“They’ll be returned as soon as possible,” Fox said, unsure whether this was true or not. The mortuary was an anonymous slab of a building on Cowgate, and Cowgate itself a narrow, claustrophobic canyon which only came alive at night, thanks to its bars and clubs. Fox hadn’t been inside the mortuary in several years, the remit of the Complaints falling short of unexplained deaths. As a young beat officer he had attended a couple of postmortem examinations, but with his eyes averted and trying not to inhale the various aromas.

“My name’s Fox, by the way,” he told the friend.

“I’m Taylor—Taylor Craddock.”

“We’ve met before, Bettina,” he was saying to the widow. There was an untouched beaker of tea at her feet.

“I remember,” she said, rubbing at her eyes and sniffing. There were blue smudges on her knuckles, the remnants of ancient tattoos.

Craddock was explaining that the identification process had been traumatic. “Though he did look at peace, Bett, you have to say he didn’t suffer…”

More platitudes followed, but Bettina Saunders was hearing none of them. She concentrated, red-eyed and blinking, on the wall across from her. There was nothing on it but a framed color poster of a heathery landscape, puffy clouds and blue sky above. Fox decided to make Taylor Craddock the focus of his questions.

“Billy didn’t make contact after he disappeared?”

She shook her head.

“It’s just that we need to try to piece together his movements, maybe find out why he acted the way he did.”

“Can’t this wait?” Craddock chided him. “The woman’s in shock.”

“I appreciate that, but the sooner we can get started, the better.”

“Better for you or better for her?” Craddock’s hackles were rising. Bettina Saunders placed a hand around her friend’s wrist.

“It’s all right, Taylor. The man’s only trying to help.” She fixed her eyes on Fox. “Billy was worried about going to court. Stands to reason that’s why he ran.”

“But he didn’t exactly run, did he?” Fox went on quietly. “He stayed in the city.”

“Where else could he go? He was Edinburgh born and bred.”

“Did he have friends nearby? Near that stretch of the canal, I mean?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“And he never called you? Not even a text so you wouldn’t worry?”

“Nothing.” She looked down into her lap. “But he was up to high doh. Somebody phoned him one morning—that was the start of it.”

Stefan Gilmour, stood to reason…

One of the mortuary attendants was standing in the doorway.

“Inspector Fox?” he inquired. “Got a minute?”

Fox smiled an apology towards the two women, hoping the relief on his face wasn’t too evident. The attendant led him to a small office, where a clear polythene bag sat on a desk.