We drove through the beautiful East Lothian villages but, for once, they failed to stir me as I stared out of the windscreen at the driving rain, counting down the minutes and guessing how much longer it might take us to get there. At least I could solve one mystery for Bancho. Graham Marshall’s wife, Alison, was wrong about the burglar not stealing anything when their Morningside home was broken into. She clearly, and quite understandably, hadn’t inspected her husband’s hairbrush, the detritus from which was probably still lying on the floor of the courtroom, along with the other contents of Donna Cook’s handbag, unless it had all been bagged up already and given to forensics.

The countryside was flat, except for Berwick Law, a hill that stuck straight up into the grey, cloudy sky. On the horizon I fancied I could see the farm track that would take me to Joe, a narrow, private road more used to tractors than cars. It was muddy and wet; spray covered the windscreen. Bancho put the wipers on but they only spread the muck, making it impossible to see down the twisty lane. I tried to focus on the things I could see. On my right was a waterlogged field filled with sludge, the type of terrain on which it would be almost impossible to walk without losing your shoes, home to free-range pigs who snorted happily as they rolled in the muck.

We turned into a well-kept courtyard. On our left was a large, open barn stacked high with round bales of hay. A clean, new tractor was parked inside. Where was the farmer? Why had he rented a working farm to Donna Cook? A million questions filled my mind, but Bancho wouldn’t know the answers to them so there was no point in asking him. I stored everything away for later when my main question had been answered: ‘How was Joe?’

I jumped out of the car while it was still moving. My ankle twisted slightly on impact but I didn’t let it slow me up as I ran towards the front door.

Joe.

My Joe.