Corstorphine threw on some clothes and drove to the station, his mind freewheeling over the dramatic events of the last week. Whilst obviously trying to keep open minds, they had been convinced they were looking for a man, someone strong and agile enough to spy on the gamekeeper and laird, climb the Hanging Tree and bell tower, someone who possessed the cold analytical fury to plan each death down to the last detail. If it was a woman behind the murders, then she must have had a connection to the orphanage – and Margo McDonald was the only suspect he had that fitted the bill.

The station was dark when Corstorphine arrived, thankfully free of any reporters blocking the entrance. He entered his password into the computer and downloaded the video sent from the Inverness police. The image showed a floodlit parking area adjacent to the hotel, timestamp in the upper right corner of the frame telling him the footage was from the previous day at 21:14. The picture had the peculiar grainy effect that night vision footage always displayed, reducing the level of detail to well below anything of any practical use. A figure appeared in the frame, walking towards what he took to be Lord Lagan’s car. A package showed under an arm; it was too far away to make out the face but the figure looked feminine – something in her build, her walk; if only he could see her face more clearly. She lifted her head, almost as if she knew she was being observed and gave a little wave towards the camera. At that point she must have operated a car remote because the car’s indicators flashed in response, overloading the night vision camera and wiping out her image. By the time the image stabilised she was in the car, moving around the driving seat. Whatever she was doing took under thirty seconds, then she left the car with what looked like the same package under her arm. Corstorphine could only see her back as she disappeared out of the frame.

“Shit!” The expletive was heartfelt. There was nothing he could use from the footage, they’d need a better picture from somewhere. Whoever this was it certainly wasn’t Margo; this woman had a slimmer build and appeared a good head taller. He checked his mobile for the last call, dialling the DCI’s number.

“DI Corstorphine here, sir,” he answered in response to the DCI’s brusque acknowledgement. “There’s nothing I can get from the footage, sorry.”