‘Get somebody on it anyway, John,’ the DCI instructed. ‘I’d better take a look inside. Is Professor Scott here yet?’

  The DS frowned. ‘Who’s Professor Scott, boss?’

  ‘Ah sorry, you haven’t met him yet. He’s the lead pathologist: he took over from Graeme Bell a couple of years ago. He works out of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Glasgow.’ She paused, reading hesitancy in his eyes. ‘You have called for a pathologist, haven’t you?’ she asked.

  His brow furrowed. ‘Ah, er, no,’ he admitted. ‘I called out the Forensic team. Isn’t the pathologist part of that?’

  Mann shook her head, briefly. ‘No, Graham’s a separate entity.’ She nodded. ‘His predecessor had the same name, but a different spelling, and he’s a very different personality. Is Doctor Bramley with the scientists? She’s head of the unit,’ she added, in further explanation.

  ‘Yes,’ Stirling said. ‘That is, I think so. The one who briefed me was female and the other two in the team are men. When they built the tent she seemed to be giving the orders.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Back in their vehicle. They stopped work when they heard you were on the way; their boss thought you should see the scene as it was.’

  ‘Not all of them stopped, only the lads,’ a woman called out as she emerged from the motor home. ‘It got overwhelming with three of us in there so I stood them down for a while. That was the excuse I used; these macho types, they need to be handled carefully or their pride will get in the way.’ She stepped briskly down the two steps and on to the pavement. She was of medium height, fresh-faced, possibly a youthful forty; a dark curl had escaped her sterile hood. ‘Hi Lottie.’

  ‘Jenny,’ Mann responded, glancing once again at her DS. ‘John, this is Dr Bramley. Jenny, Detective Sergeant Stirling’.

  The scientist smiled, apologetically. ‘My bad, John. I should have introduced myself properly when we got here, but I was in a hurry to get the enclosure built.’ She returned her gaze to Mann. ‘What about the pathologist? We can’t begin a proper sweep until he’s seen the body in situ.’

  ‘We’re about to call hm,’ the DCI advised. ‘John, I’ll flash you his number. Get in touch with him and brief him. You’ll probably make his day. The messier they are, the greater the challenge; that’s how Graham sees his job.’ She sighed. ‘Me, I’m the opposite, but I suppose we’d better take a look. Are you up for going back in, Sergeant?’

  Stirling winced, as did Bramley. ‘Brace yourself, Lottie,’ she advised. ‘Most of the flies vacated the premises when the door was first opened, but there are still a fair few in there.’

  Two

  ‘This is a lifetime first for me,’ Sir Robert Skinner confessed. ‘I’ve never had physiotherapy before. Lots of other stuff, but never physio.’

  ‘That’s no great surprise to me,’ Camilla Knorr said. ‘You’ve obviously lived an active life, and you still do from what you’ve told me. For a man of your age your muscle tone is excellent. What sort of training do you do?’

  ‘I work out regularly, on my home equipment and in our office gym in Spain. I run whenever I can find the time and the place. Running’s what I like best: or I did, before my right knee packed up on me.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Sir Robert,’ the physiotherapist protested. ‘It hasn’t packed up. It’s a long way from doing that.’

  ‘Bob, please.’

  ‘Bob, then, and I’m Cammy. Your knee is basically okay; your kneecap is out of place, but I think that’s because your hips are a bit tight. I’m going to tape it back in the proper position, and give you some exercises that will help. Also, there’s a procedure that I can show you; it’s one that a partner can do for you. Do you have one?’

  He nodded, grinning. ‘Yes I do, Sarah, but she prefers to be called a wife. She’ll love that, especially if it hurts.’

  ‘Does she have medical knowledge?’

  ‘Sure, she’s a doctor: actually she’s a pathologist. Having a living subject will be a pleasant change for her.’

  ‘Couldn’t be better; with her help we can sort this in no time.’

  ‘Does it mean I’m on the road to a hip replacement?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘Hell no!’ Knorr exclaimed, laughing. ‘I can’t see twenty years into the future, but at the moment there’s no reason to expect that. Mind you it would be handy to know why this has suddenly occurred. Remind me, when did you become aware of it?’

  ‘Last week, at home when I was going upstairs. Until then it was fine.’

  ‘Mmm, I see. Tell me: we know your exercise programme is good; have you had any lifestyle changes? For example a new office chair? A new chair at home?’

  ‘Nope,’ he replied, firmly.

  ‘Car?’

  ‘No. I haven’t changed lately, in Scotland or in Spain. The fact is I don’t drive a lot these days. I take a taxi to Edinburgh Airport, and I’m picked up at Girona.’

  ‘You fly a lot?’

  ‘Every week; there and back again.’

  ‘Do you travel Economy or Business class?’

  Skinner’s smile hinted at embarrassment. ‘We have a company jet,’ he confessed.

  ‘Wow!’ Cammy Knorr exclaimed. ‘Big time indeed.’

  ‘It’s not that glamorous,’ he assured her. ‘It’s a Cessna Citation. Bigger than a Lear Jet but still I can’t stand fully upright in it.’

  ‘And the flight is how long?’ she asked.

  He frowned. ‘That depends on wind direction, whether it’s a tail wind or against us, but on average two and a half hours is probably a fair guess.’

  ‘Is the seat comfortable?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Still, I think that might be the root cause of your problem.’

  ‘What can I do about it?’

  ‘Get a bigger jet?’ She paused, smiling. ‘Or failing that,’ she continued, ‘double down on the exercise programme and the hip manipulation. Or failing that . . . go back to your old job. I’m sure they would have you in some capacity.’

  It was Skinner’s turn to laugh out loud. ‘I miss it,’ he admitted, ‘but nowhere near that much.’

  Three

  Lottie Mann ensured that her mask was firmly in place, before stepping up and into the motor home. Although she had prepared herself mentally for what she would encounter she flinched nonetheless as she entered the space. The stench that greeted her in the tent was even more intense. Behind her she heard Stirling retch, then swear, softly.

  All of the vehicle’s windows had been blacked out. Its blinds had been reinforced with plastic sheeting taped over each one, but the lighting that Bramley’s team had set up inside flooded the scene, leaving nothing in shadow.

  The body was seated in a faux-leather armchair, on a swivel base, beside a rectangular table that took up half of the width of the van. As the detective sergeant had said, it was held in place by broad brown tape wound round the arms and legs and securing it firmly in the seat. It appeared to be female, but from its attire alone, a long-sleeved blouse that might have once been pink, and black leggings. The head was covered by a plastic Tesco supermarket bag, lashed around the neck with the same brown tape, making it airtight beyond doubt.

  ‘Fuck!’ Stirling whispered.

  ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ his senior colleague affirmed.

  The chair and the carpet beneath it were stained, as was the clothing of the corpse. ‘What . . ?’ the DS began.

  ‘Body fluids,’ Mann murmured, ‘waste and God knows what else. The body gets bloated, gases build up, organs liquify. The old dear was right; I’d say she’s been here for at least a couple of months.’

  ‘She looks quite chunky: it must have been quite a task, lashing her into that chair.’

  ‘Like I said, John, a body gets bloated as it decays. Let’s make no assumptions. We’ll wait for the post-mortem examination to give us facts.’ The DCI shuddered. ‘Come on, let’s get tae fuck out of here. There’s nothing useful we can do other than acquire memories that’ll stay with us until we’re in the same state as that one there. Go on, move it. Let’s get some fresh air before we boak like that DC Brown did earlier.’

  Stirling led the retreat from the awful place, down the steps, through the tented enclosure and into the street outside. Bramley and her colleagues were waiting there; one of the two men was vaping. ‘Not a regular habit,’ he told the detectives, ‘but I find that it helps at a locus like this one.’

  ‘Can I stand close to you and breathe some in?’ the DS asked.

  ‘No time for that,’ Mann told him. ‘We’ve got work to do. We need to get door to door enquiries in place. I want every household interviewed, every resident, in this cul-de-sac and beyond. Someone might have seen the vehicle being dumped here; with a bit of luck they might have seen who did the dumping. I’ll get that under way. I’ll want DC Brown, the one you stood down, and his DS, back here, and as many uniforms as we can round up.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Where’s that PC? Ask him the name of that sergeant who’s in the middle of his golf tie. He’s getting pulled off the course right now.’ She grinned, momentarily. ‘While I’m doing that, John, you contact the manufacturer of this thing . . . what did you say it’s called?’

  ‘Schlossneues.’

  ‘Indeed? Newcastle in English.’

  Stirling looked at her, surprise in his eyes. ‘You speak German, boss?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she retorted, fiercely . . . then grinned. ‘I don’t, not really. When I was at high school, we’d a young German supply teacher. He and I had a brief but passionate affair, and I picked up a few words, “Schlossneues Braunbier” being two of them, that being Newcastle Brown Ale in German, or so he said.’

  ‘Maybe it’s you should call the company, gaffer,’ the DS suggested.

  ‘Hell no. For all I know Dietmar might answer the phone, such being fate. The headmaster saw us in the pub; Dietmar got the sack and I got . . .’ Her eyes went somewhere else for a few seconds. ‘Come to think of it, I didn’t get anything. I was quizzed by the guidance teacher about our relationship, but I was sixteen going on seventeen at the time, so I told her to fuck right off. She did.’ She paused, coming back to the present. ‘No, you go ahead and contact them yourself, John. I don’t need you here; we’re only half an hour from the office so get back there, where you’ve got a desk and a proper internet connection. When you speak to the manufacturers, ask where we’ll find the chassis number on the vehicle; with that we can track down the registered owner through the DVLA.’

  ‘Will do, Boss, but whoever that is, they’re hardly likely to have dumped a body in their own van, are they?’

  Mann laughed, softly. ‘Assumptions, John. What do I keep telling you about making assumptions?’

  Four

  ‘Could you?’ Sarah asked. ‘If you wanted to, that is? Go back to policing?’

  Bob grinned back at her across the table. ‘Technically, I never left. Maggie Steele gave me a special constable warrant card, remember. I still have it. However, I was never a fan of pounding the beat; not even in my most sentimental moments would I ever want to go back to that. My first day as a detective constable was one of the happiest of my career. And another was the day I made chief constable. Since Neil McIlhenney’s in the chief constable’s chair, and will be until he retires, going back at the top doesn’t appear to be a possibility.’

  ‘The very fact that you’ve told me about your physio’s remark has to mean that you’ve thought about it,’ she asserted.

  ‘No,’ he countered. ‘It means that occasionally I miss my old job, that’s all. Keeping the streets safe, keeping the traffic flowing, catching the bad people, yes, it gave me a buzz. But the higher up the command chain that I climbed the more that buzz was diluted. The job I’m in now, executive chair of the InterMedia group, I’m right at the top of the command chain there too, not of a geographical region in Scotland, but of an international media company. I’m making operational decisions every day and I have input on policy at the highest level. The only things that I take to Xavi Aislado, as owner of the group, are matters that affect its future development, like the expansion into the US that we’re planning with our Spanish cable news operation. I love it, and they pay me a fucking fortune to do it all. No way am I going to give that up, not until Xavi’s ready to come back. So,’ he continued, smiling, ‘that leaves Cammy’s other two suggestions for sorting my knee problem. A bigger jet is not undoable, given the US thing, but I’m not going to be the one to propose it. So I’ll go for the cheapest option, manipulation of my hips, that’s if you’re prepared to help.’

  She looked at him over her glass. ‘I’ve manipulated most of the rest of you over the years, so why not? When’s she going to show us what to do?’

  ‘She’s sending me a video link.’

  ‘Okay.’ She set the glass down in the table. ‘By the way, what did you think of James Andrew’s reaction when we told him and Seonaid that we’re proposing to move to Spain? Do you think he only said “Yes” because he knew that’s what we wanted to hear?’

  ‘He didn’t say “Yes”, my love. He said “Magic”. And he meant it. Jazz doesn’t do diplomacy: he’s started to think about his future, and he knows it isn’t in Gullane. You have to be aware of that.’

  ‘I’m only too well aware,’ she admitted. ‘And of his career plans. Hopefully he’ll grow out of all that. It was bad enough being a cop’s wife. Being a soldier’s mum, that would be a whole different level of anxiety.’

  Bob frowned, pausing as their waiter removed the dessert plates. ‘I won’t be any different,’ he confessed. ‘I’ll worry as much as you. But you know as well as I do that he isn’t going to grow out of it. The opposite’s happening: he’s growing into it, if anything.’

  ‘Couldn’t you talk him out of it?’

  ‘Maybe I could; I don’t know. But, would I talk him out of it? No, I couldn’t be that selfish. My dad wanted me to be something nice and safe, a provincial family lawyer like him. He always felt that he lost my brother Michael to the military . . . although in reality he lost him to alcohol.’

  ‘And to PTSD possibly?’ Sarah whispered.

  ‘That’s what my dad thought, but I never believed it. In all his time in the army Michael never saw combat. He served in Northern Ireland for six months, but never in a high risk area, always in a background role. Anyway, he was on the piss well before that.’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever . . . my father wanted me to go into his legal practice. When I said “No” after I left university, and told him that I was joining the police, I knew he was disappointed, but I admired him for never trying to talk me out of it. There are many doors to other careers that I could open for Jazz, but I won’t, not unless he asks me.’ He sighed, leaning back to allow the waiter to serve coffee. ‘Who knows?’ he pondered. ‘Maybe a few years in Spain will make him see the future differently . . . but don’t hold your breath.’

  ‘How about his big sister?’ she mused. ‘She’s always adored him. How does she feel about his joining the army, do you think?’

  ‘Alex? We haven’t talked about it, but she probably feels the same as me: apprehensive but stoic. Anyway, Alex is very focused on her own life at the moment.’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  He gazed back at her. ‘First and foremost, I have always wanted my oldest daughter to be happy. She is; she’s happier and more content than I’ve ever seen her. And as for my friend Dominic, he seems to be the same. I tell you, love, my fingers have never been so tightly crossed for the pair of them.’

  ‘Will they marry, do you think?’ Sarah asked.

  Bob blinked. ‘Honestly, I’ve never thought about that,’ he confessed. ‘She’s got a lot of her mother in her . . . not all of her, thank God . . . so she’s a traditionalist at heart but . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence, reflecting. ‘She isn’t wearing a ring, third finger left hand. Remember, when she was with Andy Martin, the first time, they were engaged. But if you think back, you’ll recall that she never once talked about them actually getting married. So in answer to your question, Sarah my love, I just don’t know.’

  ‘Babies?’ she suggested. ‘What if Dominic wants them?’

  He shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied firmly.

  ‘Why so sure?’

  ‘Have you ever heard him talk about his past life, when he was Lennie Plenderleith, before he went to prison, earned his psychology degree and his doctorate, and adopted a new identity?’

  ‘No,’ Sarah admitted. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Exactly. Can you imagine him trying to explain all that to his children? Or alternatively the pressure on him and Alex of trying to keep the secret in the years to come?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she conceded. ‘Changing the subject: how about your oldest son? How do you feel about him and his evolving relationship?’

  ‘Ignacio and Pilar? Likewise, I couldn’t be happier for them. I would say their relationship’s evolved. They’ve both finished their chemistry degrees. Neither has any idea what they want to do with them, but they have all the time in the world to make their minds up. Meantime, Nacho’s having a ball working on his mother’s radio station.’ Skinner looked up, as the waiter passed by. ‘Angelo, could I have a nightcap?’ he asked. ‘Port, if you have it. We have twenty minutes until the taxi arrives.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘No, I’m good. Might they decide to live in Spain, do you think?’ she continued. ‘Pilar might like to be closer to her parents in Madrid.’

  ‘She might,’ he agreed. ‘Her prospective mother-in-law might not be too keen on that though. Mia got up to some very dodgy stuff while she was raising my secret son over there, and she’s never been back since they left. It’s maybe as well that Pilar’s dad, Señor Sanchez is a banker, and not a cop.’

  ‘How about her mother? She might be one, for all you know.’

  ‘Señora Hoverstad? She isn’t. She works in advertising.’