‘God,’ Noele gasped, ‘what did Bob do when he heard that? Get the car out and head for Yellowcraig?’

  ‘He was going to, but Jazz said no, that he’d dealt with it. Bob didn’t press him; he just said, “Okay, if that’s how it played, get off to bed.” A few minutes later I had a WhatsApp from the mother of the girl, thanking my son for standing up for her daughter. Apparently after he was hit, Jazz smiled at the fellow, said “This wasn’t,” and sank his fist wrist-deep in his belly. The guy turned into a pile of jelly, and that was all she wrote. His girlfriend stuck her head outside just in time to see it all.’

  ‘Jesus, Sarah, Jazz is only twelve.’

  ‘Forget “only”; you haven’t seen him lately. He’s always been a big boy and he’s in a growing phase. He’s been doing Judo since he was five, Taekwondo since he was eight and Boxercise with his Aunt Alex since he was ten. Plus he’s his father’s son.’ She grinned. ‘Are you going to report him for assault?’

  ‘Of course not, but what if the guy does?’

  ‘If he’s that stupid, there will be eight witnesses saying it was self-defence. If anyone should make a police report it’s Jazz.’

  ‘Even if he doesn’t,’ McClair countered, ‘Bob should get in touch with Ronnie Hill at Haddington . . . if only to put his sighting of the dead man on the record.’

  ‘He’ll probably do that automatically, but I’ll remind him,’ Sarah said. ‘It won’t contribute anything to the investigation, but it does give me a starting point for the time of death. I’ll call you once I’ve done the examination.’

  ‘You don’t need to. I’m on maternity, remember.’

  ‘Maybe but you’re still a cop. I’ve been married to one long enough to know that, once their curiosity is aroused, it’s never satisfied until it knows the whole story.’

  Four

  ‘What about the horse?’ Bob Skinner asked.

  ‘It’s been found,’ Inspector Hill told him. ‘A group of twitchers on the Nature Reserve came across it. It was distressed I’m told, but fortunately one of the people had some experience with horses and was able to calm her down.’

  ‘Him.’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘It’s a gelding,’ Skinner explained. ‘It has no tackle, but it’s still male. I’m no equestrian, but I’ve seen a few horses’ arses in my time, so I know. How are you going it recover it?’

  ‘I’ve asked for a horse box from our mounted unit to be taken to the scene.’

  ‘Are you going to report it to the procurator fiscal?’ he joked. He had known Hill from the inspector’s earliest days in the Edinburgh force. ‘You could charge it with leaving the scene of an accident.’

  Hill laughed. ‘How do you think the fiscal would react to that, sir?’

  ‘We’ve both met a few who might have signed off on it. When I was chief constable in Edinburgh, I’d a letter from an MP complaining that one of his constituents had been kicked by a police horse during a disturbance at a football game, and demanding that disciplinary action be taken against it.’

  ‘How did you handle that one?’

  ‘There was CCTV that covered the incident. We looked at it and saw the constituent throwing what appeared to be pepper in the horse’s face. We threw the whole fucking book back in his; he went away for three months.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Hill said. ‘Meantime I have officers calling round all the livery stables in the area, trying to identify the animal and its owner. We’ve still got no clue who the dead man was. If we don’t track him down soon we might have to put his photo online . . . once he’s been cleaned up at the morgue.’

  ‘What photos have you got now?’

  ‘I took a couple once the body had been extracted, and Noele did some video when she found him.’

  ‘Send me the best of the stills, please Ronnie,’ Skinner requested. ‘I didn’t recognise him when our paths crossed, but it was fleeting, and he was wearing a helmet. Let me have another look, on the off chance that I might have come across him somewhere else.’

  ‘I will do, sir. The livery stable trawl will probably lead us to an identity, but if you could help, that would be good.’

  Five

  Detective Superintendent Harold ‘Sauce’ Haddock raised his infant daughter Samantha above his head. ‘How’s your day been so far, wee one? Mine’s been a proper bore.’

  ‘Careful!’ her mother warned. ‘She’s not long fed. She’s liable to barf all over you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that would you, gorgeous?’ he chuckled. Nevertheless he lowered the grinning child, holding her on his hip, as he leaned over to kiss his wife. ‘And your morning?’ he murmured.

  ‘Rewarding,’ Cheeky replied. ‘I’ve signed up the bank I’ve been targeting; it’s agreed to be a major contributor for the next five years. If yours is that dull you could always come and work for the foundation, as I keep telling you.’

  ‘And as I keep telling you, you were born to do good things, and I was born to stop folk doing bad things.’ He handed his daughter back to her mother. ‘See you this evening; I’m off to charge someone with embezzlement.’

  ‘That’s a serious crime?’

  ‘He’s a solicitor: that makes it serious.’

  ‘Could you tell him that if he gives the money to my foundation, he could be a hero rather than a villain?’

  ‘And what would his defrauded clients say to that?’

  ‘True,’ Cheeky conceded. ‘But maybe his defence counsel could portray him as a Robin Hood type?’

  ‘Most of our judges would be on the side of the Sheriff of Nottingham; plus some of the folk he’s stolen from might well be your clients as a result.’

  ‘In that case charge him with all you can. See you later.’ She smiled as he headed for the door.

  Less than a year had passed since the sudden death of Cameron McCullough, the man after whom Cheeky had been named. She had called him ‘Grandpa’ for all of her twenty-nine years, unaware that he was in reality her father and that the wayward woman she had known as her mother was her aunt. She had inherited most of his considerable fortune, of which a little over a third had been held in Russia. With apparent, but actually accidental, foresight she had disposed of those assets six weeks before the invasion of Ukraine and had used the money to establish a charitable foundation for the relief of family poverty in Scotland. Its growth and its management had become a full-time job, for her and for a small executive team. They were charged with delivering aid to those most in need, while Cheeky concentrated her efforts on attracting donations and pledges from corporate and private contributors.

  The late Cameron senior had been a hands-on businessman, with a wide range of interests and holdings, most of which he had sheltered within a trust. This had reduced the potential hit of inheritance and capital gains tax. It had left his heiress with three choices: sell everything, pick up the reins that he had held, or appoint an executive to manage and grow her holdings while she balanced her home life with her charitable work. She had chosen option three, recruiting a bright young woman from Stenton Provost, one of Britain’s leading investment management houses. Rosemarie Delday had been on a path to partnership with the firm, but had been attracted by the job description that Cheeky had laid out: ‘Focus my holdings on creating and sustaining as many jobs as possible, rather than on increasing my wealth.’

  As Cheeky’s future career had taken shape, her husband had stepped up one more rung on the promotion ladder, to detective superintendent. He had been given operational command of serious crime investigation across Scotland, reporting to Assistant Chief Constable Becky Stallings. When he had been offered the post by Deputy Chief Constable Mario McGuire he had asked for time to think about it. The DCC was taken aback, but when Haddock had explained that he needed to consult his wife, he had agreed.

  In fact, he had made an additional call to his one-time mentor. ‘Do you think I’m ready, Gaffer?’ he had asked. ‘Or do the bosses think more of me than they should?’

  ‘If they’re over-rating you, Sauce, then so do I,’ Sir Robert Skinner had replied. ‘You’ve been fast-tracked since you were a detective constable. You must see that. There’s no harm having friends in high places, but nobody’s judgement’s being coloured. You’ve been assessed on the basis of your job performance all the way along the line, but they’ve looked beyond that. There’s lots of capable detectives in the police service, lad, but not too many natural leaders. You’re one of those.’

  ‘Thanks, Gaffer, but there’s worries. I’ll have oversight of Lottie Mann in Glasgow and Jimmy Nairn up in Aberdeen. How are they going to take it?’

  ‘I don’t know Nairn, but I do know Lottie. She’s as good a detective as you are, but she’s not the same leader. I think she knows it too. She’ll be fine; she’ll probably like having you as a sounding board.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ he had said, ‘but I want to be more than that. The broader my caseload, the more time I’ll spend in the office. I worry about that.’

  ‘As I did, Sauce. I spent a few years dreading the day of Jimmy Proud’s retirement, knowing I would take over as chief constable.’

  ‘When it happened, how did you handle it?’

  Haddock recalled the laugh. ‘You’re not so new in CID that you don’t remember. I turned up at every major crime scene, made myself a pain in the arse for the investigating officers, and I let my ACCs get on with the mundane shite. Take the job, son. Do what I did.’

  Skinner’s advice had been echoed by Cheeky, from a different viewpoint. ‘You might be frustrated by the extra office work, but if it gets you home regularly and at a reasonable hour, so much the better. I need all the help I can get.’

  Shelving his reservations, he had accepted the post and the promotion, after ensuring that he would continue to work out of his office in Edinburgh. Happily, his first weeks in post had coincided with a seasonal lull in serious crime across Scotland. ‘Are you and Jimmy Nairn leaving stuff in your in-trays?’ he had asked Lottie Mann, on a visit to her Glasgow office. ‘Or have the bad guys finally been cowed by our fearsome reputation as crime-fighters?’

  The formidable detective chief inspector had raised a heavy eyebrow. ‘Sauce, the bad guys are cruising the Caribbean with their wives and weans, on Disney holiday liners. Everything fucking stops for the Glasgow Fair holidays!’

  Six

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector Hill,’ Marion Wayne said, her tone emphasising her regret, ‘but I can’t help you. I have twenty-seven horses stabled here. As we speak twenty-four of them are in their stalls. The other three are out with their owners . . . all of them ladies . . . probably on the old railway line and around the farm it goes through. And that’s another thing; the majority of my owners and riders are women. The man you’re describing, he isn’t one of mine, and the way you say the horse was being ridden, that doesn’t sound right either. I don’t have hunters or show-jumpers here, just quiet, placid ponies and mares that are suitable for all the family members. They’re walked, mostly, and rarely get above a trot.’

  ‘Do you know any of the other stables in the area?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m familiar with all of them, but you’re not ringing any bells there either. Sorry again. I really do wish I could help you. It’s awful, I know, but riding accidents do happen. Rarely around here, though,’ she added. ‘There isn’t a drag hunt with hounds within miles of Gullane, far less one that crosses the boundary of legality. That’s where you’d be most likely to have a fatality. Your thinking is that the horse was alarmed by its surroundings?’

  ‘That’s one theory,’ Hill admitted.

  ‘That is possible,’ Mrs Wayne agreed, ‘but I know the area you’re describing. I don’t think it likely that an experienced rider would get into trouble there, and certainly not at low tide. Likely he’d have been walking his mount . . . but, not knowing the animal,’ she admitted, ‘I couldn’t discount an accident.’ She paused. ‘Listen, my three owners should be back fairly soon. I’ll ask them if your description matches someone that one of them might know. If any bells are rung, I’ll get back to you.’

  Seven

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Sarah asked, as she picked her car keys from the hook on the kitchen wall.

  ‘What? Mmm, sorry,’ her husband exclaimed, closing the image on his phone and returning it to his jacket. ‘Your afternoon appointment, as it happens. Inspector Hill in Haddington is still struggling to identify him. I said I’d take a look.’

  ‘And can you? Put a name to him?’

  He winced. ‘No, I can’t. Yes, he’s the rider I saw, but also . . . there’s something niggling at me that I can’t pin down. I don’t know who he is, but somewhere at the back of my mind, there’s a wee bell sounding.’

  ‘Who took the pictures?’

  ‘Ronnie Hill took them himself, once the body had been removed from the crevice it was stuck in. Noele McClair took some video earlier like any good officer would, but Hill said his is better.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  Bob grinned. ‘You’ll be seeing the real thing soon, but sure, if you want.’ He took his phone from his pocket, retrieved the image and handed it over. He watched her as she studied it, intrigued unexpectedly by the frown that creased her forehead.

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ she murmured. ‘I’m almost certain of it. Give me a minute and it’ll come back to me.’ In fact, the recollection took only a few seconds. ‘Last time you and I were out for dinner at the Main Course. When was it?’ she asked herself, then answered. ‘At the beginning of July, it would have been. We had a side table, remember, as intimate as you can be in a ninety-seater restaurant. As usual you took the gunfighter seat, with the view of the door, with me looking towards the back. It was busy but I remember one particular couple, more by the way she behaved than him. They arrived just after us, both dressed up to the nines. He seemed entirely relaxed, but she was definitely ill at ease, more than a little nervous. She kept glancing around and towards the door . . . always a giveaway . . . and I thought, “There’s something going on there. She’s hoping nobody recognises her.” I have a sense for these things.’

  ‘As you keep telling me. “Suspicious Minds” is your favourite song. So?’

  Sarah brandished the image. ‘So, he was the guy,’ she declared.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Ninety per cent. I remember facial features and he had a very well-defined jaw line . . . as does our accident victim.’ She handed the phone back.

  ‘If you’re certain,’ he said, ‘you’d better tell Ronnie Hill.’

  ‘You do it for me please, honey. I really have to shoot.’

  ‘Aye, okay,’ Skinner conceded.

  As the front door closed behind her, he re-dialled Inspector Hill and related his wife’s recollection. ‘She has no idea who he was,’ he said, ‘but she’s pretty much certain it was your man. I’d my back to them, so I can’t confirm it, but Sarah’s never wrong. First Saturday in July, it would have been. We were booked for eight, and Sarah said they arrived just after.’

  ‘Right,’ Hill declared. ‘I’ll ask the restaurant for a list of tables booked from seven thirty on. His name should be there.’

  ‘Unless she booked the table,’ Skinner pointed out.

  ‘If she did, she might have reported him missing by now, or heard about the accident through social media and called us.’

  ‘Maybe not, if Sarah’s suspicions were right.’

  ‘We’ll still find him.’ He paused. ‘I suppose this means you don’t know who he is, sir.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Skinner admitted. ‘And yet, I have this . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence. Had it been a video call the inspector would have seen his eyebrows rise dramatically. ‘Yes! That’s it,’ he exclaimed. ‘Ronnie, you know Witches Hill Golf Club, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. The posh place just outside Aberlady that was built by the Marquis of Kinture on his own land, then sold to a Middle East investment group after he died. There was a murder there once, wasn’t there? In the jacuzzi?’

  ‘Spot on,’ he confirmed. ‘I play there occasionally; the Marquis, God bless and keep him, gave me a life membership. The new owners honoured it, but I only use it on the odd occasion. The last time I did was back in April when I took my boy Jazz for a round. I remember, there was a four-ball in front of us, with caddies; the sods held us up all the way round. They were still in the changing room when we got in, and one of them had the grace to apologise to me. He explained that his mate, his playing partner, had only just taken up the game and that he’d never been a golf club member before. The mate,’ he said, ‘I didn’t speak to him, or ask his name, but now that I think about it, the dead man, it’s him. I’m certain of it.’

  Eight

  Marion Wayne was hosing mud from the wheels of her pick-up, a frequent task even in summer, when she saw the group of three morning riders leave the narrow and potentially hazardous road and enter the field next to the stable block.

  Most of her clients were long-term. She knew them well, and their horses even better. Iris Coffey for example, the oldest of the approaching trio: her Blackie was thirteen and had been at the stable for ten years, succeeding Iris’s beloved old Mary, who had occupied the same stall for twelve before that. She was in her mid-sixties, the widow of a chartered accountant, and rode almost every day, in all but the most extreme weather. Frances Hilton, her regular companion, on Tess, was her best friend. The two had been schoolmates at St George’s. A former teacher, Frances had come to the stable when she and her husband, a high-ranking civil servant, had moved to Dirleton from Edinburgh. They seemed to have a comfortable marriage. In their retirement he golfed and she rode.