The reporter’s smile reminded Frankie of the look a cat gives a mouse when it has been allowed to escape, only to have a clawed paw impale its tail. Her eyes were inquisitive but also possessed a calculating edge that hadn’t been there before. “Frankie.” Her name was spoken like a gentle reprimand. “We’ve already been told the roof timbers had been sawn through, and I do not think the minister was capable of climbing up the bell tower without assistance.” Josephine adopted a conciliatory tone. “We have to tell our public what we know, otherwise we are no better than those national newspapers that sell pictures of fake breasts along with fake news.” Her hands reached across the table towards Frankie, the act of a supplicant searching for something. “We can help each other, Frankie. I promise to pass on whatever we discover if you can keep me as up to date with developments as you can. This story will go national, you know that. Soon there will be reporters all over the town, and they won’t care who or what they trample over in search of a story. You give me exclusive access and in return we can make the story more sympathetic, show the police in a better light”

Frankie felt as trapped as the mouse. “What are you going to print about the minister?”

Josephine nodded, pulling her hands back across the table to flick over the Mac keyboard, almost silent keystrokes punctuating the silence in the room. “The next edition will be in the shops tomorrow. If you have a line of questioning that the public may be able to help with, fine – we’ll print a request for help.” She stood up, announcing that the interview was over. “In the meantime, I’ll start searching for June Stevens’ notebook for you. Do you have contact details?”

Frankie passed over a dog-eared business card with her phone number and took a pristine card from Josephine in return. As they walked back down the corridor Josephine lifted an A3 sheet from a printer. The headlines screamed Minister of St Cuthbert’s crushed under Church Bell. It was folded in half before Frankie could read any further, Josephine passing it to her almost conspiratorially before opening the door that led out to the street. “Thank you for visiting me, Frankie. I’m sure we can work well together.”

As the door closed and Frankie stood looking back up at the Courier offices, she wondered who’d been interviewing whom? Making her way back to the car, Frankie made a mental shortlist of whoever may have been feeding the paper information. It wasn’t Corstorphine, it sure as hell wasn’t her – that left the sergeant and the two uniforms. The only other sources were the fire crew and the building surveyors. Christ, it was a mess! As soon as the print hit the newsstands tomorrow the proverbial shit would hit the fan. One thing she could agree with Josephine on, two unusual murders happening this close together in the same town would bring the major papers and broadcast news reporters to the town in droves. She returned to the station, one part of her mind running through how she was going to tell Corstorphine that the press were all over the story, the other part wondering how a French woman came to be working as a reporter on a provincial Scottish newspaper.