I was back at square one, and after the events of the last week – my God, had it only been a week? – I felt sluggish, as though I was trying to shake off the effects of a persistent head cold. I slowed down from jogging pace and stood, breathing heavily, under the spider-like tree that marked the last moments of Rose-Marie Bateman’s journey. Her friends all called her Rosie, but somehow calling her Rosie didn’t sit right with me. It didn’t afford her the respect she deserved.

Death. The shudder my body gave wasn’t just a result of the sweat cooling on my heated skin. This walkway used to be a favourite route. Now, even on a sunny day, it gave me the creeps.

I’d felt compelled to come past here on my run, revisit the place, remind myself of what was at the heart of the matter. The path down to the spot where Rose-Marie was found still sported the remnants of crime-scene tape, although someone had chosen to ignore it and it lay discarded to one side. What would one more set of footprints matter? I checked around to ensure I had no company, then walked down the path and along the riverside until I reached the spot where I’d stood guard over her body. Today the site seemed innocent, even cheerful with sunlight glinting off the water’s surface and the musical soft murmuring of the Water of Leith. The exuberant warbles of a bellbird, which would on any other day elicit a smile, seemed to add to the injustice. All traces of Rose-Marie’s passage and struggle for life had disappeared. How quickly nature erased and the world forgot.