‘Sincerely, I didn’t.’ He put a hand to his face, three fingers delicately cradling his forehead. ‘I used to worry myself sick that this day would come, but as the years went by, I thought about it less and less until I’d become almost convinced it never would. I used to have half an idea of what I’d say to him, but now I just don’t.’

Wilson’s eyes filled, rheumy and bloodshot.

‘He’s still my son,’ he said, his face contorting in the spasms of a sob.

Catherine gave him a moment but resisted offering a sympathetic face.

‘We need to know what happened,’ she said firmly.

Wilson composed himself, taking out a white cloth handkerchief and wiping his face.

‘I did it for Wilma,’ he said. ‘My late wife. It was all she wanted, a child. When you’re younger, it’s not something you worry about not having; you just assume it’ll happen. Christ, the lengths you go to in order to make sure it doesn’t happen …’

He shook his head wryly.

‘It just didn’t happen for her. For us. She had several miscarriages, and the doctors said each one made it less likely she’d carry to term in the future. They said it was getting dangerous for her, in fact. She became very depressed, very withdrawn. We decided, of course, that we’d apply to adopt, but we were on a long waiting list.’

He closed his eyes and turned his head, as though trying to shut out a memory, or maybe something that lay in his future.

‘Fletcher McDade was a friend of mine. We played golf together. I’d told him about Wilma.’

‘McDade?’ said Jasmine suddenly. ‘He’s Fletcher? He’s Cairns’ pal?’

‘Since they were cadets at Tulliallan, as far as I know,’ Catherine replied. ‘What about him?’

‘Never mind,’ Jasmine said, glancing towards Wilson. ‘It can wait.’

Catherine wondered why the girl hadn’t made the connection before, then realised they had never referred to him by his surname. Nobody ever did: he was Fletcher or Fletch to everybody on the force.

Wilson looked grateful for the interruption; all good lawyers knew how to benefit from a recess when they were in a hole. This was one even he wasn’t digging himself out of, however.

‘Fletcher came to see me in the middle of the night. I thought someone had died. Well, they had, but not the person I was told. Fletcher said some young girl had taken an overdose, some poor junkie, and they’d found a baby in the flat. He told me the child was barely a week old, that the girl had delivered it at home, out of her box on smack, and had only left the house after that to score. The birth had never been registered. The mother was dead and nobody knew about the baby.