He returned to the station and put through a call to the Inverness forensics lab. Their first response was to ask who else had just been found dead, and in what improbable circumstances. They told him they were running a sweepstake following the last two deaths in town, with a number of outrageous combinations – whoever got closest to both the person and the method of death stood to win a tidy sum. The forensics officer on the other end of the line was describing their first option in cheerful detail, coincidentally enough featuring the self-same MP he’d just met with, being clubbed to death with Parliament’s ceremonial mace when Corstorphine interrupted him.

“Very droll, but if you don’t mind, we have work to do here. Can you send me the report on a death in May 1997? The victim was a female reporter. June Stevens, found hanging in an oak tree in Glen Mhor.”

He could hear the percussive taps of a keyboard even through the telephone earpiece.

“Here it is, June Stevens. I can’t let you have the official report without authorisation.”

“I know that,” Corstorphine’s exasperated voice replied. “I’m just looking for the basics, cause of death, any forensics evidence that needed further investigation.”

“OK, let’s see. Suicide, hanging. That’s strange…”

“What? What have you found?”

“Nothing. That’s what’s strange. The report is pretty much non-existent. This is back in the days when we didn’t have to follow set procedure but even so, I’d have thought to have seen more on the report than this.”

“So, there’s nothing you’re able to tell me?”

“Sorry.”

Corstorphine tried another tack. “Is any of the original evidence in store? Her clothing, scene photographs, the rope?”

“No chance. The case was marked solved and we don’t keep anything beyond ten years. Not going to be able to help you, sorry.”

“Yeah, OK. Thanks anyway.”

He looked at his phone accusatorily. Why was nothing as easy as they made it seem in detective stories?

XVI TUESDAY 14:25

XVI
TUESDAY 14:25

Frankie parked outside the butcher’s shop on the high street, taking advantage of having the patrol car to straddle double yellow lines with impunity. The morning sun had broken through, driving off the last of the morning chill. Shoppers stopped and chatted as they met, a cluster of coffee tables spilled out from the upmarket café down the road, lending a European feel to the town. She wished the sun could dispel the gloom that gathered around her shoulders like a shawl. Two deaths in a week tended to have that effect on her.

“Hi, William.” The ginger-haired man turned around in surprise, still holding the marker pen he’d been using to price up meat cuts.

“Frankie McKenzie! Don’t often see you in here. How have you been keeping?”