Without Benjy to waken her, Clare overslept. She squinted at her alarm clock and saw it was just after seven. Breakfast would have to wait. She showered quickly and pulled a work suit out of the wardrobe. Twenty minutes later she was on her way, driving past fields dotted with bales of silage wrapped in black plastic. A few more weeks and it would be autumn and the lush green foliage on the tree-lined road would begin turning to red and gold. She slowed down as she approached the roundabout turning into Bogward Road, a residential street to the west of the town. A young lad wandered languidly between the houses, a sack of newspapers on his shoulder. Up ahead a couple of cyclists rode along, chatting, and Clare pulled out, giving them a wide berth as she passed. Suddenly she heard Russell Fox mentioned and she turned up the radio volume.

‘Mr Fox is the brother of daytime TV star Gaby Fox,’ the newsreader said. The report went on to say that the party were believed to be staying in St Andrews, pending the outcome of the police investigation.

‘Dammit,’ Clare muttered, signalling left at the roundabout. ‘They’ll be all over it now.’

Minutes later she drew into the station car park, and she saw that the press were indeed all over it. The street outside the station was crammed with cars and a cameraman was setting up a tripod on the pavement. As Clare climbed out of her car a couple of reporters rushed towards her, firing questions.

She stopped for a moment, waited until they were within earshot, then suggested they contact the press office. ‘We won’t be making any comment at this time,’ she added.

As she walked across to the building, Chris and Sara were coming along Tom Morris Drive so she waited for them. They were dressed in work clothes, Chris in his usual dark grey suit, Sara in her uniform. But both had trainers on their feet.

‘No car today?’ Clare said when they were near enough.

‘It’s such a lovely morning,’ Sara said. ‘We thought we’d walk.’ She smiled at Chris. ‘Didn’t we?’

‘Oh aye,’ Chris said, rolling his eyes. ‘We decided to walk.’

‘You’ll thank me when you’re in your eighties.’

‘If you’re going to make me walk everywhere, I’m not sure I want to live to my eighties,’ Chris said.

Clare laughed. Sometimes Chris and Sara seemed like chalk and cheese but they were so good for each other. ‘She’s quite right,’ she told her DS. ‘I thought you were getting a bit porky again.’