“Christ, what a mess.” He spoke the words under his breath as he climbed into the police car. “What a fucking mess.” A feeling of guilt washed over him like an oily tide. Brian would still be alive if he’d only taken him into custody first thing. There had been enough evidence to hold him with William Booth’s statement, never mind the other supporting statements. A misplaced sense of loyalty had encouraged him to let Rankin go, a gesture towards a friendship that had existed since the day they’d first met. If anyone was guilty of Rankin’s death, his culpability played a large part.

He left the two women wrapped in each other’s arms, acutely aware of Molly’s accusing eyes following him as he drove away.

XXX FRIDAY 14:10

XXX
FRIDAY 14:10

Corstorphine met Hamish’s questioning expression as he pushed past the huddle of reporters crowding the police station entrance, ignoring the clamour of questions and waiting until the sergeant had locked the door behind him before answering his mute query.

“Brian’s dead. I found his body in the garage.”

“Brian? Dead? What happened?” The questions tumbled over each other, words uttered in disbelief. “God. Poor Molly! What happened, was it an accident?”

“Suicide. He shot himself in the head.”

“Shot himself?” The desk sergeant was reduced to parroting Corstorphine’s words back at him, standing frozen in shock. Hamish noticed the evidence bag for the first time as Corstorphine withdrew it from his pocket.

“Can you put this somewhere safe? Frankie’s with her. She’ll stay until the body’s been dealt with. Molly’s sister is on her way, she’ll be well looked after.”

The desk sergeant carried the package as if it was contagious, the plastic bag gingerly held pinched between finger and thumb. Corstorphine sat down heavily in his office chair, head bowed in exhaustion, propped in his hands. Four people had now died in the space of the last seven days, five children were being exhumed from shallow graves – how many more bodies would be found before this was over? He logged into his computer, searching through the ever-growing list of emails and dismissing each one as he opened them. Nothing new from forensics, nothing on the search for any orphanage children who’d left and by all accounts had disappeared without trace, nothing on June Stevens’ missing daughter – Abigail Stevens. “What was it you knew, Brian? Why kill yourself?” The questions fell on empty air.