“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!”

“Sir,” came the response.

“What can I help you with, Reginald?” Corstorphine repeated the question as they walked along the road.

“Yes.” He looked around him as he walked, checking whether anyone was in earshot. “Thing is, these murders have caused a bit of an upset.”

Corstorphine nodded sagely, willing him to get to the point. “Indeed. We’re all working flat out to try and resolve the cases as quickly as humanly possible.”

“Good, glad to hear it.” There was a pause as they approached another pedestrian. The MP turned on his ‘winning’ smile, a strange rictus that lay somewhere between a baboon threat and cheerleader grin. “Good day. Lovely weather.”

The pedestrian’s expression of distaste was sufficient for Corstorphine to surmise he had most probably voted for any party but the one that had returned his companion. It didn’t seem to register with Reginald, who waited until they were alone again before continuing. “Thing is, I was talking with the Assistant Chief Constable at a private meeting yesterday.”

Corstorphine knew that both the politician and the ACC belonged to the same Inverness Lodge, the euphemism for private meeting being one of their ritual-laden Freemason dinners. Here it comes, he thought, a private message from the Assistant Chief delivered on a platform so far untraceable by normal means.

“He’s concerned you are wasting your time with the Stevens suicide. Heard through the grapevine. Asked me to point out the priorities in getting this sorted. Save him making it official, didn’t want it looking bad on your record.”

Corstorphine absorbed the command, threat and dangling carrot with equanimity.

“That’s very kind of you, Reginald, making a special trip.”