She opened her door and found Tony tapping away at her computer. A slice of cake sat on the desk, wrapped in a blue paper towel. ‘Is that yours or mine?’ she said.

Tony looked at the cake, a smile playing on his lips. ‘You can have it. I’ll get mine later.’

She opened her mouth to say something then decided against it. He was only trying to goad her. ‘Thanks,’ she said, scooping up the cake and putting it on top of her filing cabinet.

She eyed him. ‘Comfy?’

Her tone was lost on him. He adjusted his position. ‘Yeah, not bad. Chair’s seen better days but it’ll do.’ He picked up a notepad and peered at it. ‘Took a phone call for you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, SOCO. Seems there’s no gunshot residue in the minibus.’ He wrinkled his forehead. ‘That make sense?’

Clare sighed. ‘Unfortunately, yes. It was a long shot anyway. Is that all they said?’

Tony squinted at the note again. ‘Loads of prints… multiple DNA. But none on our system.’

Clare shook her head and sank down in a chair. ‘Oh well.’ Then she brightened. ‘Zac Buchanan’s on his way up from Leven.’

‘The car thief? Good. Want me to sit in?’

‘Probably not. Chris and I can handle it. But there is something you could do.’

‘Shoot.’

‘I’d like a warrant to look into Gaby Fox and Luke Gasparini’s finances.’

Tony exhaled. ‘You don’t want much, Clare. Have you grounds?’

‘I believe so. Russell Fox had found out he was terminally ill and was planning to sell his restaurants.’

‘Understandable.’

‘I agree. But then someone kills him. Now if, and it’s only a guess at this stage, if his reason for selling the restaurants was to have a blowout while he still felt well enough to do it there would be less for Gaby and Luke to inherit.’

‘Clare! She’s a big shot TV presenter. Surely she doesn’t need her brother’s money?’

Clare shrugged. ‘That’s what I aim to find out. That shot came from inside the house.’

‘And correct me if I’m wrong but they weren’t there at the time.’

‘I’m checking that too.’

He sat, considering this for a moment, twiddling a pen in his fingers. Then he said, ‘Okay. I’ll authorise it. But you’d better not be wrong.’

Chapter 23

Zac Buchanan sat slumped on a plastic bucket chair, his hands driven deep into his pockets. He was in his late thirties, Clare thought. Maybe early forties. Slim, wiry even. Fit enough to climb over a Heras fence and wily enough to slip into a house undetected. His criminal record bore witness to that. He was casually dressed in dark tracky bottoms and a lightweight navy Adidas jacket over a white T-shirt. His hair was closely cropped, his skin sallow. He glanced up at Clare and Chris as they entered then looked away again.