The dogs lay listless, panting in a pool of the laird’s blood which already was starting to congeal on their matted fur. Their stomachs were full, for now, but the thirst remained. The laird stared at the blood-spattered white walls, eyes unseeing. His body resembled a badly butchered carcass, white bones protruding from red flesh. Mercifully the dogs had not eaten his face, but the expression that remained was not one that anyone witnessing it would easily forget.

On the floor, the hourglass still counted down the hours. It was at least a day out in its calculation of how long the laird had left to live – but then, death by dehydration is not an exact science, especially when you’ve added two Rhodesian Ridgebacks and a box of salted crisps into the equation.

Outside, the sun made leisurely progress behind the trees, sinking towards a horizon turned blood red. The dogs were unable to appreciate the poetic symmetry of colour bestowed on the interior of the cold store as the light turned to a diffuse ochre. As Thursday drew to a close, they lay stiff, cold and lifeless next to their butchered master on the bloodstained floor.

XXIV THURSDAY 08:17

XXIV
THURSDAY 08:17

Frankie was driving the patrol car to Glasgow, allowing Corstorphine the luxury of being a passenger and free to work through his thoughts as they drove to Barlinnie. Last night had been a revelation for him as he shared a meal with Jenny; they had talked completely naturally for three hours without any of the awkwardness that had accompanied their first meeting. She’d made him laugh several times, which was akin to a miracle given the stress he was under, and the conversation had flowed as easily as the drink. She’d asked him about the murders, nothing surprising there since the whole town was avidly buying copies of the Courier and following the orphanage allegations in as much detail as the paper was allowed to print.

He’d let it slip that they’d found bone mechanisms at each scene, the words escaping his mouth before he was able to stop himself. He’d shrugged it off, fairly certain the Courier had already covered this anyway, but she’d been fascinated. In hindsight, he had told her too much. Normally he didn’t ever drink more than a small glass of wine with his meal, preferring not to be faced with the wrong end of a breathalyser at the end of an evening, but the drink just kept flowing and he had ended up booking a taxi for them both. Memories of a lingering farewell remained at the front of his mind and he smiled at the recollection like a teenage boy remembering his first kiss.