She knew she should be feeling the opposite of wrung out. In a short time, the DCI would open a bottle of something and they would toast the closure of the case. The procurator fiscal was already locked away with Trask in her inner sanctum, the two of them sharing facts and discussing tactics. Getting a defendant to a courtroom was one thing, Clarke knew, but the result was never a foregone conclusion. She was wondering what precisely had driven Stephanie to do it – the thought of losing the divorce money, or the worry that she might lose the love and affection of her sister? Had she judged them equal in weight? Had she known what the outcome would be from the moment she stepped into her car?

The Porsche had been sealed and transported to the forensic facility at Howdenhall. If there was blood to be found, they would find it. Clarke had also arranged a search warrant for the Pelham home. They would check for stained clothing and attempts to clean up the same. Stephanie’s computer and both her phones would be taken to the lab to be pored over.

She noticed that Fox was standing by one of the towers of Complaints boxes, staring at it as if considering giving it a kick. He seemed to sense her reading his mind, and turned his head in her direction, offering a huge shrug.

‘They could be yours if you want them,’ he told her.

‘What could?’ Jason Ritchie walked into the office, a carrier bag hanging from one hand. He reached into it, producing a bottle of white and one of red.

‘I prefer beer,’ George Gamble pretended to grumble. ‘But for once, I might make an exception.’

Their heads turned as Christine Esson entered, followed by Colin King. Esson was nodding, letting the room know they had a result. She approached Clarke.

‘Is Cheryl okay?’ she asked.

‘Just a bit of whiplash, I think.’ Clarke held out a hand. ‘Con­gratulations, Christine.’

Esson looked at the hand, but then ignored it, pulling Clarke into a hug instead.

31

It was gone ten when the message arrived on Rebus’s phone. It was from a number he didn’t recognise, but that didn’t matter – it would be untraceable, a burner maybe. He knew who’d sent it.

The Moorfoot right now. Jack Oram will be there. Bring the stuff.

Brillo looked disheartened as Rebus grabbed his coat and keys. ‘You’ve had a walk,’ he chided the dog. But Brillo padded after him to the door, hoping to make him change his mind.