No Such Thing As Destiny

Chapter 1 – If A Body Meet A Body

Airdlaggan House was in Glasgow, just. I discovered that fact to my surprise and discomfort when the bus dropped me off on what looked to me like a Discover Scotland advert, all drystane dykes and bewildered sheep.

The surprise came as I walked back down the winding lane towards the roadside nameplate I’d seen from the bus, the house title scrolled across its width in Copperplate Gothic Bold. Thirty yards before I reached that sign, I came upon another, embedded in the verge, which whispered rather than shouted a quasi-welcome that read City of Glasgow. Still? Out here, in damp tartan fields populated by Harry Lauders and scrawny trees whose branches grew bannocks?

Apparently, yes. Airdlaggan House itself nestled in an unlikely crook of the seemingly far-distant city, even if its fields and livestock were located across an invisible border, enjoying the rustic scenery of Inver-aber-bala-strath-sneckie or whatever lay in the great beyond.

The discomfort was more a function of realising that – city address or not – the path from the road wound (uphill, naturally) a long way before it reached Airdlaggan House itself, half-visible on a tree-bound hilltop. The electronic vehicle access was closed and locked but a kissing gate let me onto the property and up the gravel roadway that split a sprawling treeless field. I climbed the hill in an artless slalom, swaying this way, that, and more, to avoid the generous dollops of sheep shit that speckled the gravel, while the perpetrators glared idly at me.

The house, as I gradually began to see, was as faux-grand as I’d hoped. A manor where a farmhouse should be, Queen Anne, neo-classical and mock-Tudor styles collided and disputed, an architectural train wreck from another country that – carpers, take note – would still cost any buyer an even number of millions. Three cars sat outside on the terminal sweep of the drive that led to the porticoed front entrance, all of them late-model with vanity plates. I became so idly preoccupied with attempting to decipher the meaning of HI2 DLD that I almost missed it.

The body.

Chapter 2 – That Agatha Christie Moment

It was the sound that caught me short, a sharp creak of rope straining in the wind, clutching against a middle branch of the mountain ash by the side of the drive. Twisting in the fatal clutch of a noose hidden now, biting into his purpling flesh, a man dangled, limbs a-droop, bobbing in a marionette dance of indecision, head turning like he was saying no to a question nobody had asked him.

I chapped hard on the door of the Doune family home. Maybe they were wondering why somebody hadn’t shown up for morning coffee?

*** *** ***

Tell the truth, it’s a fuckin mystery to me as well, why I’m the one had to call it in, officer. I’m the one found the body, would be the obvious answer, but we already tried that once, so...

You’re awful snotty, Mister...McC -

"Aye, McCabe. You heard it the first time so you can forget this old ‘mister...what’s your name…consults notebook...raises eyebrow’ shite. I’m in the business, as I told you."

Business? And what business -

"- would that be? Are you seriously gonny say ‘what business would that be?’, raises eyebrow again? Seriously? This is tragic. Did they not send any grown-ups to this call? Your patter’s bowfin’."

That attitude’s not gonny help you, Mr McCabe.

Help? Why’m I needin’ help now?

Dead body, up a tree. Nobody here but you, seems like, and you’re a stranger. You told me you’d never been here before in your puff, awful funny coincidence that you’d be first on the spot. A lotta coppers would be lookin’ hard at you for that.

"Listen, constable. First up, I don’t think me bein’ here is actually a ‘coincidence’, it’s jist an incidence. If I’d been here some other time when another body was found swingin’ from a tree, that’d be a coincidence. This? Naw. Second, do I follow your line of questioning correctly, to the effect that you are suggestin’ the poor bastard on the rope was my effort?"

You have to admit, it’s a strange -

- coincidence, aye. Christ above. What d’ye think I am? Travelling hangman? Random wanderin’ assassin gets on the bus at Buchanan Street with forty foot of rope? Just in case, like.

So, you came here on a bus? Would the driver be able to confirm that?

Usually, no. Why would he? In this case, he prob’ly would, cuz I got the impression that Airdlaggan House doesny see many guests arrive that way. Driver didny think there actually was a stop – I could see his point.

We can check into that.

"Ye could, but save your time. Here’s my bus ticket – that’ll have a place and time of issue on it, which will be Buchanan Street bus station, this morning just after nine AM. Find out how long the bus takes to get here, probly forty minutes today, in fact, add on ten minutes for me to shimmy up the hill through the sheepshit, find the body, knock the doors to find nobody in the house – despite all those cars – and call 999. Which reminds me – there was some voice mail for me, I need to check what that was, cuz I actually ignored it to call you. How about that for bein’ a citizen? When was that 999 call logged?"

Eh...9.56.

Right, there you go. Here’s my card if you need any more schooling.

If my patience with PC Wright hadn’t already been exhausted, then the sight of Beth Long climbing from her car would have torn my attention away from his failed attempts to half-remember techniques he’d half-understood in college. That would be Doctor Beth Long, a part of my past, my once-was, my big-might-have-been. Okay…middle-sized might-have-been.

Long way from Govan down to here on a sunny morning, doctor.

Jesus, Stevie! What are you...no, forget I said that, stupid question...

Talk to PC Wright – he needs to recognise what a stupid question sounds like.

Answer it, anyway. Dead body in a tree, why’re you on the spot?

I found it...him. Called it in.

That’s a funny -

- don’t say coincidence. Just don’t. Anyhow, seems a kinna entry-level suicide to call the chief pathologist all this way.

We take our turns, keeps us honest.

Nothin’ to do with the fact that this is the Doune family residence?

"Is it? I don’t know. And how do you know? Although, I guess…why you’re out here this morning, that’ll also be because it’s the Doune family residence, one way or another."

"Aye, man called Lachlan Doune called me here, arranged a 10 o’clock meeting. I’m hopin’ that’s not him in the rowan tree."

Well, it’s somebody. Let’s see...actually, since you’re here, might as well ask you now – you touch the body? No? Not at all? Not even to check if he was still alive?

Look at the colour of him. Either dead or he went dookin’ in Ribena. And he soiled himself, but it’s long dried-in. He’s been up there a good few hours. Even from down here, looks like there might’ve been magpies or crows havin’ a wee look-see. So, no, I never checked if he was alive.

And you didn’t touch anything else?

Only the front door of the house. Knocked it, rang the bell, that’s all. Never touched or moved any objects. If you’re thinkin’...that branch is, what, ten, twelve feet up there...and there’s no ladder or anything. Aye, I thought that myself. Mibbe he could loop a rope up and over, but...

...but there’s a ladder lying on its side next to the front door of the house. Eighty feet away.

I did notice that, aye. Quite interesting, I’d call it. But you must want to get on and do your job now.

Aye – I’ll get back to you after. Always keen to see what the reviews say...and everybody’s a critic.

It was then that the front door of Airdlaggan House creaked open.

*** *** ***

A dishevelled, but fully clothed, woman blinked bleary at the people meandering around in front of the house and pointed, unsteady but determined. "Who the fuck are all you people here? Are you...is that police? What are you doing here? You need to get off...Lachlan! Lachlaaaaaaaannnnnn!"

Using sophisticated detection techniques, it was around that point I determined my new client, Mr Lachlan Doune, would likely prove unresponsive to invoices.

*** *** ***

"Annie! It’s well seen we’re in the boondocks here, if they let you loose on a Big Hoose case."

Charming, McCabe. You still owe me for that Paul Tierney thing.

Aye, I know. This’s just me bein’ embarrassed about that.

"Well...thanks for the flowers and the wine. From anybody but you, I’d’ve taken that the wrong way. Which’d’ve been a better way, but still..."

But, really, though – why is a Detective Inspector out here for this rubber-stamper?

Mibbe cuz she’d like to get herself vaguely back to what she used to do for her day-job, before a big fuck-up with a former ACC got her shuffling traffic stats and holdin’ hands of the recently bereaved.

Mm. I remember that one, too. Think I contributed more than I took out from it – well, I must’ve. You’ve still got a job, for a start, if not a career. And you got to do the TV murder.

Aye, well, that was like this. It was my turn to pick up the shitty stick – it usually is. And never mind me bein’ here, why are you being a tourist in Jimmy Shand-land?

"Been through that twice already. PC Wright’ll tell you, although he’ll likely take a while to get there. But I have to admit, you’ll need to talk to me some more, cuz the dangly man there, he called me up yesterday and asked me to come by here today – that’s the factual answer you need. Why he did that, I have no fuckin idea."

Mibbe it was a date?

If it was, we got off on the wrong foot.

...so he just phones up and says, my place, tomorrow at 11?

"It was 10, but pretty much. Hello, my name is Lachlan Doune, I live at Airdlaggan House, gave me the address. Can you see me there tomorrow so that I can engage your services? Maybe you can explain me to myself. That was the phrase he used."

And you showed up, moth to the flame, never even checked who the Dounes were?

"Never said that. I knew the name – well the family name, didny know Lachlan’s. Still don’t. But workin’ for rich families has its compensations."

So you never asked what he wanted to engage your services for?

"I did. He said ‘to explain me to myself’. And that, officer, was the end of the conversation."

Once upon a time, Stevie McCabe would’ve laughed at that kinna line, told the guy to check his horoscope.

Like I say, workin’ for rich clients...

We all know you got a nice wee kick-back from the Daily Banner. You shouldny need riddle money.

You’d think, but the Banner cash has vamoosed. Made a bad investment overseas – long story.

And the very next mornin’, the bold Lachlan goes for a swing. Helluva -

- don’t say coincidence. Cuz it’s not.

You don’t think? Him killing himself the same way his mother did?

Eh...no, I’d agree – that would be worth comment.

Your Google never turned that up then?

Family had some personal tragedies, was all I got.

Should’ve looked harder. You might’ve found out that your man Lachlan pleaded guilty to the murder of Nicole Clancy, although that wasn’t public knowledge at the time.

Go on – tell me, then. Why not?

"Cuz he was only thirteen when he did it, or twelve. I’ll catch you later – I need to have a word with the sister. Seems she enjoys a brisk lemonade or two and that’s not makin’ her any more coherent..."

I hit my office number. Dee? Could you see what you can find on a Lachlan Doune, d-o-u-n-e, guilty of the murder of a Nicole Clancy, don’t know if that’s got a E, think it’ll be c-y, years back...

Years? When? 1722?

Dunno, more than twenty? When he was thirteen or something, anyway.

So what age he is now, then? That’ll get your answer.

I don’t know, he never filled in a form - this isny e-harmony. Sounded kinna young-ish, twenties. Actually…dunno. Older.

Leave it to Dee. Lucky his name wisny Joe Smith, but, eh?

Also, find what you can on family members, especially a sister, name unknown.

Jesus, Stevie – this’s worse than a pub quiz.

"Well, do some research then! Use your imagination...not too much imagination, eh? Email it to me, or I can pick it up when I get to the office."

While DI Annie Simpson had disappeared into the interior of Airdlaggan House, Beth Long was still al-fresco and working with the body – now confirmed as Lachlan Doune – after it had been cut from the tree. Me? I seemed to have been granted access to the crime scene by default, or by some curious sort of precedence. Well, I was here before anybody else, so...

What’s your thoughts?

My first thought would be that I’ll be telling DI Simpson what my thoughts are, not you.

Just in general, I mean. I’m curious why this guy calls me up yesterday and when I show up, he’s a Christmas ornament.

Well, I’d say he wanted you to see this. But I thought you didn’t know him?

Never said that, although, no, I didny know him. And my theory about why’d he’d call me and do this’d be better told -

- to DI Simpson. Aye, call that one quits. As it happens, first look says this is suicide. No defence wounds, no signs of restraint or a struggle, obvious injuries are just what you’d expect from a strangulation...

Slow, then?

Not quick. In this light, I can see the petechial haemorrhage already. We’ll need to see what we find in the bloodstream to determine if he was awake and sober when he got up there. And see what’s under his fingernails – looks like there might be some of that nylon rope in there.

Suggests he was awake, if he was pulling at the rope while he strangled.

Aye. Second thoughts, panic, pain, whatever. Or mibbe he just pulled it really tight.

While he fired that ladder thirty yards away?

Yes. My report will note the absence of an obvious way for the deceased to have found himself in that position.

Hope you use that exact phrase. It’ll amuse some court clerk somewhere.

"Aye, that’s always the audience you have in mind with a post-mortem. Anyhow, I think that’s the end of this conversation, Stevie...you can read the report along with the great Glaswegian public. You can count on this bein’ all over the tabs, one way or the other. Y’might find some of your old buddies on the phone tonight – could be headline news - ‘city private eye’s horror find at mansion of secrets’...‘troubled heir was jist hangin’ there like a saggy bag a’ plums, says rugged local ‘tec McCabe, age undisclosed...’. Unless you’re still on a retainer with the Daily Banner?"

The Banner’s ancient history and...‘heir’? What’s Lachlan Doune heir to?

Whit? C’mon, Stevie – sharpen up! This isn’t some smackhead’s gurned their last up a stairwell in the multis. Do your homework – it’s your first-ever country house mystery. This is pure Poirot here.

That was when Baws Wilson ruined the atmosphere, corrupting the Golden Age of the Country House Mystery, silencing the string quartet and sending the waiters scuttling back below-stairs.

"The fuck’s aw this? How come aw these cunts is aw ower the shop? Polis, is it? Haw, that’s fuckin Lachie! Is he deid?"

My name’s McCabe – who’d you be?

Eh? Billy Wilson. Baws. Whit’s happened here?

You got a reason to be here?

’Course I fuckin have. I work here. Whit d’ye ‘hink the shotgun’s fur? I’m the fuckin gamekeeper. Now, whit’s the score? He’s deid, right? Lachie? Stupid bastard that he is...what’s he done? Jesus, canny believe this. Is Deborah in? I’m gonny see whit’s the score.

You might find that a wee bit tricky. I think Deborah might actually be in the house, aye, but the polis baggsied first go.

"Polis? You’re no’ polis? Ye can fuck right off then. This gun’s broke the now, but it’s fuckin loaded and it goes right back the-gether again. Out my road!"

Baws Wilson might score some points for determination and (maybe) loyalty, but the diplomatic service missed nothing when his application got lost in the post and only a very particular circle could ever accommodate his bouquet of fuck-ye’s – which probably played better in Levenhall, the forgotten stalag of Glasgow Corporation post-war social failure whose roofs distantly half-nudged their way over the sheep-pocked fields that surrounded Airdlaggan House. If Baws didn’t live in Levenhall, then the one pub that served its mean streets wasn’t called The Fort Apache Bar. And it definitely was.

Billy Wilson was most likely a substandard gamekeeper, since the shotgun was very clearly not loaded, but his actual talent had been to distract me from Beth Long. The pathologist had interpreted my turned back as an invitation to actually do her job and her crew were loading the mortal remains of Lachlan Doune into the back of an unmarked refrigeration wagon. Beth had disappeared, taking her heir story with her.

Ah, well. I had the internet for that. And Dee Beattie dredging through the dullest parts. That is the subtle artistry of the detective.

Chapter 3 – Grade Inflation For Psychopaths

Here, son, were you up at the big hoose?

Why d’ye ask?

Jist thought, you gettin’ on at that stop there, nobody normal ever does that. And there’s some kinna stushie goin’ on at Airdlaggan, looks like. Polis cars and that. Wondered if you knew what it’s aboot?

Dunno, mate. But there was a guy carryin’ a shotgun. You don’t see that too often. Not in daylight, anyhow.

Him? That’ll be Baws. He’s the fuckin big I-am – in his own mind, anyway.

You know the bold Baws?

Aye. Like you say, you don’t see that many shotguns round here, but if ye drive this bus, you’ll see that dick. He’s aye goin’ aw great-white-hunter in about they sheep there. Nicks about in this scabby old jeep.

Take it he lives down the scheme?

"Prob’ly, dunno. I drive this ‘hing by Levenhall, I don’t go in there. The Strathclyde Partnership for Transport likes their buses to get back to the garage with four wheels. I can drop you off at the park and you can go into the scheme and can check for yourself, if you like...?"

Naw, you’re good. I’m the same as the SPT. I like an even number of limbs. Just take me back to somewhere they have electricity.

*** *** ***

Dee was hammering her keyboard when I walked into the office, scowling at her screen as though she could subdue it by the power of eyebrows.

"Ah, you’re here! Got the bio on your boy Lachlan, I’ll just cut and paste it into a doc for you. Turns out he’s not actually that much of a boy, cuz he’s – was – nearly thirty-five. More Peter Pan wi’ some bad habits. Very bad habits. You want the greatest hits, or can you wait for the email?"

Entertain me.

Obviously, a lotta stuff will be confidential, and you’ll see why, plus this is just a first run-through, but...he killed a six-year-old girl when he was twelve or thirteen. And when I say killed, I mean murdered – a wee lassie called Nicole Clancy. Burned the body, too. That’s gonny forever be his theme tune. Too young for jail -

How come I don’t remember this case? Must’ve been all over the papers.

Not at first. The murder would’ve been in the papers, aye, but not him, once he was arrested and pleaded guilty. Too young – that’d be kept confidential at the time. Obviously, it gets out in the end, god bless our tabloids – there was even some book about it. How you never heard of it? Don’t ask me – could be any reason. Mibbe you were a daft student with your head in a bong every day. Or mibbe it was when you were bein’ a tourist in uniform down in London. Or did I remember that story wrong?

Hmm, could be any of that. This’d’ve been all over the Record and the Banner, but it wouldny have meant a thing when I was in the Met, especially if it was all ‘can’t be named for legal reasons’ at first.

Naw, you’d be too busy doin’ stop and search of guys bein’ suspiciously non-Caucasian, that right?

Sarcasm’s a bad look, Dee, even for you. Hang on...back then, eight would be the age of criminal responsibility, but they never prosecuted under twelve. He must’ve got by on the borderline.

...but they had to do somethin’, cuz he killed a kid, so he spent a wheen of years in Castle Craig. Canny find anythin’ beyond that fact – there’s your medical confidentiality. Might’ve been ten or twelve years he was inside, that kinna time, cuz he reappears a bit after that.

Doin’ what?

Nothin’ you could put in a bottle. Just bein’ the eccentric heir to the family business, cuz old man Doune died at some point in there. Couldny see exactly when. It was his second or third marriage, so he was on the old side to have kids the age they were.

"How come Lachlan was the heir? The murderer? What about the other wife or wives?"

Looks like the wives were kaput, Lachlan’s mother actually killed herself…

Aye, I heard that. Brothers and sisters?

…no kids from earlier marriages, but old man Doune seems to have been a late bloomer – two older siblings, but Lachlan’s the boy, for some reason. He got most all of the money in the will.

Strange.

Aye, but everything about Lachlan was strange - here’s a picture from when he was found unfit to plead, or whatever it’s called. Look at him – twelve years old, must be six-four. Not your typical menu item.

Aye, big stretch. He’s no shorter after today, either.

"Phew, Stevie, that’s harsh. And I say that, knowin’ your usual standards. Whatever Lachlan was like, seems like Abercrombie Doune-"

That the old man? Sounds like a twelve-year-old single malt.

- was shattered when Lachlan had his wee bit murder trouble. Got mentally frail himself, the auld fella, eye off the ball, business suffered and so forth, kinna thing.

You sound like this is a…version, not actual facts?

Oh, aye. Y’have to understand I’m making half of this up, cuz there’s a lot of dots missing, and then you have to draw big straight lines. So, a load of this is marked ‘as far as I can tell’. But...what’s definite is that, when Lachlan got out of Castle Craig, he got made heir to whatever the family still had. Must’ve actually changed the will to do it, seems like.

Makes no sense – was it cuz his darlin’ boy was home, all that good shit?

No idea – there’s no dots there at all. And then Abercrombie inconveniently upped and died. No happy endings.

There never are. What was this family business - are you gonny tell me it was somethin’ mental? All I got was that they were old money, land-owners. But was that it? Mibbe old Abercrombie was a fortune teller? Radio talk-show host? Astronaut?

Hard to say – as you know, there’s land. I’d guess farming, but does that make you rich? Once upon a time, could be. Thought you might fancy makin’ some enquiries for yourself. And Tommy Mac phoned.

Tommy? He discovered his phone again? What’d he say?

To tell you he phoned. So I have. You’re welcome.

Tommy McCafferty was my best friend...hold that result...Tommy was my oldest friend, that I met on my first day as a student. Since he married Veronica – a ceremony where I was best man and sang a blistering Carrickfergus, as all the society columns must surely have reported – he had become more of a memory and less of a presence. So be it – it’s the main road to growing up for most men and if Tommy took twenty years more than the rest of us to set foot on the path, that was typical of his (lack of) style. Nobody could deny that she had made a better man of him and I would never be making the same claim...

...Christ...existential musing - on a school-night! That was a bad habit I needed to discard. I went to dial his number, saw the notification that the old voicemail was still awaiting my attention and checked its timing – 11.48pm last night. Oh. Oh. My brain rehearsed dialling the digits 9-0-1 but my finger instead hit Tommy’s number anyway. He yelped down the line at me like a Jack Russell chasing a bin bag.

Stevie, brilliant you called, mate! Listen...listen...you know how me and Veronica – well, just her, really, s’pose – have been doin’ the IVF? Well...

Congratulations, Tommy!

Aw...no, it’s not that. Naw. It’s...I wondered if you could have a word with Bernie about it? See, we don’t ‘hink the clinic is -

- aw, Jesus, sorry, mate! I thought...well, you know what I thought. Sure, tell me about it and I’ll talk to her. Ah...been a bit tricky, has it?

Aye, this and that. Not goin’ quite how we hoped. I mean, it’s difficult an’ all, we know that. Her age, my sperm...not gonny give you the minute-by-minute, but we thought mibbe we could get Bernie to see if the clinic’s contract is, well, legal?

Ah, right. Aye, I can give her a call. Send me the…no, send the contract straight to her, email’s a clunker – it’s her name-dot-name, full name Bernadette, at barclayhutchisonskivington.co.uk.

Okay – but you’ll speak to her, too? Cuz you’re back together, after that wee trouble you had...? Righteously, I mean. And you’re good?

Er, aye, sure. We’re best buddies. Life gets in the way sometimes, that’s all. She’s awful busy right now – but she’ll look at your paperwork, no problem...and me...I’m the usual, y’know?

Aye, I do know. And the other thing is, if you could – and I actually mean you, not Bernie - could find out anythin’ about the clinic, if they’ve had any lawsuits. Medical malpractice, that kinna thing. Just in case.

Jesus, Tommy…did you not check them out yourself?

Sure. They seem fine, got all the licences and the highest recommendations, but probably so do most quacks, right? Always somebody to give you a good word. I thought it’d be okay to ask you - is this not exactly the thing you do, look into matters where the polis wouldny?

Um…aye, it is. It’ll be my pleasure, Tommy. Email me the details and I’ll have a look.

Tommy rang off; behind my back, I knew Dee would be staring at me.

"Now, Stevie, is that how you talk about Bernie to your mates? You made it sound like a weekend ‘hing. If you were sixteen. Best buddies? Whit?"

Okay, Dee. It was only Tommy Mac. I know you and Bernie talk sometimes – how that ever happened, I’ll never under-

Aye. Matter of fact, we’ll be stanking a few Jagerbombs the-gether this very night.

Bernie? Jagerbombs?

Figure of speech. It’ll be some merlot for me, more like. Bernie’s on the wagon, midweek anyhow. That place at Kelvinbridge, right on the corner, you know it? Kinna got a basement but it’s actually a terrace when you go through the back, looks out onto the river? They might even let you in, if you promise to behave.

Sounds like I’d be in the way. She tell you about Florida?

All about it. So did you, so I’ve got it in stereo.

What about Atlanta? Or Memphis?

"All o’ that. Her mum’s house sold like that! So she’s off over there to learn to play golf or somethin’. Dunno if Bernie’ll follow her."

Me neither. At least we’re on the same page.

Who? You and me? You and her?

Uh…aye. Us – and us. Listen, I need to get down to Stewart Street to give a formal statement about the Airdlaggan swinger. If I don’t get back before you go, have a Jagerbomb on me.

*** ***

For the record, Mr McCabe, you had never made contact with Mr Doune previously?

No. He phoned me yesterday and asked me to visit him today. He gave me his address and said – these exact words – ‘explain me to myself’.

Did you ask him what he meant by that?

No. I don’t do riddles with potential clients, not before they’ve paid me.

"Okay. Did you ask yourself what he meant?"

"Not as such. I did think that he was probably a bit of a dick, that he thought he was a lot smarter than he really was, but that wasn’t really a question…for the record, detective inspector."

What did you know about Lachlan Doune? Assuming you did some research before you went to Airdlaggan House?

His name and address, and the fact that his family seem to be – or, to have been, in the past – big landowners. A rich family, you could say.

Another reason not to ask too many questions.

Not until -

- they pay you, no. But Lachlan Doune committed a notorious murder – you don’t remember that?

I don’t. It was a very long time ago. And I understand his name wasn’t released at the time, cuz of his age. Anyway, serial killers spoiled it all for the guys who jist do it once. Grade-inflation for psychopaths. You could say his name to a hundred people in this city and the only ones who’d have a clue would be coppers.

Until now. This’ll be all over the tabs tomorrow, and not just Scotland. It’ll get a national splash, at least until the next no-talent show comes on TV. Anyway…was that the entire conversation you had with the deceased…I’m Lachlan Doune, explain me to myself, here’s the address…okay then, mate, see you at 10am?

I asked him where he’d got my name.

Consumer research – awful modern of you.

And he said an old policeman told him to call me, said he couldny recall his name.

An ‘old’ policeman?

Could only think that’d be Scotty Napier.

Your old partner?

"See? You used the word – you said ‘old’, too, even