Duncan Bancho and the officers first on scene carried out a search of the premises for the unknown farmer and Sam Jones. There were no other addresses in Donna Cook’s address book, so the search was centred on the farm. The paramedics had requested I remain behind at the farm rather than go with them in the ambulance. They’d be working on Joe for some time–it would be easier on him and me if I wasn’t present. I needed Bancho to drive me back into Edinburgh for visiting time that night–where the hell was he?

At the side of the farm was a patch of ground measuring around thirty by sixty feet, covered in netting, and at the bottom was a small polytunnel. It was a well-tended kitchen garden. The rain had stopped. The wind blowing from the west brought with it the scent of mint. Herbs were growing along the side wall of the house in outsized terracotta pots: basil, rosemary, oregano. A cold sensation crept up my gut and was slowly making its way to my throat. Now that I knew Joe was in safe hands, Sam Jones was in my mind–and I had a horrible feeling I’d be meeting her very soon.

‘Bancho!’ I screamed, but the wind carried my voice away. ‘Bancho!’ I shouted again, harder. I climbed onto the wire fence and threw my leg over. Thank God it wasn’t electrified. ‘Duncan!’ I shouted, still failing to get his attention. With my first step, my shoe was sucked into the mud and the cold, wet dirt squelched up through my toes. I’d already lost one shoe and I knew the other would soon follow, so I kicked it off. Marching across the field, I was grateful the pigs gave me a wide berth. They were larger up close. I was forced to go too close to the corrugated shelter and a sow with a litter of ten piglets snorted out a warning at me. I picked up my pace but not by much, the mud making my progress torturously slow. Bancho and the two junior officers stood on the corner of the field nearest to the house. They were huddled together and then they spread out like a fan, scouring the ground before them. They showed no signs of coming in, their heads bent staring at the grooves and ruts in the ground.

Dragging my right foot out of the slime, I flung it forward. My hip clicked, locking in place, and I wobbled precariously. I trembled, and my first thought was that my unsteadiness was caused by the clicking of the joint. Sticking my arms out like a plane, I tried to regain a sense of balance.