So that was her story, rounded up with the help of Andrews in about a day and a half’s worth of work. A large question remained—where had she gotten the gun? It was not her husband’s, or at least there was no indication yet that it was her husband’s, and no one, not even Christine Gibbon, could remember any hint of it before.

Having reached a suitable impasse regarding the presumed killer, today Gorrie would turn his attention back to the victim, making his inquiries at the man’s employers and rounding up a few lost ends. But as he spotted Cromarty Firth’s domelike reactor building looming ahead in the early morning fog, an ungodly, un-Scottish creature wading in from the surf, he thought not of Edward Mackay but his son, christened Luthias Edward. It was one thing to grow up without a ma or a da, and quite another to grow up knowing your ma killed your da and then herself, with you in the other room.

What a legacy to leave a child. Gorrie could do nothing for the lad except his job, and while he regretted that his job might well mean pain for the boy in years to come, he endeavored to do his best to remove any question in the young man’s mind of what had happened. He would have done so no matter what the circumstance, but if his patience or stamina flagged at any point, he could gently prod it by recalling the infant in the crib, and imagining him fifteen years on.

A small valley ran between the plant and the road, making the access road seem as if it ran over a moat. Cement obstructions forced approaching vehicles to take a zigging path, and razor wire lined the double row of fences at the entrance; two guards manned the gate and demanded positive proof that DI Gorrie was indeed DI Gorrie.

“Aye, didna’ you know me well enough to borrow five pounds last Saturday, James?” Gorrie told one of the guards as he held out his badge.

“Procedure, Inspector,” responded the man, adding in a somewhat softer voice, “I’ll be payin’ you back next Friday, I’m sure.”

Gorrie was met at the door to the plant by a young woman tall and broad enough to play for the local football team; she showed him directly to the plant manager’s office, not pausing for pleasantries. Gorrie found his pace slowing with each step, resisting the rush. With white walls sandwiched between white acoustic tile and white linoleum, the hallway reminded the inspector of a hospital corridor, except that it smelled of wood polish rather than antiseptic.