“I’ll get you a box and some packing material. You’ll have to be gentle with it, it’s just on a temporary jig.”

He packed the clockwork into a box, filled it with bubble wrap and sealed it with tape. “That should do you for now.”

Frankie was leaving when a thought occurred to her. “You said nobody in this country could have built it. Is there someone you know about who doesn’t live here?”

“France. There used to be a clockmaker in Toulouse called Henri Dupont. He made some unique clockwork mechanisms out of bone. It was something of a speciality for his workshop, although his designs were too macabre for most people’s taste.” He paused as Frankie struggled with the box and her notebook, laboriously writing down the name. “He died 5 years ago. A shame to see such an innovative clock artisan go. Still – time and tide…”

XXI WEDNESDAY 13:19

XXI
WEDNESDAY 13:19

Corstorphine drove the police Land Rover into the glen, turning off at the fork where the metalled road surface led all the way to the laird’s big house. The style was Victorian gothic; mock battlements adorned the roof and twin circular towers enhanced the castle-like look of the place. He drove straight in through the open, tall wrought iron gates into the courtyard, parking on loose gravel in front of a substantial double wooden door.

It was at least a year since he’d last been here, overseeing a security check for the insurers as well as the more nervous types in the judiciary administration. A quick glance upwards reassured him that the security cameras were still in place, nestling improbably beside stone gryphons and lions the original architect had specified as decorative touches. The doorbell consisted of a metal handle, attached to a length of cable that rang a bell in what Corstorphine supposed would originally have been the butler’s room. He gave it a pull and a faint clanging could be heard jangling from the centre of the house. Whilst he waited for the laird to make an appearance, he wondered why anyone would want to live in such an enormous old house in the middle of a deserted estate. Back in its heyday there would have been ten, twenty staff employed at the house. The butler, chef, gardeners, serving maids – enough to fill a small village. Now there was just the laird, and the occasional cleaner. Used as Corstorphine was to being on his own, it wasn’t something he would ever have actively sought for himself.