The best minds in the Procurator Fiscal’s office had pored over the problem and had concluded, in an annoyingly bland and objective way (letting Carswell know that it was no skin off their noses) that there was little chance of blocking the story. After all, they couldn’t prove that either the dolls or the German student had anything to do with the Balfour case – most senior officers seemed to agree that a connection was unlikely at best – and so would find it difficult to persuade a judge that Holly’s information could, once published, be detrimental to the inquiry.

What Balfour and his lawyer wanted to know was why the police hadn’t seen fit to share with them the story of the dolls, or the information about the German student and the Internet game.

What the Chief Constable wanted to know was what Carswell intended doing about it.

And what Carswell himself wanted was blood.

His official car, driven by his acolyte DI Derek Linford, drew up in front of a station already crowded with officers. Everyone who had worked or was currently working on the Balfour case – uniforms, CID, even the forensic team from Howdenhall – had been ‘requested’ to attend the morning meeting. Consequently, the briefing room was packed and stifling. Outside, the morning was still recovering from overnight sleet, the pavement damp and chilling to the feet as Carswell’s leather-shod soles stamped across it.

‘Here he comes,’ someone said, watching as Linford, having opened Carswell’s door for him, now closed it and, showing a slight limp, walked back round to the driver’s side. There was a sound of folding paper as the fresh tabloids – each copy the same title, each open at the same gathering of pages – were closed and put out of sight. DCS Templer, dressed as though for a funeral, dark lines under her eyes, came into the room first. She whispered something into the ear of DI Bill Pryde, who nodded and tore the corner from a notepad, spitting into it the wad of chewing gum he’d been gnawing for the past half-hour. When Carswell himself walked in, there was a ripple of movement as officers subconsciously corrected their posture or checked their attire for obvious blemishes.

‘Is anyone missing?’ Carswell called out. No ‘good morning’, no ‘thank you all for coming’, the usual protocols forgotten. Templer had a few names for him – minor ailments and complaints. Carswell nodded, didn’t seem interested in what he was being told, and didn’t wait for her to finish the roll-call.