Bancho nodded.

‘The victim was Renee Smith,’ I added, ever helpful. ‘So Marshall’s contention that he was being set up is looking more credible as each hour passes.’ The dean snorted. The trial had already raised too much media interest for his liking. Scots law and crime prevention was on show. Ranald Hughes QC looked scared. He didn’t want to harm his career by being caught up in this matter. Usually the Faculty of Advocates would not be involved in a prosecution at this stage, and Agnes Sampson had pulled them in to prevent this kind of catastrophe.

‘Jesus,’ he said. He just sat there for a minute, and then said, ‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’ Then he shrugged his shoulders, glanced at his Rolex once more, and said, ‘Listen, I’d like to help out here, but this is…’ Hughes spread his hands and dropped them on his lap. ‘I don’t think there’s anything I can usefully add to this discussion.’

‘I have an idea,’ I said. They all looked at me gratefully ‘I was the last person to see Renee Smith alive. Well, not the last obviously…’ I let that information sink in. They turned and nodded at one another knowingly, as if I, Brodie McLennan, must be the root cause of all the ills befalling the Scottish justice system.

‘Let’s hear your idea, Brodie.’ The Dean of Faculty lay back in his comfortable armchair and crossed his legs at the ankles, as if he knew that this was going to take some time. He was wrong.

‘I know the identity of Cupid,’ I said, watching the dean uncross his legs, sit up and take notice of me–as well he might. I was about to pull his arse out of the fire as well as save Joe’s. ‘Her name is Patsy Barnes. Either she’s a psychotic journalist or she’s just using that as a cover, but, either way, she wants a face-to-face with Marshall.’ I looked at the dean. He didn’t seem particularly encouraged by my information, and I had to admit it was a bit short on facts, but it was all I knew. I cleared my throat, drew myself up to my full height and continued. ‘We need to bring Marshall back into court,’ I said.

Agnes Sampson studied her nails. ‘He’s not due back for another six days,’ she said, rubbing her hands together like an undertaker. ‘In the meantime, Cupid could go on a killing spree.’