The station was buzzing when Callanach got there at 8.30 a.m. Ava had already issued a document redefining priorities to assess links between Fenella Hawksmith and Osaki Shozo. Tripp was overseeing witnesses on the Shozo case, including door-to-doors in the vicinity of the flat, and trying to trace the purchase of what had turned out to be a brand-new toaster. Superintendent Overbeck had taken over managing public relations, an inevitable task since the merry widow Shozo, had decided to go on a fundraising bender, presumably to finance her new life with Beef. And Callanach had no idea what he was supposed to do. As much as Ava wouldn’t want to see him, at some point they were going to have to talk.

He knocked on her office door, waiting to be called in, recognising Sergeant Lively’s less than dulcet tones on the other side. It was DI Graham who opened it after a few seconds, moving his huge bulk out of the way to allow Callanach access. Ava stood the other side of her desk, gripping the wood with her fingertips, her teeth clenched so hard Callanach could see the veins standing out in her neck.

‘Should I come back later?’ Callanach asked.

Ava glared at him.

‘Actually, we just came to see the boss about that brake-cutting I told you about,’ Lively said, eyes shining, voice booming, completely missing the invisible daggers flying from Ava’s side of the room to Callanach’s. ‘Turns out the driver who’d hired the vehicle was in town for a memorial service. Here’s the interesting thing. He’d flown all the way from Spain to pay his respects to another recent victim of crime.’

‘Bruce Jenson.’ Pax Graham filled in the punch line.

Lively looked deflated.

Callanach glanced at Ava, who was keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Graham.

‘What was his name?’ Callanach asked.

‘Gilroy Western,’ Lively said, not to be outdone. ‘That car crash was no accident. Brakes cut clean through – not a particularly professional job, though. The amazing thing was that Western got as far as he did and that no one else died.’

Callanach took a deep breath to counteract the sense that there wasn’t quite enough oxygen in the room. Jenson and Western both dead. Both murdered, he self-corrected. His mother was in France and no more capable of cold-blooded murder than an innocent child. The thought occurred to him that perhaps there had been other rape victims, other employees’ wives. Odd that he’d never considered that possibility before, but now it seemed entirely plausible. How many parties must there have been at the factory in two decades of operating? Jenson and Western had worked together to subdue and assault his mother, after all. What were the chances they hadn’t planned such a scheme before or, having got away it, tried it again afterwards?

‘Did you know him?’ Pax Graham asked quickly.