St Leonards is like a rabbit warren. We walked down the stairs towards the cells. Offices and interview rooms led off to the side and, behind venetian blinds, I could see movement of police officers and civilians. I knew this route so well, I could have walked it blindfolded, but–even if I had never been in this corridor before–my sense of smell would have let me know that behind the door in front of me were the police cells. There is something peculiar about the odour: hopelessness, unwashed bodies and desperation. I stood at the door to the cells, shifting from foot to foot, whilst my escort wandered on ahead without me. He turned and glanced over his shoulder. ‘You’re not getting in there until you’ve spoken to Bancho.’ He turned his back on me and walked on. The length of his stride meant I had to scrabble to catch up with him; I finally managed it when he was almost outside an open door.

‘Don’t hold back on me,’ Bancho shouted, ‘I don’t button up the back.’ I’d heard him use that tone with me too often for there to be any doubt that he was genuinely angry, not playing at it.

‘There’s not much else to tell…I need to see Dr Graham Marshall to convince myself it’s really him.’ The unseen Irishman talking had a soft cultured voice; in my opinion he was no match for Bancho.

‘Christ…now is not the time for doubts.’ Bancho sounded worried. ‘The assistant chief constable is pissed that the suspect I arrested on the say-so of your missing friend is one of Edinburgh’s most eminent citizens.’ Bancho stopped for a moment and then he continued, his tone even more frustrated. ‘I’ve got a bitch of a defence lawyer winging her way here as we speak and if you’re wrong—’ We didn’t hear whatever threat DI Bancho was going to issue to his unknown visitor because the desk sergeant coughed and knocked on the door.

‘Sorry, boss,’ he shrugged his shoulders. Bancho jacked up his eyebrows, lifted his hand and, curling his fingers, welcomed me in. To be fair to him he raised an apologetic smile and said, ‘Nothing you didn’t already know,’ before adding, ‘No offence and all that.’

‘So you would be the bitch of a defence lawyer DI Bancho was referring to.’ A thin man smiled. The smell of stale fags and whisky from his breath made me gag almost as soon as I entered the task-force room. I took his hand and shook it; his palm was firm and dry. ‘Dr Gerry Cornwell,’ he nodded.

‘Brodie McLennan,’ I answered him. There was something likeable about him I thought–the poor man had been crying for hours, his nose was red, and my instinct told me he was not merely a crying drunk.