A high pillar of rock rose vertically on her right, the outcrop on which ‘the cage’ stood; it was red, in contrast with the horizontal grey stone for which she was headed, and was a barrier blocking her way. She picked her way around it, but saw only another rugged rocky obstacle, topped with brown seaweed waiting to be washed by the incoming tide. Finding footholds, she climbed up and on to its flat surface. She scanned the surrounding area, but saw nothing. Doubt crept over her. She was sleep-deprived from the frequent night feeds that Matilda still demanded. Had her eyes been playing tricks? Puzzled, she jumped down on to damp sand, moving backwards towards the waterline but gazing upwards until her mother came into view, still sitting on the bench, holding Matilda, who had been released from her carrier. Frowning, she looked around, questioning herself ever more. Maybe it was time for an eye test. Until, finally . . .

  Her gaze fell on a calf-length brown boot. It protruded from what she realised was a V-shaped wedge, formed by two ancient slabs of stone that had been ground over millennia by the force of pounding waves, rising four or five feet above a rock pool, from which, on the edge of her vision, she saw a small crab crawl.

  Noele found new footholds and levered herself upwards, to stand once again on the smooth surface. She moved towards the fissure, picking her way carefully, mindful of the treacherous clumps of bladderwrack beneath her feet, until finally she saw what had attracted her from high above.

  She knelt on the edge of the space in which the object that had drawn her to it was wedged and looked down. The boot was worn by a man, but she knew at once that it, and its owner, had taken their last steps. Glazed half-open brown eyes stared upwards but saw nothing. She lay flat and reached down into the crevice, checking the neck for a pulse that she knew she would not find.

  Her second realisation as she brushed the dead man’s clothing was that it was dry, her third was that he was still warm. The unvoiced assumption that she had made from above was wrong. This was no drowning victim brought in by the tide; he had died on shore, within the last hour or two. In that moment all of her training and professional instincts kicked in. Detective Inspector McClair took out her phone, activated its camera and began to record video with an audio description.

  ‘The casualty is male, most likely in his thirties, forty at the oldest,’ her commentary began. ‘He’s wearing denim cut-offs and a sweat shirt. There are signs of an injury on his left temple; there’s blood but not much. I’m guessing that he was walking on the rocks in the wrong footwear, slipped and fell in there, smashing his head on the way down and sustaining a fatal injury. Except . . . hold on.’ She zoomed the camera. ‘He’s got spurs on,’ she said. ‘Those are riding boots. So where’s his helmet? Or wasn’t he wearing one? And where’s his horse?’ She paused. ‘Unless the boots were all that was handy when he decided to go out for a walk. Still . . .’ she murmured.

  Stopping the recording, she stood, her camera and her eyes scanning the mile-long beach. She knew that horses were often exercised there, particularly when the tide was out, but there were none in sight. Switching off the phone, she looked around. ‘Gotcha!’ she murmured. Down on the sand, just beyond the rock pool, she spotted a riding helmet, its strap unfastened. From her vantage point she zoomed in and took a still photograph. ‘No doubt now,’ she murmured. ‘Carelessness costs lives, you poor man. If that helmet had been secure when your horse got spooked and threw you, you might still be alive.’ She sighed. ‘But why the hell did you forget it for me to find you?’ Noele McClair had seen more than enough of violent death, personally and professionally.

  Turning her attention back to her phone, she found a number in her directory and called it. She had expected a constable or sergeant to answer and was surprised when Ronnie Hill, her successor in the Haddington office that she had left to go back to CID, picked up himself.

  ‘Station Inspector,’ he said, cautiously. The number was a direct line, listed only in internal directories.

  ‘Ronnie,’ she replied. ‘It’s Noele McClair.’

  ‘Noele,’ Hill exclaimed, obviously relieved. ‘I thought you were on maternity leave. How’s the bairn?’

  ‘I am, and she’s fine. Right now she’s with my mother. I’m on the rocks at the west end of Gullane beach, standing beside what appears to be a fatal accident victim. He’s male, thirty-something likely, and he’s wearing riding gear. His injuries suggest that he’s been thrown by his horse and cracked his skull on the way down. You’ll need to get uniforms and some sort of recovery vehicle down here, and I suppose a doctor to formally certify death. You need to do it sharpish though. The tide is on the way in, and I’m not about to haul him out of where he is, not on my own. I’ve shot some video at the scene. Give me a mobile number and I’ll forward it to you.’

  ‘Okay,’ Hill replied, fully engaged. ‘Can you stay till we get there?’

  ‘It looks as if I’ll have to. It isn’t busy, but there are punters about on the beach, and potentially there’ll be golfers up above who can see him too. We don’t want a crowd scene developing.’

  ‘Have you got any idea who he is? You live thereabouts, don’t you, Noele?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but I’ve never seen him before. He possibly has ID in a pocket but I’m not in a position to access it.’

  ‘Would the horse no’ give you an idea who he is?’ her colleague chuckled, grimly. ‘Do they have to wear identification like dogs?’

  ‘Who knows? When you find it, you can interrogate it,’ she said. ‘It’s bolted. In the meantime, Ronnie, please get some people here, now.’

  Two

  ‘Is there any chance that you recognise him, Dr Michael?’ Inspector Hill asked, more in hope than expectation. ‘Could he be one of your patients?’

  ‘’I suppose he could be, if he’s local,’ the GP replied. ‘We have thousands of people registered with us. But if he is,’ she added, ‘he’s not one who’s ever consulted me. I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ the inspector sighed. He had driven directly from his office, and had arrived before any of his patrol officers, beating the doctor to the scene by only a few minutes. ‘He doesn’t appear to have any means of identification on him, unless there’s a wallet in the back pocket of those shorts. I was hoping . . .’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘All I can tell you is that he’s male and he’s dead . . . although these days we have to be careful attesting to the gender,’ she added in a whisper, with a conspiratorial smile. ‘The likeliest cause of death is a fractured skull sustained in a fall, but only a post-mortem examination will tell you for sure. I assume he’ll be taken to the mortuary in Edinburgh.’

  Hill shrugged. ‘That would be the norm, unless he goes to the Royal Infirmary, that being closer. I’m expecting a pick-up vehicle, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. To be honest I’m more concerned about how they’ll get him off the beach. And ourselves for that matter,’ he added, eyebrows raised. ‘The tide’s risen even since we got here. I doubt that they’ll want to carry a body bag over the rocks.’ He glanced up, towards the green fencing. ‘They might have to carry him up the path Noele McClair used.’

  Dr Michael’s eyebrows rose. ‘Noele found him? Now she is a patient of mine, but I haven’t seen her since she had the baby. That’s a good sign, by the way,’ she added. ‘We don’t get involved with new-borns unless there’s a problem. The community nursing side do that. Is she still here?’ she asked, looking around.

  ‘No, she left as soon as I arrived. She’s still on leave, obviously, but even if she wasn’t, an accidental death’s my department, not hers.’ He glanced at his watch, with a show of impatience. ‘I wish the mortuary vehicle would hurry up. We’ve been lucky in that this spot’s away from the main beach, but places like Gullane all have Facebook news groups. The word will spread for sure.’ As he spoke his mobile sounded. The doctor watched him as he took the call. He sighed as he listened; it was clear to her that his office was his comfort zone, anywhere else being an inconvenience.

  ‘Tell them we’re attending an incident in Gullane beach,’ she heard him say, ‘and that we’ll issue a statement in due course. The usual crap.’ He paused. ‘Yes, it’s a fatal, but don’t bloody tell them that!’ He ended the call. ‘Press Office,’ he explained to the doctor as he pocketed his phone. ‘Pardon my French, but they get to me. I must have been right about Facebook; the East Lothian Courier’s been on to them, and I’m sure that’s where they’ll have got it.’ He sighed again as he eyed the incoming tide. ‘If the wagon doesn’t get here soon, this guy’ll be under water.’

  As he spoke, his police radio crackled into life. ‘Ian Marshall for Inspector Hill. PC Black and I are on scene. The recovery van’s here too. We’re all down by the beach toilet block. How do we get to you?’

  ‘From there you don’t, Sergeant,’ he replied, ‘not directly. I’m right at the west end of the beach, near the start of the Nature Reserve.’

  ‘I know where you are. What?’ Marshall paused for a few seconds. ‘Aye right, you do that,’ Hill heard him say, and then, ‘The driver of the recovery vehicle’s a member here, sir. He says the best thing to do is for him and his mate to get a four-seated golf buggy from the pro shop and use that to get as close to the scene as they can. They’ve got a plastic coffin in the van; it’ll go on the back seat of the buggy, and they’ll use it to remove the victim. Black and I will be with you soonest.’

  ‘Okay,’ the inspector replied. ‘By the way,’ he added. ‘If you see a horse on the way here, take it into custody!’

  Three

  ‘Yes,’ Professor Sarah Grace said. ‘I can fit a post-mortem in, late afternoon or early evening. But,’ she added, ‘I’d rather not have to go into Edinburgh. Can you have the victim taken to the Royal rather than the city mortuary? You can? In that case you’re on.’

  ‘Who was that?’ her husband asked as she ended the call. ‘Fiscal’s office?’

  ‘You got it in one.’

  ‘From a crime scene?’

  ‘No, it’s an accident victim. Very close to here too. Male, appears to have been thrown from a horse on the beach and suffered a fatal head injury on the rocks.’

  ‘Christ!’ Sir Robert Skinner exclaimed. ‘I probably saw him when I was out running this morning, about six thirty. There was a lone rider, on a bay horse; quite a big bloke in a sweat shirt and shorts. I was going east, he was going west. He gave me a wave, I waved back. It sounds as if I was waving him goodbye, the poor bastard!’

  Sarah frowned. ‘Did you recognise him? The fiscal said that so far he’s unidentified.’

  ‘I’m sure that I’ve seen him and his horse on the beach before,’ he told her, ‘around the same time, but I’ve got no idea who he is or where he’s from. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with any other riders either.’

  ‘Does that suggest to you he has his own stable, rather than keeping his horse in a livery like West Fenton or Archerfield, where the owners tend to go out in small groups?’

  Bob shrugged. ‘It doesn’t suggest anything. All I can tell you is he’s a good rider and it’s a powerful beast; a horse, not a pony, a gelding, not a mare. Not the sort of animal to be walked in a neat orderly line. It looks not unlike a police horse. That sort of size.’

  ‘How do you know so much about horses all of a sudden?’

  ‘I don’t really, but Paloma Aislado has one, remember, out in Girona.’

  Sarah smiled. ‘Does her father ride it?’

  He returned her grin. ‘God help it if he did. His feet would be dragging the ground, Xavi being two metres tall.’

  ‘How is he?’ she asked. ‘Is there any sign of him wanting to come back as chairman of the company?’ Skinner’s friend Xavier Aislado was the owner of InterMedia, an international group as the name suggested, based in Girona, Spain. Its portfolio included the Scottish newspaper, the Saltire, which Bob had been brought on to the board of directors to oversee, a few years before. They had worked well together, and the group’s UK interests had grown, until tragedy had intervened through the agency of the Covid pandemic. It had claimed Xavi’s wife, Sheila, and he had withdrawn abruptly from the business world. Grief-stricken, he had asked Bob to replace him as executive chairman of the group until he was ready to return.

  ‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘I ask him every time I see him, and every time he says the same thing, that the company is better off with me in the chair.’ He paused. ‘All that said, though, he still takes an interest; not in the everyday running of the business, but in its shape and its future. For example, like all the other main global news organisations, InterMedia has a presence in Washington. You knew that already, but now . . . this is something I haven’t told you . . . Xavi’s asked the board to explore the possibility of a completely new start operation broadcasting within the US, in Spanish. There are plenty of Hispanic stations there already, but they’re nearly all entertainment-based. We’re talking about a cable news network. Hector Sureda, the CEO, and I are looking at the viability of a Hispanic equivalent of CNN.’

  ‘Or Fox News?’

  ‘God forbid!’ He grinned, in unexpected contrast with his vehemence. ‘That said . . . and don’t breathe a word of this, because it comes from Hector; Xavi and I don’t discuss it . . . his working title is Noticias Zorro.’

  ‘Spanish for Fox News? Why not for real?’

  ‘One, they would sue our arses off, two it would send entirely the wrong political message. They don’t call the Saltire “The Scottish Guardian” for nothing. Speaking of which,’ he said, picking up his phone, ‘I must alert our news desk to the dead horseman on the beach.’ He glanced out of the kitchen window as a movement caught his eye. ‘Were you expecting Noele?’ he asked, as her car drew up in her driveway.

  Sarah frowned. ‘No. And she usually calls if she’s going to drop in,’ she added.

  ‘You let her in, okay? I must make that call to the news desk: plus, I have a Zoom meeting with the InterMedia department heads in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Including the Italians?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Will there be subtitles?’ she chuckled.

  He shook his head, with a smile that revealed a hint of pride. ‘No. We’re doing it entirely in Spanish.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he repeated. ‘After all these years of having a second home in Spain, I am finally fluent in the language at business level.’ He left the room, heading for his small office, while Sarah went to the front door, anticipating the arrival of the visitor.

  ‘Sorry for the unexpected visit,’ Noele McClair began, as she entered. ‘I’m not holding you back from anything, am I?’

  ‘No,’ Sarah assured her. ‘I’ve got half an hour before I need to leave. A short-notice autopsy.’

  ‘I guessed as much. There’s a bit of gossip I must share.’

  ‘So come on in. Where’s Matilda?’ she asked as she led the way to the kitchen.

  ‘Sound asleep in her car seat . . . with the window slightly open,’ she added. ‘I gave her a top-up feed when I dropped Mum off. That’ll be her off for at least a couple of hours. Is your Dawn with Trish?’

  ‘Play-group,’ she replied. ‘Want a coffee?’

  ‘No thanks, Sarah. I’m off that while I’m feeding. Water would be fine.

  ‘Fizzy or still?’

  ‘Bubbles if you have them.’

  ‘So? The gossip?’ Sarah exclaimed as she opened the fridge. ‘It wouldn’t involve a dead man on the beach, would it?’

  ‘That’s your short-notice autopsy?’ Noele took the proffered water.

  ‘Unless there are two of them. I’ve been booked to do it later on this afternoon, at the Royal.’

  ‘Jeez, that was quick.’

  ‘It’s Friday, isn’t it? The fiscal’s office didn’t want him to lie in the cooler over the weekend. But how did you know it was quick?’

  ‘Because I found him. I saw him from the path above where he fell. We were just beside the cage. I left Matilda with Mum and went down there. Poor sod was well dead by the time I got there.’

  ‘What about the horse?’

  ‘How did you know about the horse?’

  ‘Bob saw him when he was running on the beach. They were going in different directions so he didn’t witness the accident.’ She hesitated, considering the circumstances. ‘Maybe,’ she whispered, ‘if Bob had been heading west too, he’d have seen it happen and been able to help.’

  Noele frowned. ‘No doubt you’ll determine that when you examine him, but on the basis of what I saw, he wouldn’t. The man’s helmet came off in the fall and there was a head injury, not big on the outside, but obviously enough to kill him.’

  ‘Nothing’s obvious until I open him up,’ Sarah said. ‘I wonder why he was thrown?’ she murmured. ‘The way Bob described him he was a capable rider.’

  ‘We’ll never know for sure, unless a witness comes forward. I can only speculate that he took the horse too close to the rocks and that spooked it.’

  ‘Was the horse injured?’

  ‘Dunno. The culprit fled the scene, as they say. There was no sign of it when I got there.’ Noele paused to sip her water. ‘What time did Bob see him?’

  ‘It would have been around six thirty. Normally he runs early; more often than not Jazz goes with him, but this morning he was alone.’ She smiled, fleetingly. ‘And there lies a story. Our younger son and a few of his pals had an end of summer barbecue at Yellowcraig yesterday evening,’ she added. ‘They all cycled there and back, and Jazz was home later than he should have been . . . with a fat lip. When Bob quizzed him about it, he said there had been “an incident” . . . his words. You know that Yellowcraig is full of wild campers during the summer?’ Noele nodded. ‘Well,’ Sarah continued, ‘one of the girls in Jazz’s group tripped over one of the guy ropes of a tent, pulling it out in the process. A man in his boxers came out yelling, demanding to know who had done it. Jazz said sorry, that it had been an accident, and he said, “Yes, well so was this.” Then he grabbed him by the shirt front and hit him.’