“Deceased’s possessions,” the attendant explained. “Need you to sign for them.”

Fox studied the contents of the bag. There was a sheet of printout next to it, listing the individual items. Fox made sure it tallied.

“Hundred and fifty in cash,” he commented.

“Despite which, judging by the state of his clothes, he was sleeping rough.”

“Oh?”

“Grubby, you might say.”

“Speaking of which, where are they?”

“Off to Forensics.” The attendant paused. “We didn’t lift any of the money, if that’s what’s on your mind.”

Fox shook his head. “Last cashpoint he visited, he took out two hundred. Didn’t get through much of it, which tallies with sleeping rough.” He lifted the bag. “Did the water bugger the phone?”

“Might be okay when it’s dried out.”

There wasn’t much else—a handkerchief, chewing gum, house keys, loose change and the Bank of Scotland debit card, plus loyalty cards from Costa Coffee and Tesco.

“No watch?” Fox queried.

“No watch.”

He double-checked the list before signing his name to the bottom of the sheet. “Autopsy finished yet?”

“Might be another half-hour. They got the bullet though. Wedged between two of the vertebrae. You need to put the date.”

Fox added the date beneath his signature, which seemed to satisfy the attendant.

“Were you there for the identification?” he asked.

The attendant nodded.

“How did the widow seem?”

“She managed.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. You think she did it—crime of passion and all that? You should be swabbing her hands for gunpowder…”

Fox studied the young man. “You watch too many films.”

The attendant shrugged. “Not much excitement around here—though we’ve still got the Justice Minister on the premises. Body’s due to be released to the family today.”

“Counts as a busy week, does it?”

“Place has been in the news and everything. Mind you, still doesn’t make for much of a chat-up line, saying you work here.”

“I imagine not.”

“Unless you’re into Goths, I suppose…”

15

15

The bullet is undergoing analysis,” Siobhan Clarke announced to her team. They were gathered around her in an open-plan office on the first floor of Wester Hailes police station. There was a bit less room than any of them would have liked—competition had been fierce for the few comfortable-looking chairs. Hot-desking was necessary and no one had yet found a kettle. There were journalists outside on Dumbryden Drive, but not many. Shootings were rare in Scotland’s capital, but the demise of a minicab driver couldn’t compete with that of a senior politician. Fox didn’t doubt that the foul weather was also a factor. With a new cold front making itself felt, the rain was turning to sleet. And Dumbryden was not exactly salubrious—mesh grilles protected the cop shop’s ground-floor windows—meaning there would be no press conferences in new-build hotels…not until such hotels were constructed.