‘It’s not just me he dreams of murdering.’ She placed her index finger in her mouth and bit the skin at the sides of her nail. ‘In the notebook, I only read one page, it’s filled with people I don’t even know. Maybe he’ll put you in it.’ She glanced over her shoulder and smiled, her lips forming a thin white line.

‘Your husband does a lot of charity work,’ I said, standing up and joining her at the window. I wanted her out of my office as quickly as possible. For better or worse, I had to see my client and, given her views on him, the necessity to be polite was rapidly receding. She turned on me. It was the first time I had noticed how tall she was. In her bare, perfectly manicured feet she would be at least four inches taller than me; in those killer heels I had to strain my neck just to look into her face. Alison Marshall was used to making people feel small. ‘You’re mistaken.’ Her eyes held nothing but contempt. ‘Graham has never done anything to help another person in his life.’

The Marshalls didn’t strike me as the type of couple who lived out of one another’s pockets, but even so it struck me as strange–she obviously had no idea that her husband ran a free clinic for down-and-outs at the Mission in the Grassmarket, and yet that was the one thing that was making me question whether he actually had some good in him–whoever he was.

Chapter Forty-Seven

It was almost 11 a.m. when I drew up outside St Leonards police station on the bike. The first thing that struck me was…no press pack. That was good. Bancho was managing to keep a tight lid on the identity of my client. It was more than I had expected.

The desk sergeant shifts had changed. This morning’s specimen leaned on his elbow and flicked through the Daily Record. He looked up at me, knowing that I wanted Bancho. Sighing, he closed the paper, pressed a button under the desk and came round to the public side. Lifting the heavy bunch that hung from a steel chain on his black leather belt, he selected one large brass key, inserted it into the lock and opened the door. We were into the inner sanctum. The atmosphere changed almost instantly. The reception in the police station was sterile and abandoned, giving the public no clue as to the secret hive of activity going on behind its closed doors.