locked?’ she checked.

‘Yes,’ Laura told her.

‘Who is it, do you know?’

‘It’s a man in a car. He was here last night, too. I thought maybe he was a minicab or something.’

‘The same car, you’re sure?’

‘Can you come take a look?’

‘I’ve had one drink too many, but leave it with me. Meantime, keep your lights off, stay away from the windows, okay?’

‘Am I being paranoid?’

‘There’s only one way to find out …’

Clarke hung up and called it in, requested a patrol car and stressed the urgency. Her one caveat: nobody from Tynecastle. Then she phoned Smith again.

‘Officers are on their way,’ she told her. ‘You’ll probably see the blue light.’

‘Like Roxanne?’

‘Except I think her light was red, wasn’t it?’

‘Thanks for doing this.’

‘What are friends for?’

‘Is there any news, by the way?’

‘Christ, Laura, you never stop, do you?’

‘I can’t afford to.’

‘Reckon you’ll get a story out of this?’

‘I’ve already considered it.’

‘Do you have any idea who’s outside?’

‘No.’

‘Or why?’

‘Too many suspects, Siobhan.’