Clare awoke to another glorious day, although the forecast warned the weather was set to break. She opened her back door and stepped out into the morning sun, Benjy trotting at her heels. ‘Better make the most of it,’ she told him. ‘Rain tomorrow.’ He took off down the garden, running round and round as he waited for Clare to unhook the back gate. Then he raced into the woods snuffling in the undergrowth. Clare strolled on behind, contemplating the day ahead. There was a lot to do. No doubt a DCI would appear at some point. She had hoped Al Gibson might have ducked out of his conference to oversee the case but it didn’t look like that would happen now. She was more than capable of running the investigation, she knew that; but with what looked like the work of a trained sniper and the victim being the brother of a high-profile TV star, it was likely the bosses would play it by the book. And that meant a DCI at the very least.

And then there was the Lamond Lodge party. Gaby and co now holed up in an expensive hotel and desperate to leave. I’d like to bury my brother, Gaby had said and, frankly, Clare couldn’t blame her. There was no question of releasing the body. Not until they knew what had happened. But she couldn’t really keep the party here in St Andrews much longer, now they’d all been interviewed.

The letting agency was another problem. They’d already been on the phone to the station, pointing out there was a booking from Thursday. But the whole place was still a crime scene and there was no chance they’d clear the investigation up in two days. She had to hope the owner wasn’t one of those with friends in high places! Why did these people always claim they knew the Chief Constable?

She checked her watch. Time to head back. Whistling to Benjy, she turned and began to make her way through the woods to Daisy Cottage. It was time to go to work.

The incident room seemed busier than ever when Clare entered. A mix of uniformed and plain-clothes officers were chatting, some on the phone, others tapping at laptops. Someone had left a newspaper on one of the desks and Clare couldn’t help seeing the headline:

Police Stumped in Search for St Andrews Sniper

That’s all we need, she thought, as she weaved her way through the desks to the whiteboard.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s not hang about.’ She indicated a photo pinned up on the board. ‘Zac Buchanan – ex-con who we know has a grudge against Russell Fox.’ She scanned the room for Jim. ‘Is this the most recent photo?’

Jim nodded. ‘Taken the last time he went inside.’

‘Okay, thanks Jim.’