Before her day’s shift had begun she’d detoured by the hospital to check on Ewan and been allowed in to see him, just for a few moments, by the careworn Dr Fraser, who was obviously concerned that his coma was persisting without sign of recovery. Grace had sat by Ewan’s bedside and clasped his hand while speaking to him softly. ‘Ewan, it’s me. It’s Grace. Won’t you please come back to us?’ It was so awful to see him lying there, hooked up to machines and covered in tubes and wires. He looked shrivelled and lifeless and it was impossible to know what, if anything, was happening inside his mind. She had left the hospital in tears.

Also distracting her from her work was the memory of her encounter with the intriguing stranger she’d met last night, and the perplexing things he’d told her. She couldn’t get them out of her head. She’d lain awake half the night, puzzling.

Nor could she forget the sound of his voice or the intensity of his eyes as he’d talked. It had been as though nothing and nobody else in the world existed at that moment. Just her, him and the crackling fire that flickered in his pupils. There was something about this guy Hope. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he was something else entirely. She liked him. In fact, if she was honest with herself, maybe she liked him a little too damn much.

When she finally got sick of writing reports about stolen tractor parts, she switched into another part of the police computer system and made a couple of calls to check on what was happening with Angus Baird and his two brawler friends. She was gratified to learn that all three of them were scheduled to appear before the Sheriff Court in three days’ time, accused of breaching the peace. Baird was still in hospital with concussion, which came as no surprise to Grace. The other two were being bound over in jail until their court date, because of their previous convictions for violence. Silly bastards.

The office space that Grace shared with her fellow officers was a cramped cubicle that smelled of laundered police uniforms, the aftershave of the mostly male coppers, and the bad coffee from the machine down the hallway. The peculiar brown liquid it dispensed was generally referred to as ‘the shits’, but they all nevertheless consumed it in endless quantities. She was thinking of going to fetch a cup when one of her colleagues, a somewhat hyperactive young constable called Pete Finnigan, came by with one of the ready smiles he always had for her, and some surprising news.

‘Hey, Cap’n.’ He thought it was amusing to call her that, because of her surname. Spot the Star Trek geek.

Grace wasn’t really in the mood for a chat, but she offered back a friendly smile. ‘Hi, Pete.’