As Corstorphine drove away from the house, he caught a glimpse in his rear-view mirror of the old DI and his wife standing motionless on the bungalow porch, watching him until they were lost from view. He had a strong suspicion that the old detective was hiding something. His body language had betrayed him when he had asked about the missing daughter, the false searching for lost memories as if he was creating a story that Corstorphine would swallow. As quickly as the thought came to him, he dismissed it. He’d known Brian ever since he’d transferred here, a young detective learning the ropes as the old DI worked the last three years towards retirement. There wasn’t even a whisper that he was ever anything other than a straight cop, certainly nothing that Corstorphine had heard. Why then that nagging doubt that he was concealing something?

He checked the dashboard clock, 17:44. Nothing he could do without the latest forensics. Corstorphine started to phone Frankie to check up on progress but hung up before completing the call and drove home instead. The day was almost done, and he needed to have a quiet place to think.

Corstorphine lived in a semi-detached Victorian villa in one of the more salubrious parts of town, a house that had been chosen as a good place to bring up a family, three bedrooms for the children that never were. He dreaded coming home each day, the house silent and devoid of company. Corstorphine tweaked the thermostat up a notch to dispel the chill he’d felt on entering the house, the old gas heating creaking into life as radiators filled with hot water, companionable noises that helped maintain the fiction that he wasn’t alone. Out of habit, he checked the silent carriage clock on the mantlepiece, the hands frozen at the moment he’d dashed it to the ground after his wife had died – an outlet for the rage that burned his heart. On autopilot, he turned on the TV, tuning into the 24-hour news channel. He found voices filled the empty house more effectively than music.

Sinking into his favourite armchair, Corstorphine nursed a large glass of single malt, ice clinking against the glass as he raised the amber fluid to his lips. Two murders in under a week, and the press would come sure as night followed day. He kept half an ear on the TV news, just in case the murders had reached the nationals. Nothing – yet. Drinking a toast to whichever saint was the patron saint of journalists, Corstorphine thought through the last few days, searching his mind for clues he might have missed, the common thread that tied the cases together. Before long, the potent mix of whisky, warmth and the comforting sound of the TV combined to lull him into a fitful sleep.