His attention was drawn to the front desk. Hamish’s usual slow and world-weary tones had changed into something more upbeat, tinged with a reverential quality as if he was welcoming a head of state. ‘Perhaps the Queen is reporting a missing corgi?’ Corstorphine allowed a rare smile to part his lips. His wife had been a lifelong Republican and stood there now, face lit with a cheeky grin. He blinked and she was gone, but Hamish’s voice was approaching, complete with, “Yes, sir. I’ll fetch him now, sir.”

The desk sergeant’s face appeared around the door, completely blocking Corstorphine’s view of the suited character standing impatiently at reception. “What is it, Hamish?”

“It’s Reginald Lagan, sir. He’s the MP for…”

“Yes, thank you, Hamish. I’m aware who our Member of Parliament is. What does he want?”

“He wants to speak to you, sir. Shall I send him through?”

Corstorphine shook his head. “Not in the middle of a murder investigation. I’ll see him in reception.”

Hamish looked askance at the thought of the MP having to remain in reception but led the way meekly back to his front desk. A tall, expensively dressed man stood on the other side of the glass, his impatience at being kept waiting evident by his restless stance. Corstorphine sighed; the man was an imbecile. He’d met him at a number of civic functions, once had even sat next to him at a formal dinner. A more vacuous peacock would be hard to imagine, hair dyed jet black and oiled, a colourful handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket of his fitted suit. How he had managed to pass selection and win the ward on behalf of the Conservatives was a question Corstorphine often returned to every time he featured on the news.

He keyed the door release and stepped through into the reception area, neatly blocking the entrance as the politician confidently strode towards it, as if locked doors never applied to someone as important as him.

“Mr Lagan, sir, what can we do for you?”

The politician had to step back to avoid Corstorphine, flustered at being denied entrance to the station.

“James. Pleasure. Call me Reginald. Not as if we haven’t met.” His hand shot out in a well-practiced manoeuvre, leaving Corstorphine no alternative but to begin a handshake that was overly strong and seemingly never-ending. He wondered if the short bursts of sentences were an affectation. As a politician he was certainly able to pontificate in long, flowery language whenever placed in front of a microphone.

“Do you have somewhere we can talk, in private?” Lagan’s eyes indicated Hamish, who was watching the interchange with great interest.

“I’m sorry, Reginald. The office is off-limits for the time being whilst we investigate these murders. We can talk here, or if you prefer we could take a walk, get the benefit of the rare Scottish sunshine?”

“Good idea. Just need to run some things past you.” He waved in what he must have thought was a matey way to Hamish as they headed out of the police station. “Good day, Hamish, keep up the good work!”