The bloodstains all over Sammy’s house were a puzzler too; presumably he had been intending to clean up when he got back. His ingenious plan had evidently been to dump the body in the canal and make it look like an accident: two pals whose drunken high jinks had ended in tragedy. The saddest thing was that at the time, it probably all made sense inside Sammy’s booze-pickled mind. Unfortunately, aside from his failure to anticipate pretty much all modern forensic and criminal investigation techniques, as he was still utterly blitzed, the stupid bastard had fallen in right behind his deceased ex-pal.

It was presumably a testimony to his resourcefulness in sourcing alcohol while in jail awaiting trial that he was still maintaining a plea of not guilty. People would laugh when she told them about it later, but to be honest, it was pissing Catherine off. She knew that due process had to be observed, but she wondered what it was costing the public in order to reach such a foregone conclusion. More than this waster had cumulatively earned, she bet. The bugger knew fine he was guilty, knew he was going down, but he was getting everyone else’s money’s worth.

There was a gaggle of people in front of her, checking the cases, the hanging monitors as always perversely reminding her of departure boards. When Sammy’s flight was called, he’d be going for a very long holiday indeed. As she scanned the screens, looking over a host of heads, she spotted a familiar figure walking hurriedly along the corridor, carrying a sheaf of files under one arm. It was Dominic Wilson, the young anointed of the Procurator Fiscal’s office and scion of that same office’s most formidable adversary, Ruaraidh Wilson QC. He was wearing a three-piece suit just the silvery side of charcoal, the effect both a little flamboyant and at the same time prematurely ageing. It reminded her of something and she could have kicked herself that it took a second or so to work out what. He was affecting his old man’s style. Was he taking the piss, some kind of calculated insult, or was it indicative that he was a little closer to his father than some people wanted to believe? Possibly a bit of both. Had there been a rapprochement? Or can you just not escape what’s bred in the bone?

His head was down and he didn’t appear to have seen her; or just as likely his head was down because he had seen her first. This would indicate he didn’t want to talk to her, and if that was the case, then it confirmed her suspicions that there was something specific he didn’t want to talk about.

‘Good morning, Dominic,’ she said, stepping into his path to intercept him.

He pretended to act surprised.

‘Oh, hi, Catherine. How you doing? You here for the incredible floating jakey?’

‘Yes, I—’