‘Hire car’s still parked down there,’ Mr Jones replied. ‘Where’d he get to?’

‘I dunno, when he gets emotional, he goes off somewhere,’ Dad said. ‘What say you give me the key and I’ll come back once Jamie’s gone?’

‘I should come back too,’ Mr Jones said, moving past the toilet.

‘Don’t you trust your old mate?’ Dad said, also passing.

‘Ah, you cops wouldn’t know how to keep this town safe without me.’

‘Well don’t forget I know you overcharge on rent, and pay yourself a commission,’ Dad said. ‘I’m sure the tax man would be very interested in that.’

‘Nothing illegal about being the landlord and the agent, mate,’ Mr Jones said as they shuffled out.

There was more laughter and scoffing, then Dad spoke clearly.

‘Gimme the key, Andy.’

The door was locked, but it was impossible for James to tell if Mr Jones had done what he was told.

In any case, he moved quickly now because he’d remembered where to look. Grandpa Len had given James and Alan strict instructions about the winder of his old clock. You had to carefully stop the pendulum and reach behind it, where a small cavity allowed one finger inside, then deftly pull open a little door that released the scent of wood oil.

The hole proved a little small for James’s large finger, but he got it open. The familiar linseed smell permeated as he felt for the small, dense, metal winder, but out came a plastic tag with the clock winder and a key. It took him a moment to read the name on the tag — Home Free — written in Tony’s schoolboy hand.

James slid the winder into the clock face, turned it a few times, checked his watch and set the hands to the correct time: a quarter to three.

Heirloom holds key to dead man’s secret.

James had passed the Kippen swimming pool on foot and was halfway back to the pub when he saw his family gathered in the distance around the hire car.

Under the pub awning next to the vehicle, Uncle Bill and Aunty Doris were chatting to Dad and Mr Jones. Yvonne and Pete stood rocking their girls like a pair of rag dolls, laughing at something Bobby Jones was telling them.

Nothing got past Dad, so the scene of happy families wouldn’t stay that way for long. James had no way of telling if his father or Mr Jones had noticed the shoes sitting like the dog’s balls at the threshold of Tony’s kitchenette; but he knew their eyes would soon be all over Tony’s yacht moored at Dangar.