His other injuries were slight. He hadn’t crashed against rocks or the cliff face, but merely washed up on a partly sandy beach on the west of Orkney mainland, after the Atlantic had tossed him about for a while.

‘How many more bodies can we expect from MV Orlova?’ Sissons enquired, as though Rhona was responsible for the body count coming their way from the northern isles.

As Dr Walker cringed for her, Rhona said, ‘Only the Atlantic currents can tell you that.’

Entering the changing room, Rhona immediately sat down. The PM had felt more about McNab’s probable death than the poor victim on the table.

Although she’d toyed with the idea that McNab was in fact dead and would soon be dragged out of the Thames, not far from where Mark’s body had been retrieved . . . still she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, believe that to be true.

I would know if he were dead. Chrissy would know if he were dead.

‘You okay?’ Dr Walker said, appearing suddenly beside her.

‘Of course.’ Rhona rose and removed her mask. ‘Been here, there and everywhere the last couple of days. Travelling by helicopter will do that to you. Or at least to me.’

She stepped out of her suit and tossed it in the nearby basket.

A shout from the mortuary sent Dr Walker back inside, but not before he told her how sorry he was.

For what? That McNab is dead? Or that he hasn’t been found yet? she said silently to his retreating figure.

Rhona called Chrissy, keen to hear her voice. ‘Any word?’ she said.

‘Nothing . . . as yet,’ Chrissy added. ‘I’m clearing up here. Planning to head for the jazz club. Want to meet me there?’

A fleeting glimpse of home, empty of company and food, played with her briefly, before Rhona said, ‘I’ll get cleaned up and meet you there.’

The shower worked, up to a point. The beat of water took away the scent of death, but it didn’t remove the fear of it. Not hers, not this time, but of someone she cared about.

What might life be like without McNab?

Easier, certainly. Less annoying, less colourful, less real . . . definitely.

Sean crossed her mind. Any problems they may have had seemed superfluous and unimportant at this moment. Sean, Chrissy, McNab, Magnus, even Erling . . . All of them played a role in her life. All were the linchpins of her existence.

She stepped out of the shower. She would go to the jazz club. She would talk to Chrissy and she would re-engage with Sean.

That was life. That was reality. That was what McNab, wherever he was, would tell her to do . . . Dr MacLeod.