It was night. A full moon hung large and silver in the velvet star-studded sky, lending a silver tint to Glen Mhor as if it had been freshly painted in ethereal colours. Corstorphine glided over the ground, an effortless movement which allowed him the leisure to admire the stars, feel a warm breeze upon his cheeks. Somewhere in the distance a tawny owl called, a familiar twit-twoo echoing down the glen. Corstorphine recognised the Hanging Tree as soon as it came into view and his air of contentment metamorphosed into a feeling of unease, growing in intensity as the tree drew ever closer. He tried to turn back and looked down to see that his feet drifted above the ground, caught in some invisible current that had him gripped fast. The path turned into a fast-flowing burn even as the thought occurred to him and he struggled to keep his head above the water. On one level, Corstorphine realised he was dreaming, but still he fought the current in a mounting panic as the burn changed into a river in spate, rocks flying past as he was tossed and driven towards the old oak. Suddenly he was thrown against the tree, fighting to disentangle himself from Oscar’s corpse as their limbs entwined like lovers and the water rose higher, threatening to drown him. He struggled free, somehow lifted out of the corpse’s cold embrace by rising waters to enter the green canopy above. As the waters quietened Corstorphine looked in wonder at the gears, moving together in common purpose, the rhythmic tick of the mechanism counting towards the hour in sonorous peels until the chimes struck.

Corstorphine woke suddenly, the dream leaving him wondering for a brief moment where he was. His doorbell rang again, the sound a distant echo of his dream and he remembered every detail even as he staggered towards the front door, fighting the cramp which threatened to unbalance him at every other step.

“Sorry to bother you, sir. I guessed you’d probably finished for the day, but I thought you’d want to see this.” Frankie stood on the doorstep, holding out a few A4 sheets for his inspection.

“Come on in, Frankie,” he offered, taking the pages and studying them as he headed back to his seat. He held an email from the Inverness forensics department, confirming what they already knew: that the support timbers had been sawn almost completely through. Corstorphine skimmed through the report, taking note of the collection of bone gear fragments which the forensics team had managed to reassemble without any idea as to what they represented. He turned to the last page, a sharp intake of breath the only indication of his surprise as he saw the photograph of another Pope Paul II Vatican coin, the date 1997.

“So, no doubt these murders are linked.”