“Lamb!” Corstorphine called out from the interview room and the PC poked his head around the door, wondering whether he needed to prepare to duck.

“Yes, sir?”

“Come in. Stop making the place look even more uncomfortable. Here, grab a seat.”

PC Lamb sat uncomfortably beside the DI, hoping he hadn’t been identified as the source of leaks for the newspaper stories. Corstorphine already had a shrewd idea it was him; he’d been spotted buying the French reporter drinks in a town bar – nothing stayed secret in the town for long. Then there were a few idiosyncratic turns of phrase used in the paper which Josephine Sables was unlikely to have learned during the time she’d been here, and the clumsy description of the minister’s death, incorporating the words ‘dead ringer’ in an extremely unsubtle way.

“You know the French reporter for the Courier, don’t you?”

Lamb’s crestfallen face was sufficient evidence for Corstorphine, but he had other more pressing concerns. “Do you know what part of France she’s from?”

Lamb’s look of relief would have been amusing in any other circumstances. “Paris, sir. She told me she’s from Paris. Came over here a year ago to improve her English and saw the reporter’s job advertised.”

“Unusual for a Scottish newspaper to employ a French reporter, isn’t it?”

“Well, she worked for Paris Match or something, some big newspaper. Impressed the Courier’s editor so much that he offered her the job there and then.”

Corstorphine frowned as he wrote neat notes in his notebook. “She’s never had any connection with Toulouse?”

“Not that she ever told me, sir.” Lamb decided it would be prudent to fight a rear-guard action. “I don’t know her that well, sir. Just bumped into her at a few places and had a brief chat.”

“OK. Thanks, you’ve answered one question.” Lamb’s relieved expression faltered as Corstorphine added, “For the moment. Frankie tells me your father works for Highland Geophysical Research?”

“Yes, sir, he’s the CEO.”

“Good. I want you to ask him whether he could do us a massive favour.”

“Yes, sir, certainly. I’m sure he’d be glad to – they’re looking for work now the A9 groundworks is winding down.”

Corstorphine passed over a sheet from the ordnance survey, an irregular outline marked in red biro prominent on the page. “If he can spare the equipment and manpower, I want this area checked with ground penetrating radar this morning, or as soon as humanly possible.”

“The site of the old orphanage gardens. What can I tell him you’re looking for, sir?”

“Graves. He’s looking for shallow unmarked graves that are the size of young children. Keep me informed.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want me to go now, sir?”