Corstorphine sighed heavily, placing the A3 sheet face down on his desk as if he could hide the story for a while longer. “I guess it was unavoidable, a snared gamekeeper and a minister killed by his own church bell. We’ll have to tighten up our act, Frankie. The Assistant Chief is going to be all over this as soon as the national press get wind. We’ve tomorrow at best to make some progress, after that we’ll be tripping over bloody reporters and film crews.”

Frankie hesitated, unsure whether the reporter’s strange question had any bearing on the case. “One other thing she said, sir.”

Corstorphine paused, wearing what Frankie termed his impatient face.

“She asked whether Oscar died with an erection, whether he’d ejaculated as he died.”

The detective’s eyebrow responded accordingly. “What sort of bloody question is that?”

“I don’t know, sir, couldn’t see why she wanted to know.” Frankie walked over to her desk to cover her embarrassment. She had the remnants of a Scottish Presbyterian upbringing still flowing in her veins and the subject material was difficult for her to discuss.

“French, you say?”

“Yes, sir, certainly sounded French.”

“Well, that explains that!” He said this dismissively, closing the conversation down, much to Frankie’s relief, and grabbed his car keys, thinking furiously. Time was closing in on their investigation and they still hadn’t had the results from the belfry. “I’m going to pay a visit to Brian Rankin, go over some of the details in the June Stevens suicide just in case there’s a connection. You chase up the forensics report on the church. I hope to God we find something tangible to report, otherwise it’s going to get bloody uncomfortable here.”

Frankie watched him leave, feeling the unvoiced reprimand in the set of his shoulders as he turned away from her. The newspaper hadn’t been handled well, she knew the leak of information had infuriated him, but what could she do once the journalists had the story? She sat at her desk and keyed in the number for the Inverness forensics team.

XII MONDAY 17:09

XII
MONDAY 17:09

“Come on in, James. Molly’s just put the kettle on. You’ve time for a tea?”

Corstorphine shook the old DI’s hand, stepping into the hallway of an anonymous bungalow on the outskirts of town. The area was full of retired folk, the neat postage stamp gardens and manicured hedges evidence of those with hours to kill and nothing much to fill those hours.

“Hi, Molly, how are you keeping?” He kissed the woman whose inquisitive face had turned into a welcoming smile as she recognised Corstorphine.