The phone call from Alison Marshall came through at seven thirty. I was still in the office trying to catch up on a backlog of accounts. I’d roped Eddie Gibb in because he was terrible at writing down his court attendances on file notes. As a result we lost hundreds, sometimes thousands of pounds’ worth of billing hours on each of his cases. I wished Lavender had been with us–she would have been much more efficient and she would also have seen, yet again, what a financial disaster her husband was. There was no way he could make partner unless he improved. I might actually have been glad of an excuse to bail out of the whole tedious process but, as I explained to Alison Marshall, that wasn’t the way Scots law worked. ‘There isn’t much I can do at this stage apart from letting the desk sergeant know that he’s my client,’ I told her. ‘The police are completely entitled to hold him for questioning for six hours without any legal representation at all.’

She seemed to take it surprisingly well. Most clients or their spouses are outraged, having gained most of their legal knowledge from TV shows where the suspect is always backed up by a lawyer who stays permanently by his side and usually tries to obstruct the police as much as possible. The only frustration at the six-hour rule was mine. What could an eminent cosmetic surgeon possibly have to do with the disappearance of a London police officer? As that was the only information Alison had been able to give me as grounds for Bancho taking him in, it was all I had to go on.

Eventually Lois, Eddie and I called it a day, and I trudged home, longing for a bath. I’d only got halfway through pouring it and some wine when the phone rang. Swearing in irritation, I grabbed it and snapped, ‘Yes?’ A defence lawyer’s relationship with the police is complex. With certain detectives it can be ropey at best. They want to secure a conviction; I want to avoid it. Desk sergeants are a different breed. Their job is to keep everything moving smoothly, and for that they often need our cooperation and understanding. Sergeant Murphy and I had a good working relationship. I’d phoned him only an hour earlier to declare my interest in Dr Marshall. His call now wasn’t exactly by the book, but we’d indulged in mutual backscratching before so I wasn’t surprised by it. ‘Word to the wise, Brodie,’ he said. ‘There’s been some kind of tip-off about a search for a London DI who’s been visiting our fair city. Rumour has it your man Marshall’s involved. The whole squad’s crawling over Brown’s scrap yard with sniffer dogs. Don’t know much more at this stage.’