Corstorphine’s eyes locked with hers as he processed the information. “Hamish mentioned two days ago that Oscar had accused the minister of abusing him, he was just starting at school at the time. They treated it as a child’s fantasy, attention-seeking behaviour from a disturbed child, only Hamish wasn’t convinced Oscar was lying even though nothing came of it.”

“Is it the sort of thing a five-year-old child would invent, sir?” Frankie’s voice betrayed her outrage.

“Things are different now,” Corstorphine started to explain only to be cut short.

“He’d not have told Margo the same story if he’d made it up. How does that fit with his ‘big man’ image? It’s not something he’d mention unless…”

“Unless it was true?” Corstorphine finished the sentence for her. “Possibly. Or he’d made it true by dwelling on a false memory. Either way, the minister is beyond our reach now.” He rubbed his fingers across his temple as if attempting to alleviate a headache. “Hamish made the point, if Oscar was seeking revenge on the minister, who killed Oscar? Added to which it looks very much as if they were both killed by the same person.” He shook his head in frustration. “No, there’s more to this, but the link has to be investigated. What do we know about the staff at the orphanage?”

“The group running it were the Sisters of Holy Mercy.”

“Holy fuck! The same bunch that have been convicted of child abuse all over the world? How did this happen under our noses? Someone must have been aware of what was going on? Get a list of everyone working at the orphanage, from the gardener through to the Mother fucking Superior – and find as many regular visitors to the orphanage as you can. Try social services, they might have taken over the records when the orphanage closed.”

Frankie passed Hamish on the way out. He was carrying an old notebook, the type that bobbies carried on the beat back in the 80s. She grabbed her coat; the council offices were the only place that might still hold any relevant information about the orphanage.

“Come in, Hamish, sit down.” Corstorphine ran his fingers through his hair. The day was lining up to be a marathon. “Take me through June Stevens’ case, from the top.”

“Well, sir, we had a call come in at…” The desk sergeant consulted his notebook, a yellow Post-it hanging from the page he opened, “10:27 am. The call came from the old public phone box on the main road just opposite the Glen Mhor turnoff. A young male hiker informed us that a woman’s body was hanging from the old oak on the Glen Mhor track – he sounded Australian.”

“Why didn’t he wait for the attending officer?”

“He was asked to wait until I arrived on the scene, but when I arrived at the call box at…” the notebook was consulted again, “11:02, the caller had gone. I didn’t spend time looking for him, thought in all probability it was a hoax. The local lads had a thing about impersonating Australians at the time.” He noticed Corstorphine’s eyebrow start to rise and hurriedly continued. “I drove the squad car down the track, taking it easy because of the suspension, and when I got to the tree I saw her hanging there. I tried to get her down but could only hold her up by her ankles, so I drove under the tree and climbed up and cut the rope.”