Fox revved the car hard as he headed out of the compound, hitting every pothole, Fleck visible throughout in his rear-view mirror, waving and grinning.

9

‘You absolutely confident about this?’ Esson said from the driver’s seat of Clarke’s Astra.

‘It’s practically on the way back to base, Christine.’

‘Which doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.’

Having cut through from Corstorphine, they were on Gorgie Road, heading towards Tynecastle police station. It was situated on a square near the Hearts football ground, hemmed in by a mixture of tenements, workshops and garages. There was no car park, and liveried vans and cars had taken every on-street parking spot in the vicinity, so Clarke ended up on a double yellow line on the far side of the square. At the heart of the square was an unloved grassy area protected by low iron railings. A gate led to a couple of children’s swings and the stubby remains of what had probably been a seesaw. The police station was a couple of storeys tall, with mesh-covered windows staring blearily from the upper level. The facade was battleship grey, retouched to cover up indecipherable graffiti. Someone with a thick black Sharpie had been busy on the front door, too.

‘Bit of a throwback,’ Esson commented. Clarke nodded her agreement. She’d known a few stations like this in her early days on the force. They usually ended up with a nickname like Fort Apache or Precinct Thirteen. Most of them had been bulldozed and replaced. She wondered how much longer Tynecastle would endure.

The door was locked, and they had to be buzzed in. The reception area was cramped, its walls decorated with the usual public information notices and misper posters. A wall-to-ceiling clear plastic screen kept the desk officer safe, but Clarke noticed that it had been scratched with expletives and gang affiliations. She and Esson held up their warrant cards.

‘Need to speak with someone about Francis Haggard,’ Clarke said.

‘Colour me shocked,’ the desk officer responded with a world-weary smile. He was probably still in his twenties, but was experienced enough. ‘CID are currently elsewhere, though.’

‘Rank-and-file will do. Whoever’s available.’

‘Let me go and check. Why don’t you take a seat?’

He disappeared through the door behind him. When Clarke looked behind her, she was unsurprised to find that there was nowhere to sit.

‘Sense of humour probably comes in handy,’ Esson said, studying the literature on the walls.

‘Mop and bleach wouldn’t go amiss either,’ Clarke added, her shoes almost adhering to the black-and-white linoleum tiles.

A second door was opening to the side of the reception desk. A uniformed officer stood there, sizing up the visitors. He was in his mid to late thirties, tall and broad and with short dark hair. There were a few touches of acne on his neck, which he would probably never lose.

‘In you come then,’ he said, holding the door open.