The ACC’s attempt at further mollification was interrupted as a gong announced the Ball was about to commence. Lord Lagan led the way down towards the large marquee set up on the hotel lawns, waiting until there was enough privacy to speak to the ACC without anyone else being in earshot. “You told me this investigation was being closed down. Why is it that the first thing I hear is this detective of yours calling me in for questioning regarding an investigation into historic child abuse?” The words were hissed, completely at odds with the warm, cultured tones he’d been using seconds before.

“I told him not to reopen the case into the reporter’s death, but Oscar Anderson was found hanging from the same tree and he made the connection with the orphanage. Now the dead reporter’s notebook has turned up and the press have it.”

“What’s in it? Is there any mention of my name?”

The ACC looked decidedly uncomfortable, casting his eyes from side to side like a trapped animal seeking an escape. “It looks as if Brian Rankin gave Corstorphine your name before he shot himself.”

Lord Lagan was silent for a few seconds as they entered the marquee, passing another uniformed officer standing stiffly to attention at the entrance. His voice was back to being mellifluous. “So only the word of a dead man?”

“I couldn’t get my hands on the witness statements or the reporter’s notebook. There’s no knowing what they might contain.”

Lord Lagan looked at him with distaste. “You’d better make this all go away, unless you want to be responsible for a defamation case. And I will sue!”

The ACC attempted to pacify him, patting his arm much as one would a small dog, only to remove his hand hurriedly as he noticed Lord Lagan’s scornful expression. “I’ll personally be taking over the interview tomorrow, Archibald. Don’t worry, Corstorphine and his team won’t be having any more involvement from now on.”

They took their seats at the top table, greeting other dignitaries who joined them as the marquee filled. The sound of conversation took over until a glass was chimed in an unmistakable call for silence.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. Please be upstanding for a toast to Her Majesty the Queen.” Chairs scraped on wooden flooring as the entire audience stood, glasses raised to the canvas roof.

“The Queen.”

Two hundred voices echoed the words, before the first of many glassfuls tipped down throats. As they retook their seats, waiters draped white cloths over their arms and carried bowls of soup to the top table, circling the diners and placing the bowls down in one unified movement. It was, Lord Lagan felt, almost like a ballet – each move rehearsed and smooth. Nothing he saw gave him any cause for concern that there might be a murderer waiting nearby.