Oh Moira Clark, where are you now? Catherine thought.

‘A suggestion to which Graeme Sunderland duly assented,’ said Abercorn. ‘How did he fit in, way back when?’

Fallan was silent for a while, and before he finally spoke, he gave out a very quiet sigh through his nostrils, one you really had to be listening for to notice. He looked conflicted, and Catherine suspected that whatever he said next wouldn’t be the whole truth.

‘Sunderland won’t be part of this,’ he said eventually. He spoke with conviction, but his evident determination to close the issue invited all the more scrutiny.

‘How do you know?’

He paused again, and Catherine imagined she could see him blanking out the lines of a document in his mind before handing it over.

‘My dad, Cairns and Raeside were a tight wee crew. Worked together for years. Sunderland was the new kid, dumped into Gallowhaugh on his first CID posting. He would have been exposed to some of what they got up to, but only to see if he had a taste for it. He wouldn’t have been allowed to know about the heavy graft; just petty stuff he was in no position to do anything about. He didn’t have a taste for it, though. He got out again fast. He’s the one I blame least.’

‘Blame least for what?’ asked Laura.

‘For turning a blind eye to what they could plainly see in my house. My father was a brutal man, a very brutal man. You don’t become what I did if you’re brought up by Ned Flanders. They all pretended they never saw what was going on, even when it was staring them in the face, because they were too scared to confront him. I was too scared to stand up to him as well, but I was a kid. They were supposed to be upholding the law, protecting the vulnerable. Some fucking detectives. Sunderland was the only one who at least seemed ashamed of his cowardice. He’s not your man, believe me. Too young, for one thing.’

‘Too young for what?’ Catherine asked.

‘You said Cairns is pushing retirement. Raeside must be too. I think you’re looking for someone else who isn’t going to be punching in for much longer.’

‘Fletcher again,’ Catherine said, Abercorn returning her gaze by way of concurrence.

‘How much heroin are we talking about?’ Fallan asked. ‘Realistically.’

‘Three million wholesale,’ said Abercorn. ‘That’s what Frankie Callahan was paying per shipment, according to our sources. Pure and uncut.’

‘Sounds to me like they’ve cooked up a wee scheme to boost their pensions,’ Fallan suggested.

Catherine recalled her words to Abercorn a week ago, about Cairns and Fletch.