She smiled weakly. ‘That’s kind of you. It helps. The other complication, of course, would be Eddie, my husband. He was the main reason why I was less than frank with DS Wright. Eddie’s a lovely man, I want you to know that, but he’s become a stranger to me and to Poppy. The Royal bloody Navy’s the real love of his life, not us; it was bad enough before when he was on destroyers, but since he was promoted and transferred to that anachronistic aircraft carrier . . . its deployment lasts for months at a time, I mean like months. And never close to home either: if he was in the Med, say, Poppy and I could fly somewhere near to him, but he’s always in the Far East, trying to impress the Chinese or the North Koreans. When I met Gavin that day in the woods, I was at my loneliest and he was kind, and even more than that, he was bloody there!’

  ‘What are you going to do now, Claire?’ Noele asked her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t know where I stand, or what I’ll do. Go back to my parents, maybe, that’s a possibility.’

  ‘Or just carry on with Eddie as if Gavin never happened?’

  She shook her head. ‘Too late for that, I bloody told him, didn’t I?’

  McClair’s antennae twitched, but she kept it from her expression. ‘When?’

  ‘About three weeks ago. I decided I had to be honest with him, so I called him on WhatsApp. We had a decent video connection for once . . . normally he calls me and it’s audio . . . and I broke it to him.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘Calmly, as I knew he would. Eddie’s submissive by nature. I’m not saying he’s a wimp but . . . fuck it, he’s a wimp. There was one time a couple of years ago, when he was still on destroyers and closer to home, we were out for a bar meal in a place in Haddington and a guy was really rude to me. In fact, he made a pass at me, even though I was pregnant with Poppy at the time. When Eddie told him to stop it and go away, the fellow squared up to him. And my husband, he just turned his back on him. It could have been very nasty but the guy’s mates dragged him away. He took some dragging, I can tell you. Welsh; on a rugby trip, I think. He was a real archetype: his pals called him Clive Boyo, I remember. I thought he was full of wind and piss, but he scared Eddie. He got the bill and we left straight away. I was angry with him; when we got home, I went straight to bed.’

  She frowned. ‘He was much the same when I broke the news about Gavin, mild and submissive, afraid of any confrontation. He just said “Fine, if he’s what you want; as long as I can see Poppy when I’m home.” I felt like a heel; I still do. Maybe I can pretend it never happened and, like you say, just carry on. The trouble is, I don’t think I want to. I wanted Eddie to be furious; I wanted him to fight for me but he didn’t. I don’t know if I can ever get past that. I have a couple of months to decide, though. The carrier’s still near the Philippines.’

  One Hundred and One

  ‘Check it out, please, Jackie,’ McClair had said. ‘It’s niggling away at me. When I was made station inspector at Haddington I went over all the open incident files. I’m sure that there was a missing person among them, a drunk Welshman who went off to answer a call of nature when he and his pals were on their way back to their hotel and was never seen again. I deployed uniforms to take another look within a one-mile radius, in case he’d choked to death on his own vomit and was still lying there, but there was no joy.’

  ‘Yes,’ Inspector Ronnie Hill confirmed. ‘That’s still in my pending tray, still listed as a misper. I reviewed it last week in fact. His name’s Clive Sullivan, and he’s from Pontypool. He and his three pals were up for a rugby international at Murrayfield. The four of them had one ticket between them. They were going to draw straws for it on the day of the game, and this was the night before. When Sullivan went off for his dump in the bushes he had it in his back pocket; when he vanished, so did the ticket. His pals decided that he was so drunk he’d decided to stiff them by walking all the way to Murrayfield, either to use it himself or sell it for as much as he could get. Next day they waited for him outside the ground, but no sign, then or ever since. Their rugby club knew the seat number; we went as far as to check but it was never used.’

  ‘And it’s still an open case?’ Wright asked.

  ‘Yes, but according to the file, Sullivan was massively in debt; credit card bills, car finance, mortgage payments. The likeliest explanation is that he simply ran away from it all and chose that as his moment.’

  ‘Do you buy that version?’

  ‘In the absence of anything else, yes,’ Hill said. ‘He was a big unit just to make vanish.’

  ‘Ronnie,’ she countered. ‘Not so long ago there were human remains found a few feet from the John Muir Way on the coastline; a murder victim. They’d been hidden there for years without being discovered. Vanishing’s been made to work before.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he conceded, ‘but, Jackie, what do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘It’s your division, but if I had your bars in my shoulders I might get the file out of the pending tray and search again, but with a wider circle this time, say three miles initially, and with cadaver dogs if you can get them.’

  ‘Okay,’ he agreed grudgingly, ‘but with minimum manpower, mind.’

  Wright ended the call and turned to the second task that McClair had delegated. She had to wait ten minutes for her call to the Ministry of Defence, naval staff section, to be answered. When it was, the voice was crisp, female and authoritative, but it took a further three minutes to identify herself to its owner. Finally, the detective sergeant framed her request: ‘I want to confirm the service status of an officer, Lieutenant Commander Edward Hornell, and the current and recent location of his vessel, HMS Prince William.’

  ‘Give me a number and I’ll get back to you, Sergeant.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘I can hold on.’

  ‘Give me a number,’ the voice repeated, slowly.

  ‘I can hold on,’ Wright growled. ‘Look dear,’ she regretted ‘dear’ as soon as she had said it, but it was too late to back down. ‘I’m the police; I’ve got authority.’

  ‘I’m the Royal Navy,’ the woman countered. ‘I’ve got authority too and I think you’ll find it’s bigger than yours.’

  One Hundred and Two

  The photograph that Noele McClair had sourced was three years old. Therefore it showed Edward Hornell in the uniform of a lieutenant rather than a lieutenant commander, but it was recent enough for her purpose. She printed it out then placed it in the investigation file, after that of his wife. Looking at it she understood what Claire had said: this was the man who had sand kicked in his face in the old Charles Atlas ads she remembered from her grandfather’s collection of boxing magazines.

  She turned as the door opened and Sue, her mother, came in, followed by her son. There was a sparkle in her eyes. ‘It was coming up on quarter to four when I left Duncan’s,’ she volunteered, ‘so I thought I’d pick this one up from school.’

  ‘I thought you were going out for lunch,’ Noele said.

  ‘When did I say that? I had lunch at Duncan’s.’

  And the rest! she thought. She was still coming to terms with the notion of her mother having a sex life; and a little jealous of her, truth be told.

  ‘Whatever, you’re just in time. I have to see to Mattie. Can you get Harry started on his homework?’

  ‘Of course.’ Sue followed her grandson into the living room, but paused at the table, where the file lay open. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s what we used to call the Murder Book,’ her daughter replied. ‘The case file.’

  ‘What’s he doing in it?’ She pointed at the photo of Edward Hornell.

  Noele frowned. ‘He’s the husband of a witness.’

  ‘Is he? That’s a coincidence.’

  ‘Why, Mum?’

  ‘Because that’s the birdwatcher. The camper we met just before you saw the poor man’s body. That’s him: I’m sure of it. And there were two sleeping bags in his tent, I remember. Husband of a witness, you say? It looks as if they both were.’

  One Hundred and Three

  ‘She’s certain?’ DCC Mario McGuire asked.

  ‘Noele says she’s pretty certain,’ Sauce Haddock assured him. ‘Not a hundred per cent but damn sure. Noele can’t swear to it herself, because she was carrying the baby. She was heading for a seat and didn’t pay the man too much attention, but Sue stopped and had a chat with him. He was cooking breakfast on a stove, she said. She could see inside the tent and saw two sleeping bags; he even told her that his partner had gone to find the showers.’

  ‘Are you saying the wife’s a suspect too?’

  ‘Noele doesn’t think so,’ Haddock replied. ‘and she’s met Claire Hornell.’

  The computer camera picked up McGuire’s frown. ‘I’m sorry, Sauce,’ he said. ‘I don’t buy it. She has to be mistaken. From what you’re saying, the photograph Noele used for the file was, what, three years old? There’s room for error in that. But much more than that: the guy’s exec officer on an aircraft carrier and it’s on patrol on the other side of the world. He couldn’t just nip out for a couple of days to shoot his wife’s lover and then get back on board.’

  ‘So what do I do, sir?’

  ‘Put the wife under surveillance for now, to give me time to think about this. Wright’s spoken to the MoD, you said?’

  ‘Yes, she’s waiting for feedback.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll wait too. As I said, let me think about this and get back to you, but I’m not pushing the panic button on the word of a woman with stars in her eyes.’

  ‘Okay, sir. I’ll get the surveillance in place and wait to hear from you.’ Haddock closed the call.

  As the computer screen went black, the DCC leaned back in his chair, its protests squeaking in his ears. He made two mental notes; the first was to ask office supplies for a replacement, and the second was to lose weight.

  ‘What would Bob have done?’ he whispered.

  As he waited in vain for an answer, his desk phone buzzed. He picked it up, and heard the voice of the assistant he shared with the chief constable. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I have a call for you from a Major Hitchin, Ministry of Defence. He says he’ll only speak to you.’

  One Hundred and Four

  ‘Seriously?’ Tarvil Singh exclaimed. ‘Surveillance for a single woman with a young child?’

  ‘That’s what the DCC said,’ Haddock replied, ‘so that’s what we’ll do.’

  ‘What’s the purpose? Is she a suspect?’

  ‘We’ve got a suggestion from a source that she was at the crime scene. The same person claims that the woman’s husband was there too. It’s questionable on two counts; one, her husband’s ship is somewhere in the Pacific, two, she told Noele that she was leaving him to go off with the victim.’

  ‘Who’s the source?’ the DI asked.

  ‘Never mind that, Tarvil. Let’s act upon it for now like our boss says. Discreetly though. Use Tiggy Benjamin, in an unmarked car, just to keep an eye on her. From what I’m told her routine’s pretty simple: her kid’s at nursery and when she’s there sometimes she goes out on her pony. You do that and I’ll get Jackie to check out something else.’

  He left Singh to brief Benjamin and crossed to Wright’s desk. ‘Jackie,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a task for you; it may be nothing, it may be everything.’

  ‘Yes, Sauce, but can I get in first? I spoke to Inspector Hill in Haddington yesterday afternoon, about an open missing-person file in his area, a Welsh rugby fan who had a run-in with Claire Hornell’s husband a couple years ago, after he tried it on with her in a pub. According to her, the husband chickened out and took her home. I suggested that he take another look; he’s just called me to say that a cadaver dog has found skeletonised remains covered by a gorse bush a couple of miles from where the man disappeared. They’re male, clad in what looks like a rugby shirt; you can still make out “Pontypool” on the chest, above the badge. He’s got the scene taped off, awaiting CID response.’

  Haddock whistled. ‘Thanks, Jackie. Brief Tarvil; ask him to call out a crime scene team from the Crime Campus. We’ll get out there once I’ve told the DCC. Meanwhile . . . I’d like you to call East Lothian Council and ask whether there are any security cameras near the toilets on Gullane beach.’

  One Hundred and Five

  ‘Mr McGuire? Gareth Hitchins, Major, Ministry of Defence. I’m told you’re the main man in Scotland on security matters.’

  ‘After the chief constable,’ the DCC replied, ‘yes, I am. What’s your interest, Major?’

  ‘Same as yours,’ the soldier responded. ‘Security. I’ve been told that one of your people, a Detective Sergeant Wright, has been making enquiries about a naval officer, Lieutenant Commander Edward Hornell. I’m afraid she’s run up a red flag.’

  A faint anticipatory smile showed on McGuire’s face. ‘Talk to me,’ he murmured.

  ‘What’s your interest in Hornell?’ Hitchins asked.

  ‘My officers need to eliminate him as a person of interest in an investigation. That’s the formal way of putting it. Informally, his wife had a lover until just under two weeks ago, when someone put a bullet in his head. Our information is that Lieutenant Commander Hornell is executive officer on HMS Prince William, and that he was on patrol in Far Eastern waters at the time of the crime.’

  ‘If I can confirm that you’ll have no further interest in him?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Major,’ McGuire countered. ‘There are such things as contract killings. We’d still need to vet him, discreetly.’ He paused, distracted by an email as it flashed up on his computer screen; it was from Haddock and it bore a priority marker. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he murmured, then studied its contents. ‘And something else,’ he continued, when he was ready. ‘We now need to confirm from his service records that he was on leave two and a half years ago, at the time of the Scotland/Wales rugby match in Edinburgh, early March from memory.’

  ‘I see.’ McGuire heard a breath being drawn, as if a response was being weighed. ‘I can confirm,’ Major Hitchens said. ‘That HMS Prince William is on patrol in the South China Sea as part of a group of NATO and Australian vessels. I can confirm that Lieutenant Commander Edward Hornell is its executive officer of record. I have his full service record in front of me. He is an exemplary officer with the potential to reach flag rank . . . should he choose to follow that route.’ He stopped; something in his tone made the listener hold his breath.

  ‘I say that, he continued, ‘because he’s not currently on board the Prince William. He remains on the crew list for reasons of personal security.’ He paused. ‘Before I go any further, Mr McGuire, can you assure me that our conversation isn’t being recorded and that there’s nobody listening in? Nothing personal,’ he added, ‘it’s something I’m obliged to ask.’

  ‘You have that assurance,’ the DCC responded, his calmness belying the tension he felt.

  ‘Thanks. For your information only, for the last two years Lieutenant Commander Hornell has been seconded to the Special Air Service. Three years ago, he applied to join, as any officer in any service may. He was accepted for training and he completed the courses in Wales and in Brunei; he was the top graduate in each. At the time you mentioned, two and a half years back, yes, he was on leave, having just completed his hot weather training and was ready for deployment. Why? What happened then?’ Hitchens asked.

  ‘He was out with his pregnant wife,’ McGuire replied, ‘when a drunk, for want of a better word, propositioned her. She told my officer that Hornell backed away from confrontation and took her home. The man disappeared that same night, but the two incidents were never linked until now. The missing person file’s been lying open since then, until yesterday when we took another look at it in the light of the new information. We’ve just found a body we believe to be his. Any thoughts?’ he asked.

  ‘Unofficially?’ the major responded. ‘If Hornell decided to kill the man, then he was as good as dead. He’s the best, simply the best, to quote dear old Tina, God bless and keep her.’

  ‘Does his wife know he’s SAS?’

  ‘Not unless he decided to tell her,’ Hitchens said. ‘Many SAS personnel choose not to: when they’re on duty they use live social media to communicate. If Mrs Hornell thinks that her husband is still a sailor, and in international waters, that’s quite feasible.’

  ‘And if he decided to shoot her lover, from a distance?’

  ‘The same as I told you before: goodnight. Hornell is second in command of the CTW, a specialised squadron; he has sniper skills.’

  ‘Two weeks ago, where was he?’ McGuire asked.

  ‘Let me look,’ the soldier murmured, and then he whistled. ‘He was on leave. He booked off for ten days. He left on a Friday and reported back the following Monday.’

  ‘Jesus. Major, would it have been possible for him to take a weapon with him?’

  ‘I’d love to say no,’ Hitchens replied. ‘But if his unit wasn’t operational, and it couldn’t have been if he was on leave, yes, it probably would.’

  ‘If I had my lab send you an image,’ McGuire continued, ‘of the markings on the bullet taken from our victim’s skull, could you match it?’

  ‘It might take a while, but I’m sure we could.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll order that at once. Major, I have grounds to hold Lieutenant Commander Hornell for questioning, with the probability of charging him with at least one murder, possibly two. He’s one of yours: will the Military Police do that?’

  The silence on the line chilled the police officer. ‘We would, DCC McGuire,’ Hitchens said, ‘if he was in Hereford. But we, you, all of us, have a big problem. Hornell is on leave again; he checked out two days ago, citing a family emergency. I’m sure we’re both thinking the same thing; that you may need to protect his wife. But I’d go beyond that; I advise that you shouldn’t put your people at risk. The MPs have specialist units to handle this contingency. I will get one to you soonest. Until then, for God’s sake be careful. This might be the most dangerous man you’ve ever met.’