Leaving Frankie to work the case on her own felt like a dereliction of duty, and it was in a conflicted state of mind that he crossed the car park, raising a hand in farewell to her outline in the office window. Not that there was much more that he could do without the forensics report. The vision of Oscar’s torn body hanging from the tree remained fresh in his memory and it took an effort of will to delete the image. He wanted to go home, sink into the settee with the TV on and a large single malt – but he had arranged to meet this woman. Corstorphine was too much the gentleman to stand her up, no matter how Oscar’s death had affected him.

He checked the car dashboard, 19:15. Still in time to make his pre-arranged date at the village inn, some way out of town. Raising himself slightly in the driver’s seat, Corstorphine appraised his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Hair touched with grey, but no sign yet of the widow’s peak that had adorned his father’s head at this same age. Did he look forty-one? His hazel eyes engaged with their serious reflection, balancing the crooked ridge of a broken nose, the result of an overly enthusiastic arrest in his younger days. He had a face his wife used to describe variously as ‘characterful’ or ‘rugged’. Towards the end, anchored to the hospital bed with a morphine drip for the pain, her shaking hand had brushed his wet cheek and with a voice more air than sound had told him it was ‘lived-in’.

Corstorphine still felt guilty whenever he met another woman, a concern that he was being unfaithful, disrespectful. His wife still sat next to him in his imagination, a comforting presence giving him ‘that look’ which told him he was being stupid, or stubborn, or frequently both.

“Go on and live life. That’s the only gift you can give me. Live for both of us.” It was, he felt, an admonishment to grief. They were among the last words she’d spoken, whispered with eyes momentarily unclouded before a replacement morphine drip took effect. Words that had wounded him deeply. He turned to look at her, sitting beside him as he manoeuvred out of the station car park and her smile was benediction enough. Corstorphine addressed the empty air. “You’re right. I know.”

The road followed the edge of a loch, grey waters cresting into white peaks as the wind intensified, miniature white horses riding each crest. Pine trees bent their tall heads, inclining away from the prevailing westerly, fresh in from the Atlantic. A bird hung motionless in the agitated sky, an expert aviator bending nature’s force to hold itself effortlessly suspended in space. Corstorphine gave up trying to identify it as he held the car to the curve of the road. Too small for an eagle, probably a buzzard searching for an easy meal – purveyor of the finest road kill. He envied the bird its inherent ability to master the elements. For too long now he felt his life had been similarly suspended, hanging at some random point but exhibiting none of the graceful skill the bird presented. No, Corstorphine thought ruefully, his motion through life was more the stumbling random walk of the town drunk, greeting each new day with the dull surprise that he had managed to get this far without falling flat on his face.