Drew was beside her in moments, passing her the phone and holding open the door to let her out, an unspoken team tag. He’d been awake anyway from when Fraser came in and played the bad-dream card. Drew knew that any call on her mobile could be his cue to take over bed- or bathtime supervision, and at three in the morning it was a certainty that the child-comforting baton would have to pass to him. How he must hate the sound of her ringtone, she thought. If it wasn’t waking him up in the middle of the night, it was heralding an evening in on his own and frequently the waste of whatever he might have spent two hours cooking.

He seldom complained, though sometimes she thought it might be reassuring if he did. Nobody could be that tolerant without having some ghastly hidden dark side to compensate, could they? Perhaps periodically getting sole custody of the Sky remote for the evening was compensation enough. It probably helped that the boys tended to act up less whenever she was out of an evening. They seemed to understand that if they were down to one parent, they’d better stay onside. That was how it worked for him, anyway. The novelty value of a night when Daddy was out and just Mummy was home tended to bring out the wee chancer in both of them.

She walked down the hall, out of earshot of the boys’ room, before answering the phone. It was Sunderland. The Almighty.

He gave her the script, staccato and succinct as only a detective chief super could be when he was delegating decisively in order to get back to bed.

‘I appreciate you’re not officially back yet, but I’d a notion you’d want this one,’ he said. ‘There’s certain of your peers want you on it too, but don’t ever let on I told you that.’

She felt her mouth go dry as she processed the details, simultaneously wondering why he was buttering her up. Could be in compensation for the late call when she was still on leave, but it was seldom that obvious with Sunderland. Why would her peers – whoever he might be talking about – particularly want her on this case, and why would he be so indiscreet as to relay this tacit (and doubtless private) vote of confidence? She shook it off. No point dwelling upon the vicissitudes and outright caprice of a man like Sunderland, especially as that might be precisely what he intended. When it came to that level of police politics, she had long since adopted the wisdom of the big computer in War Games: ‘the only way to win is not to play’.

‘Laura Geddes is on her way,’ Sunderland informed her. ‘She’ll pick you up in five. Don’t say I’m not good to you, McLeod.’