McCoist had an A4 pad out, on which he’d already written several pages of notes in handwriting so bad it was like a personal code. Now he turned to a fresh sheet.

‘Can I just ask how you came into possession of these e-mails?’

‘They … we didn’t really. Someone called Quizmaster sent Flip Balfour a message, and it came to me instead.’

‘How so?’ McCoist hadn’t looked up from his pad. All she could see of him were blue pinstriped shoulders and the top of his head, thinning black hair showing plenty of scalp.

‘Well, I was checking Ms Balfour’s computer for anything that might explain her disappearance.’

‘So this was after she’d disappeared?’ He looked up now: thick black rims to his glasses and a mouth which, when not open, was a thin line of doubt.

‘Yes,’ Siobhan admitted.

‘And this is the message you say you’ve traced back to my client’s computer?’

‘To her ISP account, yes.’ Siobhan was noticing that Claire had looked up for the first time: it was that use of “my client”. Claire was looking at her stepfather, studying him. Probably she’d never seen his professional side before.

‘ISP being the Internet service provider?’

Siobhan nodded her answer. McCoist was letting her know that he was up on the jargon.

‘Have there been subsequent messages?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do they belong to the same address?’

‘We don’t know that yet.’ Siobhan had decided he didn’t need to know more than one ISP was involved.

‘Very well.’ McCoist stabbed a full stop on the latest sheet with his pen, then sat back thoughtfully.

‘Do I get to ask Claire a question now?’ Siobhan asked.

McCoist peered at her over the top of his glasses. ‘My client would prefer to make a short statement first.’

Claire reached into the pocket of her jeans and unfolded a sheet of paper which had obviously come from the pad on the table. The writing was different from McCoist’s scrawl, but Siobhan could see scorings-out where the lawyer had suggested changes.

Claire cleared her throat. ‘About a fortnight before Flip went missing, I loaned her my laptop computer. She had some essay she was writing, and I thought it might help her. I knew she didn’t have a laptop of her own. I never got the chance to ask for it back. I was waiting until after the funeral to ask her family if it could be retrieved from her flat.’

‘Is this laptop your only computer?’ Siobhan interrupted.

Claire shook her head. ‘No, but it’s linked to an ISP, same account as my PC.’

Siobhan stared at her; still she didn’t make eye contact. ‘There was no laptop in Philippa Balfour’s flat,’ she said.

Eye contact at last. ‘Then where is it?’ Claire said.

‘I’m assuming you still have the proof of purchase, something like that?’