‘Christ, not her as well!’ Claire tossed her head back, then dropped on to one of the room’s two sofas.

‘I’m researching his life,’ Jean explained for McCoist’s benefit. He was pouring himself a whisky at the drinks cabinet.

‘At this time of night?’ was all he said.

‘His portrait’s hanging in some hall somewhere,’ Jan Benzie told her daughter. ‘Did you know that?’

‘Of course I bloody did! It’s in the museum at Surgeons’ Hall.’ She looked at Jean. ‘Is that where you’re from?’

‘No, actually …’

‘Well, wherever you’re from, why don’t you piss off back there? I’m just out of police custody and—’

‘You will not speak like that to a guest in this house!’ Jan Benzie yelped, springing from her chair. ‘Jack, tell her.’

‘Look, I really should …’ Jean’s words were swamped as a three-way argument started. She backed away, heading for the door.

‘You’ve no bloody right … !’

‘Christ, anyone would think it was you they interrogated!’

‘That’s still no excuse for …’

‘Just one quiet drink, is that too much to …’

They didn’t seem to notice as Jean opened the door, closing it again behind her. She walked down the carpeted stairs on tiptoe, and opened the front door as quietly as she could, escaping into the street, where, finally, she let out a huge breath of air. Walking away, she glanced back towards the drawing-room window, but couldn’t see anything. The houses here had walls so thick, they could double as padded cells, and it felt like that was just what she’d escaped from.

Claire Benzie’s temper had been something to behold.

13

Wednesday morning, there was still no sign of Ranald Marr. His wife Dorothy had called Junipers and spoken to John Balfour’s PA. She was reminded in no uncertain terms that the family had a funeral to see to, and that the PA didn’t feel able to disturb either Mr or Mrs Balfour further until some time thereafter.

‘They’ve lost a daughter, you know,’ the PA said haughtily.

‘And I’ve lost my fucking husband, you bitch!’ Dorothy Marr spat back, recoiling ever so slightly afterwards as she realised it was probably the first time she’d used a swearword in her adult life. But it was too late to apologise: the PA had already put down the phone and was informing a lesser member of the Balfour staff not to accept any further calls from Mrs Marr.