The Courier with the story of Oscar’s abuse at the hands of the minister and the orphanage staff would be out by now, on the front page for sure. Corstorphine grimaced as he recalled Frankie also mentioning that the article would include a line on police brutality, which wasn’t going to play well with the Assistant Chief Constable. Four days since Oscar’s death and they still hadn’t managed to identify a suspect, apart from the Inverness gamekeeper. If Frankie’s clockmaker managed to show that Oscar’s snare might have been set more than a week ago, then they could have him back in for more questioning. Until then, his alibi held water.

Corstorphine’s instinct told him that the orphanage was the key to the whole mystery, but the religious order had long since left and of those who were still alive and traceable – how many would be willing to provide any evidence?

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.