The raised blue eyes told McNab he’d been right about the presence of Dr Walker, whose gaze conveyed a mix of sympathy and humour as they both awaited Sissons’s reaction to McNab’s arrival. However, the pathologist didn’t even acknowledge his entry, intent as he was on examining the victim’s head.

McNab, seeing they’d reached that stage in the proceedings, made his presence known and immediately set about relating Rhona’s queries.

‘Dr MacLeod said to say that she noticed what looked like an earlier wound on the back of the head, which may have been in contact with a birch tree.’

Sissons managed to ignore the fact that this statement had emerged from McNab’s mouth and said, ‘Her reason for thinking this?’

‘She collected forensic evidence of what appeared to be an altercation in a wooded location near A.C.E Target Sports, Portree, prior to finding the body on the beach.’

‘And she thinks the victim may be the recipient of this previous violence?’

‘It’s a possibility. Also she asked me to tell you that the rocks the victim hit on his way down the cliff are black basalt, but she’s concerned the face wounds may have obliterated an earlier wound, maybe from a knife or a tomahawk.’

The pathologist gave a snort at this pronouncement, which might actually have been laughter. Something McNab had never heard emerge from Sissons before.

By the looks of those in attendance, the sound was causing a bout of suppressed hysteria. McNab felt for them, since he too was seized by an overwhelming need to laugh. Dr Walker turned away in order to compose himself, and one of the forensics quickly excused herself to go to the toilet.

‘So we’re in the Wild West now, Sergeant? “Portree Kid” country.’

McNab had no idea what the pathologist was referring to, and also didn’t want to ask.

‘Check out “The Portree Kid” on YouTube,’ Sissons surprised McNab by saying.

McNab thought he might just do that. Anything that made the sour-faced bugger laugh should be investigated.

Calm began to descend as Dr Sissons’s voice returned to its normal steely sarcasm.

‘So we’re looking for plant and tree residue, possibly birch, plus metal and basalt deposits. Okay, let’s take a closer look at the wounds.’

McNab exited before any drills or saws made an appearance and, discarding his suit, headed out of the mortuary, intent now on checking on his patient.

En route he used Mr Google to answer his query as to what the hell ‘The Portree Kid’ was, and found it to be a song, written by Bill Hill and made famous by the Corries, a folk duo he remembered his mother listening to. Moving through the usual crowds in the Death Star, he stuck in his earplugs and played it, suddenly recalling his mother’s smiles when watching the Corries perform on the TV.