Barnton was a popular suburb in the north-west of Edinburgh, off the busy Queensferry Road. Val Docherty’s house was in Barnton Avenue, a quiet curving road with individually designed houses behind mature hedges. A police car was parked discreetly at the end of the road and Chris pulled in behind. As they approached the car an officer jumped out.

‘She’s at home all right,’ he said. ‘Postie rang the doorbell half an hour ago. I spoke to him when he came down the drive and he said she took a parcel in.’

Clare thanked the officer, and they made their way up a long gravel drive towards a two-storey house finished in a white render. It was an attractive property with a cross gable roof and a broad corner window on the first floor. The roof, which sloped down low in a concave curve design, was tiled in red with a tall chimney stack at one end.

‘How much d’you reckon this would set you back?’ Chris asked as they crunched up the drive, which was bordered either side with high laurels.

‘Ooft, well over a million,’ Clare said. ‘Maybe more.’

As they cleared the hedge they heard the sound of running water and Clare turned to see a stone fountain with a cherub in the centre, water pouring from his mouth. ‘Ugh,’ she said.

‘It’s a matter of taste, Inspector,’ Chris said, laughing at her expression. ‘Ey-up, we’ve been spotted.’

A figure stood at a front window, glaring at them. Clare recognised the brassy blonde hair and leathered face. Valerie Isobel Docherty.

Val seemed unwilling to let them over the threshold. ‘A’m busy,’ she said, her voice gruff, and Clare thought of Melanie’s description of the voice on the phone. Gravelly, she had said. Val’s voice was all that.

Val cleared her throat then said, ‘If you could come back another day.’

Clare smiled. ‘Can’t do that, Val. We need some information. But, if you prefer, we could take you back to St Andrews.’

Val exhaled audibly and a whiff of sour breath reached Clare’s nostrils. ‘’Mon, then, if you’re coming,’ she said, standing back to let them in. ‘But you’re no’ stayin’ long, mind.’

A broad hall was patterned in a dark red carpet which continued into a square sitting room. It was a pleasant, airy room with a high ceiling and a bay window, curtained with swags and tails which made Clare think of a tired hotel lounge. It was dominated by an oyster-coloured leather corner settee and Val waved a pudgy hand towards it. ‘Take a seat,’ she growled, adding, ‘I’ll no’ waste your time with tea or coffee. You’ll be busy.’