With a single-minded focus, he concentrated on the crazy board. Of the alleged abusers only Lord Lagan remained alive; the last of the names provided by William Booth and Simon Battle. At least that was sufficient confirmation that the name in the reporter’s notebook was worthy of investigation. Staring at the laird’s photograph, Corstorphine was taken back to the conversation he’d had with Frankie just four days ago, although it seemed a lifetime away. She’d mentioned the gamekeeper, John Ackerman, saying that the sheriff had it coming, that he might be in danger. He’d dismissed it at the time, had taken Ackerman’s warning as bravado, and then they’d found the laird’s body. The gamekeeper had already been eliminated as Oscar’s murderer; his alibi held for the week during which the snare must have been set, although he’d been placed at the laird’s house on the day of his disappearance. Did he have the ability to design the laird’s trap and put it into place in the weeks before his death? More to the point, Corstorphine had not only failed to protect the laird, but had given Brian sufficient time to arrange his suicide. And there was the last potential victim staring haughtily out from his position next to the laird – Lord Lagan. Was he as safe as Corstorphine thought? Tucked away in his London home or sitting in the House of Lords? A sudden premonition came to him and a chill ran down his spine as he searched online for the Inverness Ball, a gathering of the great and good of the Highlands. It was to be held that same night and Lord Lagan was almost certain to be in attendance. If the killer knew all of his other victims’ moves so well, surely he’d be cognisant of the fact that Lord Lagan always had an invite to the ball? He checked his watch, 14:20. The ball was scheduled to begin at 19:00 that evening, in a big marquee in the grounds of the Strathcarron Hotel. If his hunch was right, there would likely be an attempt on Lord Lagan’s life tonight. He had to be there, if only to see if he could recognise someone who might be the murderer.

First, though, the press would have to be dealt with. Corstorphine opened the station door and stood on the step, watching as the reporters and camera crews surged towards him like piranhas in a feeding frenzy. Corstorphine gave the press a few seconds to settle, cameras jostling for position and reporters arranging themselves in a self-imposed hierarchy, then he started. “Thank you for your patience. I’m Detective Inspector James Corstorphine and I’m leading the investigation into the recent murders. I’d like to make a brief statement and then I’ll take some questions.” He took a deep breath, looked straight ahead and began.