“I’m DC Frankie McKenzie. I was wondering if you may be able to help me?”

“Have you brought it with you?”

“I’m sorry. Have I brought what with me?”

“What’s that? You’ll have to speak up. Oh, one moment.” He fumbled with his ears, retrieving two hearing aids and took them over to a large magnifying glass attached to the end of the counter. “I’ll just be a minute,” he advised, turning on a light and concentrating on replacing two small button batteries. Satisfied his hearing aids were working, he inserted them back into his ears and smiled beatifically up at Frankie.

“Sorry, my dear. What was that again?”

Frankie took a deep breath and started again. “My name is DC Frankie McKenzie. I’m a detective at the local police station. We’re looking for someone to help us with one of our cases, someone who understands clockwork mechanisms.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I’m a horologist. Been working with clocks for nigh on sixty years. What’s wrong with the police station clock, is it running slow?”

She wondered if the only clockmaker in the town was going to be of any help. “It’s not the police station clock.” She said each word with emphasis, speaking slowly to avoid misunderstanding. “We have a crime which we believe involves a clockwork mechanism. Would you be able to look at what we’ve found and advise us?”

“Clockwork mechanisms?” He said the words as if he doubted her sanity. “You say the crime involved a clockwork mechanism?”

“That’s right.” Frankie began to think up ways of terminating a conversation that had the potential to continue in circles for hours to come. The small shop was restless with sound, manic ticks emanating from the smaller clocks and watches, to the statelier measured tick, tock issuing from the larger timepieces. Somewhere out the back, a clock chimed three o’clock, completely at odds with reality.

“Well, of course I can help!” The shopkeeper peered up at her, indignation shining from each pebble lens. “There’s nobody knows more about clocks than I do.” He held his chin for a moment, “unless you go to Manchester. There’s a very good group of horologists in Manchester.”

“We’d rather keep it local if we can,” Frankie answered.

“Well, bring me what you’ve got and I’ll have a look.”

“Thank you, Mr…?” Frankie realised she was talking to his back as he disappeared back into whatever room was behind the counter. No answer came back from her query, quite likely he hadn’t heard her. She tugged on the door and the spring-loaded bell announced her departure from the shop.

At the station, Corstorphine assembled the team in front of the crazy board. The minister and Oscar’s pictures both took pride of place and a new photograph adorned the board in between both mugshots. A young woman, long auburn hair framing an intelligent face. Her name was displayed under the photograph – June Stevens.

“Morning, all.” Corstorphine found this opening remark faintly reminiscent of the days of black and white TV, but only Hamish was old enough to have even heard of Dixon of Dock Green, and he had a humour deficit. “Just to update you all, we have found bone gears and a 1997 papal coin at both the scene of Oscar’s death and in the rubble at the bottom of the bell tower where the minister of St Cuthbert’s died. We need to find whatever connects these two murders. The only working hypothesis I have is from the date on the coins, the year June Stevens was found hanging from the tree in Glen Mhor. I believe her death may be linked to these other two murders, but for the time being we have no corroborating evidence that can back this up.” He pointed at June’s photograph, her face smiling confidently into the camera lens. “If any of you have any ideas how these two are connected, now’s the time to speak up.”