“Look, I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, James, but it’s already gone too far. I want my lawyer present and I want to make my phone call. You have that on tape.”

Corstorphine nodded. This wasn’t unexpected. “That is your right. Make your call.” He passed over the old detective’s mobile. “Just the one call, Brian, and we’ll be keeping hold of your phone so don’t try and be clever.”

Brian gave him a look that would have had Corstorphine backing down previously. Not now.

“Some privacy, please, and turn the recorder off.”

Corstorphine stood up, motioning the sergeant to accompany him. He stood outside, pulling the door closed. Before it shut completely, he spoke. “And I wouldn’t rush to get out of here Brian, I don’t think it’s particularly safe for orphanage visitors at the moment.” He pulled the door shut, taking satisfaction in the old DI’s worried expression.

They watched through the glass as the ex-DI made a single call, noticed him glance towards the one-way mirror they stood behind before placing the phone back on the table. “Pass the phone out to me, Hamish, quickly. Before it needs his permission to unlock it again. Sit with him, act the daft laddie, you don’t tell him anything – alright?”

“Sir,” Hamish replied uncomfortably, his loyalties split between his new boss and the old one. He remembered the Hanging Tree though, the suicide that didn’t look like a suicide and went back into the room to pass the mobile out to Corstorphine.

A quick check of recent numbers showed that Rankin had spoken to the sheriff on five occasions that week, plus a couple of times to the Assistant Chief Constable, dating back to the first time Corstorphine had mentioned the orphanage. That explained the ACC’s sudden interest in the suicide investigation. There were a few numbers he didn’t recognise. Google returned local tradesmen, nothing of interest until he saw the local MP’s number. That call was made Monday evening, just after Corstorphine had paid his first home visit to the retired detective, and the Right Honourable Reginald Lagan had made an appearance at the police station the very next morning. Corstorphine stroked his chin. What would bring a Member of Parliament up from London overnight to put pressure on a small-town police investigation? He thought he had the answer.

The clock ticked towards 9:30. Where was that bloody solicitor? As if on cue the front door buzzer sounded. Corstorphine recognised the skull-like features of the town’s most eminent and only criminal lawyer through the glass partition. He keyed the door lock to let him enter.

“Morning, Corstorphine. Now, what’s all this nonsense with Brian in the interview room? Has there been some sort of administrative mix up or something?”