Through the office window he saw Phil Lamb adjusting his tie in the mirror he kept on his desk, then flicking an errant lock of hair back into place. The PC caught Corstorphine observing him, some sixth sense alerting him. Lamb waved at him, changing mid-wave into a slack salute and marched out of the office to pound the streets. Corstorphine sighed. How was he going to catch a murderer who left no trace when his only resource was a team of coppers eminently suited to a sleepy small-town patch? He had no delusions, the whole team were seen as second-rate coppers, including himself, left to police a backwater town and the surrounding area. Hamish was the oldest, hence most experienced cop there, but the desk sergeant needed a new adjective to describe the ponderous speed at which he undertook any activity. In effect he was already retired, propping up the front desk where his only excitement was dealing with the two or three members of the public who strayed into his domain each day. Phil Lamb was barely out of school, and it showed in his puerile behaviour – one day he might make a good cop but, for the time being, everyone had to be patient and teach him the ropes. Bill McAdam was a solid presence, a diligent if unimaginative policeman, a good man to have around if a drunk decided to take a swing at you, but he’d never make detective. Frankie was the only one he could rely upon for help with these murders, she was perceptive, a damn sight more perceptive than she let on. It would have to be the two of them – but they needed a break, just a bit of luck. The murderer would make a mistake, leave a fingerprint or DNA trace – they always did in the end.

VII
SUNDAY 18:20

Margo straightened, pulling her shoulders back to relieve the ache that had been building as she tended to the small vegetable plot outside the cottage. The sound of a diesel engine had alerted her, the mechanical noise an alien note in the soundscape she inhabited. A Land Rover approached, bumping up the rough track and leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Her eyes narrowed, recognising the laird’s vehicle – this was going to prove difficult.

She’d returned to the cottage immediately after leaving the police station, squandering what little money she possessed on a taxi to avoid a wait for the last bus and the 2km walk back along the single track down the glen. She had also wanted to avoid walking under the tree, blue police tape lending a carnivalesque feeling to the scene of a particularly gruesome death. The taxi driver had quizzed her as they had approached, and she fobbed him off with “Oscar has had an accident, and yes, he’s dead.” That had put an end to the conversation, the driver processing the information and impatient to disperse the news far and wide like a modern-day town crier. Margo was still in a state of shock, attempting to process the events of the last few days and coming to terms with what Oscar’s death meant for her. His presence haunted the deserted cottage as if he lay in wait behind every closed door, and, unable to settle, she had headed outside to work off her nervous energy attending to the garden.