He waited a few more minutes without any response, not unduly surprising as there were no other vehicles to be seen. There hadn’t been an answer to the landline either and the answering machine hadn’t worked. Corstorphine decided to take the opportunity to have a look around. He could always claim he was undertaking another security check if the laird reviewed the CCTV footage, only to find him peering through the windows. There was nothing of any note to be seen at the front, but around the side a small window had been smashed and the frame lay open. Senses suddenly alert, Corstorphine checked his mobile for a signal – unsurprisingly there was none. He keyed the radio. “Whisky tango, this is Sierra one-four, are you receiving, over?” A burst of static was his only reply.

“Bloody hills!” One of the disadvantages to living in one of the more scenic and wild areas of Scotland was that radio transmissions were unreliable at best, especially when hemmed in on all sides by mountain-sized chunks of granite. He returned to the car, putting on his latex gloves, hi-vis jacket and belt complete with the tools of his trade – torch, cuffs, pepper spray and truncheon. If whoever had entered the house through the window was still there, then he’d just alerted them by ringing the doorbell. There was nothing else for it but to climb in, a feat more easily visualised than accomplished – especially with all the equipment hanging from his waist. After a short struggle, Corstorphine stood in a cloakroom, its door wide open, giving a clear view of the empty hall. He shouted into the empty space. “Police! There’s nowhere to hide so you may as well come out.”

He listened, nothing but the sound of an empty building. “Sod it,” Corstorphine advised himself quietly, “I’ll have to search the bloody place.” At the back of his mind was the thought that this gave him the opportunity to have a good poke around into the laird’s life, unless whoever had broken into the house was still there. Moving as quietly as he could, Corstorphine explored the rooms on the ground floor, stopping when he noticed drops of blood on a door handle. Easing the door open without touching the handle he cautiously peered inside. It was a study – nobody there, although there were signs that someone had been rifling through the desk drawers – several papers littered the floor. He spotted the landline phone. Now he could call in reinforcements.

“Hamish, it’s James here.” Corstorphine forestalled the desk sergeant’s lugubrious announcement to advise the caller they’d reached the police station. “Are Frankie and the constables there?”

There was a short pause and Corstorphine could envisage the sergeant walking into the office to perform a headcount. “DC McKenzie has just arrived, sir, and PC Lamb is at his desk.”