Corstorphine had it easy in some ways, death was so much cleaner than a breakup and society allowed you time to grieve. At least she didn’t have children, something her ex had been wont to throw in her face during the last tumultuous year of their relationship when love had been replaced by its evil twin. How had it all gone wrong? It was a question she asked herself most days, searching for the faults inherent in herself that had made his love turn to hate. At the back of her mind she knew that the fault wasn’t hers alone, but the days had turned into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into years until they each blended into the kaleidoscope of their lives. Seen, but not seen. There, but not there – not really.

Douglas had been the first to realise – a romantic at heart, he felt the lack of constant renewal, he needed that mantra of love repeated ad nauseum or he simply stopped believing. Frankie was content with his presence, a comforting occupation of her personal space. Unlike him, she didn’t worship at the altar of love and when the prayers stopped, she didn’t even notice. Perhaps that’s what made him grow so angry, her simple acceptance of him rather than a constant renewing of her avowed love – she’d driven him away by not loving him in the way he wanted to be loved. Stroked, kissed, held; he needed constant reassurance, like a child.

Frankie stood, feeling warm carpet under bare feet. It was for the best, she wanted an equal partner – not a needy man-child. Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, teeth bared for the electric toothbrush, she decided the Danish woman was speaking crap. This day would be the same as all the others, with a side helping of two murders that needed solving.

The clock repairer’s workshop was sandwiched between a Chinese takeaway and a shop offering cut price mobiles and unlocking services. The street was home to a ragbag of such businesses: a couple of takeaways, a betting shop, a newsagents and a funeral parlour complete with purple plastic irises gathering dust in the sombre window. The word ‘dignitie’ was misspelled, leading her to worry how many gravestones in the town might present idiosyncratic messages to the living, cryptic comments about the deceased.

Inside the shop window, a selection of wrist watches shared space with a carriage clock whilst, further back in the dim recesses, she could just make out a grandfather clock. Every timepiece displayed a different time, none of which agreed with her phone’s clock. For some reason Pink Floyd’s track Time started playing in her head and she dismissed it with irritation as she pushed the door open. A bell attached to the door on a coil of brass rang in tuneless urgency to announce a customer, and a humpbacked figure eventually appeared behind the counter, peering up at her through pebble glasses as if a customer was indeed a rarity.