So the visitors had already arrived and they didn’t look remotely concerned about taking up residence near a crime scene. In fact, it resembled a party.

Spotting Greg’s Land Rover parked next to PC McGowan’s cop car, she scanned the area looking for Greg and thought she spotted his figure up near the house.

Even as that thought occurred, she heard the crack of a twig behind her.

Realizing there was no way she could leave quickly enough to avoid a challenge, she slipped the spyglass into her pocket and turned to face whoever was about to emerge from the trees behind her.

Greg

Spotting the glint of the glass from the nearby woods, he’d come to check who was spying on them. His first thought as he circled round to approach undetected was that it might be one of the gang from last night’s rampage, here to view the fallout of their escapade.

If so, he planned to give them a piece of his mind. Maybe even tell them he’d been a witness to their actions, before ordering them to fuck off or he would tell the police exactly who had destroyed the hot tub.

That would be preferable to a reporter who’d discovered there was a major crime scene at Blackrig’s infamous Party House.

But who would inform the press? Not Harry, but once the call went out to Inverness about a body being discovered, someone at HQ might well pass it on to a newspaper for an agreed payback. The most likely informer had to be Aidan Stratton. Getting the Party House in the news again would be seen by him as a plus at any time.

His own anger at the imagined intrusion had grown with every step and was at its height as he approached the fantasy tree where he and Joanne had coupled so wildly on her arrival.

That’s where he cracked a twig loud enough for the watcher to hear. He’d halted then, listening for the attempted getaway, which he intended to pursue.

In this he was wrong. The spy remained where they were, even though it was clear that they’d heard his noisy approach.

Startled now himself, he realized the slight figure wasn’t one of the six men from last night, or a reporter, but that of Joanne, who now turned to look at him.

It was difficult to say who was the most embarrassed by her discovery, Joanne or himself.

‘Greg, I was just looking for you. I saw your Land Rover . . .’ She drew to a halt, and he knew it was because of the anger suffusing his face.

‘What are you doing here?’ he heard himself demand.

He could see he’d made a mistake right away by her expression. Her embarrassment had gone, defiance replacing it.