Corstorphine rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble rough against his fingers. The relentless string of events was beginning to take its toll, his personal hygiene held hostage to the need for sleep before the next day’s fresh horrors. “The only other person we have identified as an alleged abuser is living in London, and well enough protected from some insane murderer.”

“Insane?”

He turned towards Frankie, eyes red-rimmed where he’d been rubbing them to keep alert. “Perhaps. Don’t they say that it’s a fine line between insanity and genius? Whoever our murderer is, they’ve designed some extremely efficient methods to kill their victims without having to be present at the death.”

“Could be they’re squeamish, sir. Don’t like the sight of blood.”

“Possibly, Frankie. I’m open to all possibilities at the moment.” He changed tack. “We need Craig’s statement signed before he leaves. And has Bill finished preparing George Winter’s statement?”

“I’ll check, sir. If not, I’ll type Craig’s. I always knew my touch-typing course would come in useful one day.”

Corstorphine watched her as she spoke to the PC. The resigned look she sent his way told him she’d be typing for the next hour at least. He sat down in his office and looked up the number for Barlinnie. The prison staff weren’t keen to arrange an impromptu telephone interview with Simon Battle, making their displeasure felt by taking an eternity to remove him from his cell and into an interview room. Corstorphine waited; he needed an excuse to do nothing, to just sit with the receiver held to his ear whilst the world continued without him. A click announced someone on the other end of the line, followed by a hesitant voice querying who was there.

“This is Detective Inspector James Corstorphine, is that Simon Battle?”

A pause, then a reluctant response to the affirmative. “What do you want?” The voice betrayed anger, a reluctance to engage. “Thought you lot were coming here yesterday morning. Did you find something more interesting to do?”

“We had to turn back. Sheriff Anthony McCallum was reported missing. We found his body last night.”

“The laird? No way!” The line lay silent, waiting for confirmation or denial. The silence provided the answer Simon needed. “Fucking great! You’ve just made my day. Who got to him?”