In that moment, Magnus wished he had left this to the police. Then, gathering himself, he flicked on the light and tugged the duvet off the foot of the bed. It slid to the floor, its shape crumpling to nothing. Exposed, the bed did hold a figure, or the stuffed version of one.

A pair of men’s pyjamas, filled with what looked like more of Jack’s clothing, had been arranged on the right-hand side of the otherwise empty bed.

The psychology of loss Magnus knew about, but he had never seen this form before. The clothes on the chair, the stuffed figure in the bed. At that moment he fully understood Marge’s fear for her friend’s state of mind and her safety.

‘Professor.’ Marge’s urgent and definitely frightened voice broke into his thoughts.

Magnus retreated, closing the bedroom door behind him.

On entering the kitchen, he found Marge in the doorway of the scullery, her normally ruddy complexion drained of all colour.

‘Something’s happened in there. There’s blood splattered all about the place and there’s a knife lying in the sink.’

Magnus took Marge’s place in the doorway.

They had passed through the scullery without giving it a second thought, keen to check the kitchen and the other rooms. With its own light now on, Magnus could clearly see what Marge had described. His first thought was that they had entered via a crime scene.

‘We don’t touch anything else,’ Magnus said. ‘I’m calling 999.’

40

The call from Professor Pirie had interrupted the sequence of planned events for the evening, but only briefly, and only during the meal. McNab had even managed to be upbeat and civil in his response to the professor’s phone call, mainly because Ellie had been watching and listening to the interchange and McNab knew she liked the Orcadian.

Having dispensed with the interruption satisfactorily, McNab had got back to his plan, which had involved him serving up spaghetti from a local Italian restaurant together with an Italian red wine recommended by the proprietor.

They’d completed the meal with a whisky, a fine malt from the Spey Valley. Aroused more than inebriated, they’d then swiftly made their way to the bedroom, where McNab had got to examine the wonderful artwork on Ellie’s body close up. After which he’d fallen into a sound and satisfying sleep.

Which had lasted until now, when it was being shattered by the incessant drill of his mobile.

Reaching out groggily, McNab glanced at the screen to find an unidentifiable number.

‘DS McNab,’ he said, rising swiftly and heading for the sitting room.

‘DS Jones here, Stirling. It’s with regard to Karen Johnston, or Karen Marshall, who I understand you’re looking for?’

‘Go ahead,’ McNab said.

‘Professor Magnus Pirie called 999 last night and was subsequently put through to us. He’d been attempting to make contact with Mrs Johnston and found evidence of a possible assault at her cottage.’

‘And Karen?’

‘She wasn’t present. We’re searching for her now.’

‘Karen Johnston is a potential witness in the Mary McIntyre murder enquiry. I should have been informed of this last night,’ McNab said. ‘Is Professor Pirie still there?’