Ava stared at the screen. There were few classic films that she couldn’t enjoy, but being out of the station on enforced downtime, knowing the best she could hope for was to lie in bed staring at the ceiling while her clock ticked the minutes away, was far worse than the exhaustion she was feeling.

Fenella Hawksmith was dead. Her daughter had been located and she had an airtight alibi. They had no leads.

Osaki Shozo was dead. His wife and her companion, Beef, were off the hook, their every minute having been accounted for by a variety of witnesses. The only caveat was if they’d paid for a hitman, but to no purpose. Kylie Shozo stood to make no money from her husband’s death and it wasn’t as if he’d been limiting her movements. Quite the opposite, given that the only information they’d discovered was that Osaki was due to disappear on board a fishing trawler. The wife’s reaction, however disgusting Ava may have found it, was also completely genuine. No doubt about that.

Then there was the quandary of Stephen Berry’s death, just that one tiny boot print on his finger. No obvious link to the other two. No real evidence of foul play. Yet, Ava just couldn’t get it out of her head – three bodies, no answers.

Then there was the Pax Graham investigation and Luc still hadn’t got an answer from his mother about what she intended to do regarding the inheritance Bruce Jenson had left to the rape charity. The victim’s son, Andrew, had finally produced video evidence from a casino proving he’d spent his previously unaccounted for hours there, trying to win back some of the vast amounts of money he owed the house. That was him off the hook, and there were no other suspects in sight.

Ava sighed. A single decent lead in either case would have been nice. But no. The days were piling up and the issues were getting murkier. Ava was becoming more and more culpable for failing to reveal Luc’s interest in the Jenson killing. Now, she’d dragged Luc to a film that was even boring her. It was 10.30 p.m. and the only thing she could contemplate eating was popcorn. So much for promising Ailsa that she’d take care of herself.

‘Did anything happen yet?’ Callanach asked as he sat down and passed Ava a paper bowl brimming with hot, buttery corn.

‘Nothing that’s going to make cinematic history.’

A woman several rows in front shushed them dramatically.

‘Sorry!’ Ava called to her breezily.

‘Want to get out of here?’ Callanach asked.

‘Do I get to bring my popcorn?’

‘Back to my place? Only if you promise not to spill it like you usually do halfway through a film.’

‘You’re no fun. We could get hotdogs as we leave. Make a real night of it,’ she grinned.