A DEVIL’S SHARE

A DCI BONE SCOTTISH CRIME THRIILLER

(Book 8)

T G Reid

COPYRIGHT

A Devil’s Share

Published Worldwide by Glass Work Press.

This edition published in 2025.

Copyright © 2025 by TG Reid. The right of all named persons, to be identified as the author of this work, has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this book are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Editors: Emmy Ellis, Hanna Elizabeth, Lisa Wright

Cover design: Andrew Dobell (creativeedgestudios.co.uk)

Typesetting: Emmy Ellis

© tgreid.com 2025

11 Laura Pl, Bathwick, Bath BA2 4BL

DEDICATION

To the NHS – I owe you big time

PROLOGUE

“Right then, you lucky lot!” Hamish Durie bellowed, his kilt swaying as he addressed the small group gathered in Glendurie Distillery’s visitor centre. “Who’s ready for a wee dram or six?”

A chorus of eager cheers answered him, the loudest from a rotund American whose ferociously cropped crewcut perched on top of his head like an over-mowed lawn. Beside him, his wife clutched a guidebook, her eyes wide with excitement. It was their first trip to the auld country, and they could barely contain themselves.

A young couple, obviously honeymooners by their constant hand-holding and shy glances, giggled in anticipation. At the back of the group, two middle-aged women whispered to each other, occasionally consulting their phones.

Standing apart from the others was a solitary man, his face set in a stern expression. He nodded curtly at Hamish’s words but didn’t join in the enthusiasm, his eyes constantly scanning the room as if searching for something.

Hamish led the group out into the cobblestone courtyard, where the full majesty of the ancient site revealed itself. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the yard, glinting off the weathered stone buildings. In the distance, the distinctive pagoda roofs of the malt kiln towers rose against the backdrop of the Campsie Fells.

“Breathe deep.” Hamish filled his lungs demonstratively. “That, my friends, is the smell of liquid heaven in the making.”

The air was heavy with a complex bouquet of aromas. The saccharine, earthy scent of malted barley mingled with the sharp tang of fermenting mash and the heavy, peaty smoke that curled from the kiln chimneys.

Cliff Bradshaw closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “Well, I’ll be,” he drawled, “if that ain’t the prettiest smell I’ve ever had the pleasure of sniffin’.”

Hamish grinned. “Aye, and we haven’t even started the tasting yet. Just wait till you get a noseful of our eighteen-year-old single malt.”

They made their way towards the production area.

Hamish began, “I should probably introduce myself properly. I’m Hamish Donald Durie, the great-great-great-grandson of James Durie, who founded this distillery back in 1806.” He chuckled. “That’s a mouthful, isn’t it? Wouldn’t want to say that after a few swifties. Let’s just say I’m a fifth-generation Durie, shall we?”

The group murmured appreciatively, clearly impressed by the family legacy.

The Texan was less impressed. “Well, if you’re family, why are you doing the tour instead of running the whole shebang?”

Hamish’s smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered. “Who says I’m not the CEO?” he quipped, forcing a laugh. “We’re a very small family, you know. We tend to double up round here. As we speak, my wife is out the back lumping barrels into the back of a lorry.”

There was a ripple of laughter, but the group appeared to sense the tension beneath Hamish’s jovial exterior. He was rattled by the comment, and for a moment, his cheerful guide persona slipped, revealing a hint of something darker underneath.

They entered the production area. The temperature rose noticeably, and the air grew thick with the sweet, yeasty smell of fermentation.

“Now, folks, we’re approaching the washbacks.” Hamish led them to a row of enormous wooden vats. “This is where the magic really begins.”

Moving on, they approached a massive copper still, its surface gleaming in the soft light.

“This beauty here is called ‘The Cailleach’—that’s Gaelic for ‘old woman,’” Hamish said. “She’s been producing spirit since 1921, and like any respectable old lady, she occasionally lets out a wee belch.”

On cue, the still emitted a loud gurgle, startling the group and eliciting a round of laughter.

They moved on to the warehouse. The air was now cool and dank, heavy with the musty scent of aging oak and whisky. Rows upon rows of casks stretched as far as the eye could see, stacked from floor to ceiling in this cavernous space.

Hamish’s voice echoed slightly. “Welcome to what we like to call ‘whisky heaven.’ Each of these casks is quietly working its magic, turning raw spirit into liquid gold. Now, can anyone tell me where we get our casks from?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in challenge.

Cliff Bradshaw’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Bourbon casks?”

“Spot on!” Hamish beamed. “Most of our casks come from bourbon producers in the States. You see, by law, bourbon can only be aged in new oak barrels. Once they’re done with them, we’re more than happy to take them off their hands.”

He paused by a particularly old-looking cask, its wood dark with age and the metal hoops slightly rusted. “This one here is something special. It’s been maturing since 1972. Just imagine the stories it could tell if it could talk.”

The lone figure at the rear shifted back and forth.

They finished examining the casks, and Hamish clapped his hands together. “Right, lads and lassies! Time for the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Let’s head to the tasting room, shall we?”

He led them through a heavy oak door into a cosy room, log fire blazing at the far end and a long table set up for the tasting. “We’ll be sampling three types of whisky we produce here at Glendurie.”

As they approached the tasting table, Betty piped up. “Is it true that some of the whisky evaporates over time? I read something about ‘the angels’ share.’”

“Ah, you’ve done your homework!” Hamish smiled. “Indeed, about two percent of the whisky in each cask evaporates every year. We call it the angels’ share. Makes sense, doesn’t it? If I were an angel, I’d be wantin’ a nip of Glendurie, too!”

The group gathered around the tasting table, where three glasses of amber liquid awaited each of them.

Hamish lifted his glass. “Before we begin, a toast. To new friends, old whisky, and the angels watching over us all.” He paused, a twinkle in his eye. “You know, this is my last tour of the day, and I like to end with a wee snifter of my favourite tipple. Hope you don’t mind if I join you?”

The group laughed and encouraged him enthusiastically.

“For those of you who may find whisky a little on the, how shall I say, fiery side, we have also provided a glass of water and a pipette. Use your pipette and squeeze two or three drops into the whisky. That’s all, no more, and hey presto, you’ll find the fire is extinguished, or at least simply glowing beautifully.” He gazed into the amber liquid. “Amazing, isn’t it? So, now you know how not to murder a malt!”

He let out a loud, bellowing laugh, and the group giggled nervously.

“Okay, are we all set?” He raised his glass. “Sláinte mhath!”

They all drank. Hamish took a hearty swig, savouring the familiar burn. But something was off. The taste was bitter, acrid. His eyes widened in alarm.

“That’s the finest whisky I’ve ever tasted!” Cliff smacked his lips appreciatively.

Hamish tried to respond, but his throat was constricting. He opened his mouth, but only a strangled gasp emerged.

“Mr Durie?” Betty asked uncertainly. “Are you all right?”

Hamish’s face twisted and contorted, his usually ruddy complexion turning an alarming shade of grey. The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the stone floor.

“Oh my God!” one of the newlyweds shrieked. “What’s happening?”

Hamish’s legs folded under him. His large frame caught the corner of the table, sending the other whiskies flying in all directions. He tumbled sideways, hitting the floor with a sickening thud. Cliff Bradshaw, reacting on instinct, rushed to his side.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Cliff barked, feeling for a pulse. It was there, but weak and erratic.

The other visitors huddled together, shock and fear etched on their faces. One woman was on her phone, frantically giving their location to emergency services.

Cliff tilted Hamish’s head back, ready to begin CPR if needed. But as he did, he noticed something odd—a faint, bitter almond smell on Hamish’s breath. His blood ran cold. In his years as a Texas Ranger, he’d encountered this before.

“Cyanide,” he whispered in horror.

Hamish’s body convulsed, foam bubbling from his lips. Cliff tried to turn him on his side, but the big man’s muscles were rigid, locked in some terrible rictus.

“What’s happening to him?” Betty wailed. “Cliff, do something!”

But there was nothing to be done. The distant wail of sirens pierced the air, and Hamish Durie, fifth-generation distiller of Glendurie, gave one final, shuddering gasp and lay still.

Silence fell over the warehouse, broken only by shocked sobs and the steady drip of whisky from the overturned and smashed glasses. The visitors stood frozen, their drinks clutched, forgotten in trembling hands.

Cliff rose slowly, his mind reeling. He looked at the shattered remains of Hamish’s glass, at the puddle of spilled whisky. He spun round. “Betty, you okay? Everyone else okay?”

But his wife and the group remained dumbstruck, staring at Hamish Durie’s contorted corpse sprawled out on the floor.

ONE

DS Mark Mullens grimaced in his attempt to twist his hulking frame into what the yoga instructor cheerfully called the “downward-facing dog.” Across the road from Glendurie Distillery, in the musty confines of Kincraig Village Community Centre, he found himself surrounded by a sea of lithe, Lycra-clad women, all effortlessly bending and stretching like human Curly Wurlys.

He shot a baleful glance at his wife, Sandra, who had dragged him to this torture session. She returned his look with a saccharine smile that promised retribution if he dared complain. Mullens sighed and tried to focus on the instructor’s soothing voice, which seemed to be coming from somewhere adjacent to his left armpit.

His attire was a sight to behold. Sandra had insisted he wore “proper yoga clothes,” which apparently meant squeezing his considerable bulk into a pair of eye-wateringly tight stretch-nylon cycling shorts and a t-shirt that seemed determined to ride up and expose his belly at every opportunity. The effect was less “Zen master” and more “sausage trying to escape its casing.”

He attempted to transition into the “warrior pose” and became acutely aware that the only other man in the class—a wiry fellow sporting a man bun and tribal tattoos—was executing the move with infuriating ease. Determined not to be outdone, Mullens pushed himself harder, only to feel a familiar rumbling in his gut.

Before he could stop it, a thunderous fart echoed through the hall. The class fell silent, save for a few poorly suppressed snorts and giggles.

Just as he was contemplating faking another heart attack to escape the nightmare, the silence was shattered by the wail of multiple sirens. He lumbered to the window, ignoring the instructor’s protests about disrupting the class’s energy flow.

Outside, a cavalcade of police vehicles and an ambulance raced into the distillery entrance. Officers were already setting up a cordon. Mullens seized this moment to end the torture.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he called to Sandra, who was glaring at him with a mixture of shame, exasperation, and resignation. “Duty calls.”

Mullens dashed out and jogged across the road, his Lycra ensemble drawing more than a few startled glances from the gathering crowd. He approached the cordon, where a young officer was keeping rubberneckers at bay.

“Detective Sergeant Mullens,” he announced. “What’s going on here?”

The officer stared him up and down, clearly sceptical. “Right, and I’m Taylor Swift. Nice outfit, pal.”

Before Mullens could retort, a familiar voice called out, “Bloody hell, Mark! Are you auditioning for Fame, or what?”

PC Dave MacKenzie, Mullens’s drinking buddy from the Fells, barely contained his laughter. “He’s legit,” MacKenzie told the younger officer. “Though I’ve never seen him this… revealing before.”

“I’ll reveal your broken jaw if you carry on,” Mullens replied. “What’s going on here?”

MacKenzie’s expression sobered. “One of the employees collapsed during a whisky tour. It doesn’t look good.”

Mullens ducked under the tape and made his way into the distillery. The tasting room was a hive of activity, with forensic officers and medical teams already milling around, carrying equipment of various shapes and sizes.

The victim lay sprawled on the floor, his kilt twisted around his legs. Paramedics hovered over him, but their movements lacked urgency—a clear sign that hope had already faded. Mullens’s stomach churned; he noted the victim’s appearance: face bloated and discoloured, eyes bulging slightly from their sockets. A mixture of vomit and spittle crusted the corners of his mouth, and more was spattered on the floor, filling the air with a sour stench that mingled unpleasantly with the rich aroma of whisky.

Mullens edged a little closer, careful not to disturb the immediate crime scene. The man’s hands were clenched into tight fists, as if he’d been grasping for life itself in his final moments. His body was misshapen, muscles still rigid, evidence of the agony he must have endured.

Shards of broken glass covered the floor, surrounded by a puddle of amber liquid slowly seeping between the flagstones. A half-empty bottle of whisky stood on a nearby table.

Mullens was about to approach the paramedics, but a commotion near a side room caught his attention. A large, agitated Texan was arguing with an officer at the door.

Mullens strode over. “What’s the problem here?”

The young officer turned to Mullens, relief evident on his face. “Sir, this gentleman is insisting that—”

“One of your suspects has gone and done a runner!” the Texan interrupted, his accent thick with frustration.

Mullens raised an eyebrow. “Hold your horses there. Start from the beginning.”

Bradshaw scowled at him for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I’m Cliff Bradshaw, retired Texas Ranger. I was on the tour when this happened. I spotted right away it was poisoning—cyanide, if I’m not mistaken. I’ve seen it before. I helped your early response team try to save the poor bastard while we waited for the paramedics.” His face darkened. “But that’s not why I’m raising hell. There was this quiet fella on our tour, seemed off from the start. After they brought us in here, I noticed he was gone. Vanished!”

The young officer interjected, “Sir, I’ve told Mr Bradshaw that no one has left this room.”

“You weren’t payin’ attention!” Bradshaw snapped. “I’m tellin’ you, he’s gone AWOL!”

Mullens held up a hand. “All right, calm yourself down, Mr Bradshaw. Can you give me a description of this man?”

As Bradshaw rattled off details, a chill ran down Mullens’s spine. If the Texan was right, they had a potential suspect on the loose.

Without hesitation, Mullens sprinted to the nearest group of response officers. “Possible suspect on the run,” he barked, relaying the description. “Search the site and neighbouring streets. He can’t have gone far.”

Mullens ran out across the yard, officers in tow, emerging onto the street. He scanned the area, but there was no sign of anyone matching the description.

“Blowholes,” he muttered. “Keep searching,” he ordered the officers. “Check every street, alleyway, and back lane.”

The search party dispersed.

Mullens turned to one of the remaining officers. “I need to borrow your radio.”

“Who do you want to call?” the officer asked.

“Ghostbusters. Who do you think?” Mullens scowled. “My boss. DCI Bone.”

TWO

DCI Bone and DI Walker arrived at Glendurie Distillery to find the scene transformed into something out of a sci-fi movie. Toxicology investigators, clad in full protective gear and breathing masks, moved about with an eerie, otherworldly precision. The tasting room had been sealed off, every surface covered in clear plastic tarpaulin that crinkled and shifted with each movement.

Several officers combed the nearby streets.

Bone frowned. “What’s going on out there?”

Mullens, still in his eye-watering Lycra ensemble, greeted them with a grimace. “Murders on my day off. Bloody typical.” He quickly filled them in on the situation. “We’ve got a potential suspect on the loose. A quiet bloke from the tour group. A retired Texas Ranger—I know, you couldn’t make it up—noticed he’d vanished right after the incident. I’ve got officers searching the area, but so far, nothing.”

“How many victims?”

“Just the one, the tour guide named Hamish Durie. He collapsed during a tasting. He was dead when I arrived—puke everywhere, face swollen up like an inflated frog. Looked like he died in agony.”

“What about the others on the tour?”

“I believe paramedics have checked them over, and they are all unharmed.”

“And who was in charge of the tasting room and organising the samples?”

“Haven’t got to that yet,” Mullens said, instantly realising he’d landed himself in it.

“Come on, Mark,” Bone complained.

“In my defence, I’ve only been here about twenty minutes, and paramedics were all over staff and visitors in proximity to the incident,” Mullens grumbled.

“Hold on, so the guide was a Durie?” Walker interrupted.

“Aye, that’s right. No clue why he would be doing that. Might be a tight-arse family. People who are loaded often are,” Mullens said.

DC Harper arrived, his face covered in scratches.

“Good God, Will,” Bone exclaimed. “What happened to you?”

Harper winced. “When Baxter called, I was about eight kilometres out on my run. Tried to take a shortcut through some bushes. The brambles won.”

Mullens snorted. “Bloody hell. Those Marvel baddies must be shitting themselves with Brambleman Harper on the case. That’ll teach you to try and keep fit.”

“Says the man in terrifyingly tight Lycra shorts,” Harper retorted, eyeing Mullens’s yoga attire.

Bone shook his head, bringing the focus back to the case. “Right, Mark, get your Lycra-covered arse in gear and find out who set up the tasting room. Round up a couple of officers to help you gather statements from that Texas Ranger and the other visitors; see if you can get more details about the missing man and anything else they might have noticed. And get details of all staff and interview everyone on shift who might have witnessed what happened or spotted our runner. Also, find the visitors list. Hopefully, the distillery will have records of everyone who booked, including the mystery man who legged it.”

Mullens nodded sheepishly.

“Will, could you go and help with the search?” Bone continued, ignoring his colleague’s groans. “Call in more support if needed. We need to find this mystery visitor.”

“Sorry, I’m a bit behind here,” Harper apologised.

“One of the tour visitors did a runner. A mid-thirties white male,” Bone said.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to do that, sir?” Mullens tried again.

“No.” Bone shut him down.

“Okay, on it.” Harper nodded and shot Mullens a wry smile.

“Rhona, you’re with me,” Bone said.

As the team dispersed, they were interrupted by a flustered and angry man in a sharp suit storming towards them, the heels of his polished brogues clacking across the courtyard.

“What in God’s name is going on here?” he demanded, his face flushed. “I’m Robert Banks, General Manager. No one has told me a thing!”

Bone introduced himself and Walker, but Banks cut him off.

“You need to sort this out quickly,” he insisted. “This is a working distillery. Production cannot be stopped. The Duries will be livid about all this chaos.”

Bone’s expression hardened. “Mr Banks, we’re dealing with a possible poisoning, potentially a suspicious death.”

Banks froze, shock momentarily replacing his anger. “Poisoning?”

“It appears to have happened during a tasting session on a tour,” Bone explained.

Banks’s shock intensified. “Not possible. Our whisky is world-renowned. Poison? I can’t believe it.” His eyes widened. “Was it one of the visitors, an allergic reaction or something?”

“The visitors are fine, as far as we can tell,” Bone assured him. “But there is one casualty.”

“Who?” Banks demanded.

Bone glanced around the busy scene. “Perhaps we could continue this somewhere a little more private?”

Banks insisted, “Tell me who.”

Bone met his gaze steadily. “The guide.”

The colour drained from Banks’s face. “Hamish? Hamish Durie?”

Bone nodded grimly. “Do you have an office?”

Banks seemed to deflate, all his bluster evaporating. He nodded weakly and led them towards the main building.

THREE

Harper gathered a group of uniformed officers by the distillery gates. “Right, we’re looking for a man in a black anorak, medium build, around five-ten. No other distinguishing features reported, but he was last seen leaving the distillery grounds about forty minutes ago.”

He pulled out a street map, pointing to different areas. “We’ll split into teams, cover these residential streets. He can’t have got far on foot.”

A young PC stepped forward. “What about transport links?” she asked.

“Units are covering train stations and bus stops,” Harper replied. “You come with me…”

“Officer Markin, sir.”

“Okay, Markin. We’ll take Glencairn Street.”

The narrow road was lined with granite terraced houses, their windows dark in the gathering gloom. Harper gestured to Markin. “Work your way along the street to the far end. I’ll cut through the back alley. I’ll meet you at the farthest corner.”

The alleyway was a patchwork of shadows, high stone walls on either side. Weeds pushed through cracks in the concrete, and overflowing wheelie bins placed here, there, and everywhere created an obstacle course. Harper moved cautiously, aware of the many hiding places ahead of him.

A clatter behind him had him spinning around. A ginger cat darted across his path, disappearing behind a bin. Harper let out a shaky breath.

Rounding a bend, he spotted a black Land Rover parked awkwardly on a grassy verge. It appeared out of place among the modest family cars that lined the street. Harper approached slowly. The rear number plate was obscured. Reaching the rear wheel, he peered inside the back window, but the car was empty. Kneeling, he examined the registration plate more closely. It was covered in  black tape, the faint outline of letters and numbers barely visible beneath. He removed his phone and was about to  take some photos when something hard cracked against the back of his skull.

He dropped like a stone, unconscious, before his head hit the ground.

FOUR

A PC directed Mullens to the teenage barman, who was slumped in a chair at the back of the lounge area, sweating profusely, his knee twitching up and down.

Mullens gestured to the lad. “I’m DS Mullens. Could you come with me, please?”

He steered the shaking lad into a side room crammed with stacked chairs, tables, and sound equipment. A spotlight dangled precariously overhead, throwing strange shadows across the boy’s pale face. His breathing escalated.

“Steady on, pal. Take a few deep breaths. You’re not in trouble. I just want a wee word. What’s your name, son?”

“Billy Stuart.” He continued to breathe heavily.

“You’re new, aren’t you, Billy?”

“Aye, started three weeks ago.”

“So you’re running the bar on your own in your third week of a new job? That’s bloody impressive.” Mullens tried to relax him a little.

“No. Mr Graham was supposed to be here. For my training, tills, and stock and that. I was shitting mysel—” He stopped.

“So, where is your bar manager?”

The lad glanced at the door. “Don’t know. I just thought he was probably running late or something.” His knee jittered again.

“Did he call in sick?”

“Dunno.” Billy shrugged.

“Okay, so you’re on your tod at the bar. Can you tell me what happened? What did you see?”

“I just heard this enormous crash and ran over to the tasting room. I saw Mr Durie lying there on the floor, kinda convulsing. Was it a heart attack or something?”

“And what were the visitors doing?”

“Totally frozen stiff, like I was as well, except for the big fella in a Stetson. He was right over, doing CPR or something.”

“Did you see anyone leave the room?”

“Ah dunno. It was totally shocking to see Mr Durie flat out like that.”

“And before the incident, who set up the samples in the tasting room?”

“Usually, Mr Graham does it. He’s very strict about that and he doesn’t normally allow me in the stockroom, but when Mr Durie bollocked me for not having the tasting room ready, I told him the manager had left the keys under the till, and I knew what to do because Mr Graham had showed me how a few days before.”

Mullens narrowed his eyes. “The manager left the keys under the till? That doesn’t sound right for someone who’s strict about security.”

Billy’s knee bounced faster, his gaze darting around the room. “Well, I mean…”

“Listen, son. Something’s happened to Mr Durie, and I need the truth. Now.”

The lad’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to land my boss in it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

“Truth is, a mate of Mr Graham’s came in with the stock keys. Said Mr Graham wasn’t feeling well.”

“Is it usual for the bar manager to send a mate in with security keys like that?”

Billy went quiet, staring at the floor. After a long moment, he glanced up. “The friend told me, in confidence like, that Mr Graham was seriously hung over after a birthday bash. Please don’t say anything. I didn’t want him to get in trouble. I’ve only just started and I like this job…” He swallowed hard. “Or I did, until this happened.”

“Who was this friend?” Mullens pressed.

Billy shrugged. “Dunno. Never seen him before.”

“How does he know Mr Graham?”

“No clue. He just said he was at the party, too, and that Mr Graham sent him. He joked about it, said, ‘don’t shoot the messenger’ when he handed over the keys.”

“What did he look like, this friend?”

“Dark clothes, deep-set eyes. A bit scary-looking, if I’m honest.” Billy’s voice dropped. “Not who I would have down as a mate of Mr Graham.”

“What time was this?”

“About half nine.”

“Did you see Mr Durie before the incident?”

“Aye, and he was fine. Just a bit flustered like he always is before the tour starts. But I suppose a bit more than usual. He doesn’t usually go off like that.”

“Go off like what?”

“I told him the manager hadn’t come in yet, explained about the keys. He said to just get on with it, visitors were arriving. His face went red again. So, I got on it right away. Luckily, Mr Graham had showed me how to set it up a couple of days ago. And, as I didn’t have the stockroom keys at that point, I used the whiskies from behind the bar. I know I’m not supposed to, but Mr Durie was so stressed I just wanted to do the right thing.”

“Do you set up all the tasting glasses together?”

“Yes, well, I mean except Mr Durie’s. He wanted his in a crystal glass. I put that on a separate tray.”

“He only had one sample?”

“Oh yes, the very best one, Durie 30.”

“What time did you do all that?”

“About nine. My shift starts at nine usually, but I was in at eight as Mr Graham had asked me to come in early to run through the tasting procedure again.”

“So before Mr Graham’s friend dropped his keys in?”

“Aye, that’s right.”

“What did you do for the rest of the hour?”

“I prepped the bar area, you know, turned down the chairs, swept the floor, went through the bar stock, checked the pumps, made sure there was enough change in the till. Usual stuff. And when I got the keys off the guy, I went down to the stockroom and collected the pipettes and presentation tray.”

“Pipettes?”

“Aye, to put the water drops in the whisky. To show how you only need a tiny wee amount to take the fire out.”

“Good God. It’s the fire I love!” Mullens joked. “So you left the bar for how long?”

“Must have been five minutes at the most.”

“And where was this friend of Mr Graham’s?”

“I don’t know.”

“And to be clear, you’d already poured the whisky shots?”

Billy scratched his head. “I’m not sure. I think so, but it’s all a mess in my head now.” He looked up. “Do you think that guy tampered with them? Is this my fault?”

Mullens shook his head. “Don’t worry, son. Where’s the stockroom?”

Billy pointed to a door at the rear.

“Can you open it up?”

“I put the key in the drawer.”

“Was the door locked this morning?”

“Aye. That’s why I used the bottles from the bar. I couldn’t access the store until the guy came in.”

“And when you opened up the stockroom, did anything seem like it had been moved or tampered with?”

“No, don’t think so. Everything was pretty much the same as it was the day before.”

“So, you retrieved all the other stuff and then set it all up in the tasting room. Is that correct?

“Aye, the box of pipettes, water jugs, and the sample bottles.”

“Did this guy say anything else to you before you left him?”

“No, that was…” Billy stopped. “Now I’m thinking about it, he did say that he had a raging hangover and could do with a hair of the dog. I told him the bar was closed, and he joked he might have to join the tour if there were free shots of single malt on the go.”

“Where are the sample bottles kept in the stockroom?”

“In a marked box near the door.”

“Do you think Mr Graham’s friend could have accessed the stockroom without your knowledge?”

“Maybe. I was busy in the bar and didn’t notice anyone in the corridor or anything. He had the keys before, so maybe.”

Mullens glanced around the room. “Are there any CCTV cameras in here? I can’t see any?”

Billy looked up. “No, I don’t think there are.”

“Bit odd when there’s all that valuable stock sitting behind that door over there.”

The boy shrugged.

“Sorry, just a few more questions.” Mullens smiled; Billy’s knee bounced again. “When the tour visitors arrived, did you see or interact with any of them?”

“No, reception usually holds them in the foyer until Hamish arrives to start the tour. When the tour finishes, they spill into the bar. I was too busy anyway, making sure I was ready for them, or as best I could be without Mr Graham.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have Mr Graham’s telephone number, would you?”

“Aye.” Billy fished his phone out of his pocket, his hand shaking as he searched his contacts.

He passed it over, and Mullens dialled. It rang out.

“So not at work, not at home. Could he have been called away on some emergency or other?”

“Never said anything to me.”

“Okay,” Mullens said. He took a note of the number and handed the phone back. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Aye, twelve Galstone Cottage. His house is just round the corner from us.”

“Where he can keep an eye on you, eh?” Mullens joked.

“Tell me about it.”

Mullens went to the door and called over one of the SOC officers. “Stockroom needs examining. The key is in a drawer under the till. But check for prints first.” He turned back to Billy. “Okay, that’s all for now, Billy. But we’re going to need you to make a formal statement in the next twenty-four hours. Could you give me your address and telephone number?”

“I’m no’ in trouble, am I?”

“Procedure. Pain in the arse, but has to be done,” Mullens attempted to reassure him again.

“Sure, aye.”

Mullens scribbled down the details in his notebook.

“Should I come to you, or will you be back?”

“As Arnie said…” Mullens nodded and left the young lad perched on a stack of chairs, chewing nervously at his fingernails.

FIVE

Robert Banks’s office was a study in meticulously maintained order. Awards and certificates lined the wood-panelled walls, while through the large window behind his desk, the copper stills gleamed in the afternoon light.

“This is shocking,” Banks said, slumping into his chair. “Poisoning? I can’t believe it. Hamish was…” He collected himself. “Hamish was a friend.” He reached for the phone on his desk.

“What are you doing?” Bone asked.

“I have to tell Miss Durie what’s happened.”

“My colleague is on her way there now. It would be better if she dealt with that face-to-face.”

Banks held the receiver for a moment, then replaced it. “They will be devastated.” His face twisted as though he fought back tears.

“Did you see what happened this morning?” Bone asked.

“No, I was in late this morning—delayed by a frail elderly mother, unfortunately. I only knew something was wrong when I saw all the police vehicles at the entrance.”

“You mentioned you were friends with Hamish,” Bone prompted and settled into a chair opposite.

“Professional colleagues more than personal friends, but he was a kind-hearted man, very likeable, so perhaps it felt like the two sometimes merged.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Oh, must be getting on for over ten years now.”

“What do you do?”

“I oversee all administrative and hospitality staff and ensure day-to-day operations run smoothly. Do you think one of the visitors did this?”

“Early days, Mr Banks. Do you oversee visitor bookings?”

“No, that duty is delegated to reception.”

“You don’t have booking forms or visitor details here?”

“No, those records are filed in the main administrative area. Would you like me to take you over?”

“Perhaps later.” Bone nodded. “What was Mr Durie like then? What sort of things did he confide in you about?”

“He was a larger than life character and most definitely the black sheep. A bit of a lovable rogue but…” Banks ran a hand across his face.

“Go on. It’s okay.” Bone urged.

“He had his demons. He battled with alcoholism for years.” He stopped and took another deep breath. “I’m stunned he would drink during a tour—so stupid. What was he thinking? He’s an alcoholic, for God’s sake, not to mention it was strictly against protocol.”

“Quite tough for an alcoholic to be surrounded by whisky all day?” Bone interrupted.

“Hamish always said, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ And the distillery is in his DNA, quite literally.”

“Did he have any other troubles?”

Banks rolled his eyes. “Where do I start? Gambling—cards, horses, you name it. But despite his outward demeanour, Hamish was a sensitive soul. His sisters were always very hard on him.”

“What was his relationship like with them?”

“Difficult, to say the least. They saw him as an embarrassment, a liability to the family estate and company, especially in his younger years when things were very toxic.” Banks shook his head. “He tried to break away several times, to try and cut the ties, setting up his own businesses that inevitably failed. But he always came back to the family.”

“But he was still part owner of the whisky company, is that right?”

“I think he was on around ten percent, maybe a little more.”

“Not equal shares then with the sisters?”

“They bailed him out financially so many times, he relinquished most of his stake to pay them back. It grieved him deeply.”

“But he was still doing tours?”

Banks’s expression softened. “He wasn’t ashamed of that. Not one bit. He loved people, loved engaging with them. Despite all his troubles, he had a genuine passion for the distillery and his family’s whisky.”

“Any idea who might have wanted to harm him?”

Banks hesitated. “He mixed with some shady characters over the years. Even last year, he mentioned a loan company was leaning on him pretty heavily.”

“Loan sharks?”

“Aren’t they all?” Banks gave a bitter laugh. “Leith Hatchett Loans, I remember because the name ‘Hatchett’ seemed quite appropriate.”

“Did he manage to pay it off?”

“I don’t know for certain, but usually the sisters stepped in eventually.” Banks leaned forward. “Do you think Hamish’s death is suspicious, then?”

Bone ignored the question. “Tell me about the sisters. Do they both run the company?”

“The elder one, Elspeth, is very much in charge of day-to-day operations. Rules with an iron fist.” Banks straightened some papers on his desk. “Agnes, the younger sister, handles marketing, client relations, that sort of thing. Elspeth had polio as a child, so she doesn’t like to travel or stray far from the Durie estate.”

“Do they have equal shares in the company?”

“I’m not privileged with that sort of information.”

“And what’s their relationship with each other like?”

Banks hesitated. “As far as I’m aware, they’re very close, though…”

“Though?” Bone pressed.

Banks lowered his voice. “I’m not one to gossip and it’s really not my place to speak about this, but Hamish told me that when Agnes was eighteen, she got herself in a bit of bother…”

“What kind of bother?”

Banks tapped his stomach. “Some local lad. Mr Durie senior was apparently furious, threatened to expel her from the family if she had the baby or had anything to do with the boy. Hamish said the father forced her to terminate.”

“That’s horrific.”

“Yes, though I never met him, by all accounts, the father was not to be trifled with. And you can imagine how that would have played out.”

“So, the younger sister and the father weren’t exactly on friendly terms?” Bone continued.

“She never forgave him.”

“What was Elspeth doing through all this?”

“Hamish said she played peacekeeper, but until he died, there was no love lost between father and daughter. Hamish said Mr Durie senior was a bully and a tyrant, and he did everything he could to stay out of his way. He was terrified of him. But hats off to her. She has steered the company through some very difficult times.”

“What do you mean?”

“We lost a number of contracts, profits fell and Ms Elspeth had to fend off several aggressive attempts to buy them out.”

“Who was that?”

“The Lochmoran group. They have been gunning for Glendurie for years but the sisters have fought them off. At the end of the day, they care for the family name and the heritage too much to just give it up to a huge whisky conglomerate like Lochmoran.”

“Where is their distillery?”

“Distilleries. They have about a dozen of them, probably even more now. Their head office is in Edinburgh.”

Bone stood, handing Banks his card. “Okay, that’s all for now. Thank you. If you think of anything else that might help us…”

Banks took it, nodding solemnly. “Of course.”

As Bone walked back across the yard, he was about to call Walker and intercept her before she reached the Durie estate, when he spotted DC Harper sitting on the back of a paramedic vehicle, holding an ice pack to his head.

“I’m fine,” Harper insisted before Bone could speak. “Just a scratch.”

“A scratch that needs stitches,” the paramedic corrected, adjusting the bandage.

“Sir, I can still work,” Harper protested.

Bone raised an eyebrow. “The only place you’re going is the hospital. That’s an order.”

Harper reluctantly climbed into the back of the ambulance, and Bone rang Walker.

SIX

Mullens shifted uncomfortably in the Saab’s sagging passenger seat. “I bet your piles are the size of watermelons driving about in this torture chamber day and night.”

“My rear end’s fine, thank you very much,” Bone replied. “It’s my ears that are currently suffering.”

Mullens tugged at his ill-fitting shirt. “Poor Harper, though, eh? That was some lump on his scone. His head’ll be nipping for days after that. Rather him than me.”

“There’s still time.” Bone slowed at a junction. “What’s the address again?”

“Receptionist said it was Galstone Cottage, an end of terrace on the road directly behind the post office.” Mullens glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Surely you’re not lost, sir? The whole place must have a population of about twelve.”

“Just keep your eyes peeled and your mouth shut, please.”

“You sound more and more like my wife every day, sir.” Mullens spun around. “Oh, there it is.” He tapped his window. “End of the row. The one with the blue door.”

“And the squad car outside, aye.” Bone rolled his eyes.

He parked up. Two officers were already positioned outside the door.

Mullens gestured. “See, even a bloody Fiesta beat us here.”

“Style over substance,” Bone said, the irony lost on his colleague.

Bone jumped out and, from the boot, removed four sets of scene gloves.

They approached. Bone distributed the gloves and dispatched one of the officers around the back of the property to secure the exit before Mullens knocked on the front door. Catching the remaining PC eyeing his outfit, Mullens shot him a dirty look.

“Not one word,” he said, the young officer doing his best to wipe the smile from his face.

Mullens went to knock again, but Bone stopped him.

“Try the knob,” he said.

A stack of post stuck out of the letterbox.

The door swung open. Mullens glanced back at Bone, and the PC shrugged, unsurprised.

“Folks round here don’t see much in the way of burglary.”

“Only distillery poisonings, then?” Bone quipped.

Mullens pushed the door open farther, announcing himself as police, and found the front corridor in complete disarray. The hall table stood with its drawers yanked out and upturned, the contents dumped across the floor. Bills, keys, and paperwork were scattered everywhere. A mirror had been smashed off the wall, and a coat rack lay toppled with jackets trampled underfoot. He glanced at Bone again. Bone nodded, and the three of them cautiously entered.

The devastation continued through the rest of the cottage. In the living room, the sofa cushions had been sliced open, stuffing spilling out like snow. Books had been pulled from shelves and tossed aside, their spines broken. A television lay face down on the carpet, its screen shattered.

“Have a nose upstairs,” Bone ordered the PC.

The young officer set off up the creaky wooden steps to the second floor.

Bone and Mullens negotiated around the mess to the kitchen.

Mullens tutted. “Good God. Looks like a bomb’s gone off in here as well.”

“Check this out.” Bone knelt by an upturned chair. He pointed to a spatter of red streaked across the linoleum floor.

“My guess is that’s not Ribena.” Mullens frowned.

Bone scanned the room, considering the upturned chair and the orientation of the spatter marks, trying to piece together what might have happened. He pressed his finger to his temple and ran his forefinger down the length of his scar.

Mullens gestured to the back door, standing ajar. “Boss.”

Both detectives stepped through into the small courtyard. Mullens crouched, examining a patch of flattened grass where clear tyre marks had left deep impressions in the soft, muddy lawn.

“What’s that from, a bicycle?” Bone knelt beside him.

Mullens shook his head. “A moped or maybe a 125.” He traced his finger along the tread pattern. “These mud marks indicate recent movement out through there.” He nodded towards the wooden gate hanging open at the far end of the yard. He went over there. “A rear alleyway. Looks like it joins the road near the end of the street.”

“Inspector!” the PC called from upstairs. “You’re going to want to see this.”

They found the officer standing in the main bedroom, the space in an even worse state than the other rooms. The mattress had been flipped over, the wardrobe emptied of all clothing, and there was a large bookshelf that’d been thoroughly ransacked. In the corner, every tiny drawer in an old desk had been opened, the contents emptied onto the floor.

“Clearly, someone was searching for something,” Mullens said.

“And maybe got pissed off when they couldn’t find it?” Bone said.

“Sir?” the PC interrupted. He was by the bedside cabinet that had its innards dangling precariously.

Bone stepped over the debris. Resting on top of a pile of papers was what appeared to be an airline ticket. Bone carefully picked it out of the mess and held it up to the light.

“One way to Bangkok, booked for this morning, nine thirty-five a.m.”

“Well, he’s missed that one,” Mullens said.

A loud crash sounded from the kitchen downstairs, and they all stared at one another before sprinting for the stairwell.

When they reached the kitchen, Bone’s adrenaline quickly faded as he found it was merely the second PC who’d made all the noise.

“Sorry, sir. Knocked over the bin.”

“And look at the mess you’ve made,” Mullens joked.

A second thump, this time at the front of the cottage, had them turning.

“What now?” Bone said.

Standing halfway up the hallway was a spectacled, middle-aged man in an argyle sweater. He had a bag of shopping under his arm, keys in his hand, his eyes wide, staring at the scene before him.

“Mr Graham?” Bone asked.

The man didn’t answer, stepping deeper into the home, examining the mess. “What’s happened here?”

Bone stepped forth and ushered the man outside. “Sir, I’m going to need you to step out. You can’t be in here right now.”

The man glanced at him and then exited, Bone and the others following.

Bone turned to the PCs. “You two stay here and seal the property. No one goes back inside until SOC arrives, is that clear? And that includes the both of you.”

The officers nodded and affirmed his order.

Bone turned back to the stranger. “Now then, you’re Mr Graham?”

“No.”

“No?” Mullens said. “You just wandered in? Fancied a wee gander, did you?”

“No, I’m Chris… Chris Monroe. We’re friends, Barry and I.” He was polite, his accent clipped. “Hold on. Who are you?”

“DCI Bone and DS Mullens from Kilwinnoch station.”

“What’s going on? Where’s Barry? What the hell has happened here?”

“Why have you just let yourself in, Mr Monroe?” Bone asked.

“I… We share a meal every Wednesday night. I cook for him.” He raised his laden shopping bags.

“Oh, very nice,” Mullens said suspiciously.

Bone glared at his colleague. “Call SOC, DS Mullens, and have them get over here.”

Mullens nodded, pulled out his phone, and stepped aside, giving them some privacy.

“Sir.” Bone faced Monroe. “I apologise if this is indelicate, but are you and Mr Graham partners?”

Monroe eyed him for a moment before nodding. “Not exactly, I’d say more very good friends.”

“All right. But you don’t live together?” Bone said.

“No. Barry likes his space.” He glanced beyond Bone to the front door. “Has something happened to him? Please tell me he’s okay.”

“We’re only looking for him at this time,” Bone said. “That’s all. There’s no one inside. Now, did Mr Graham mention anything recently about taking a trip? To Thailand maybe?”

“What? No.”

“You sure? Might he have gone without telling you?”

“No. Never. We don’t keep secrets like that.”

As the words left his mouth, Monroe seemed troubled by them, as if they’d stirred in him some sentiment, and he twisted his head away to fight back his emotions.

“But I don’t know, maybe,” he said. “This is all just so confusing.”

“I take it you haven’t heard what’s happened at the distillery?”

“No, what? I’ve been…”

“Hamish Durie died this morning of suspected poisoning.”

“Oh, dear God.” Monroe seemed to waver as though his legs were about to give out.

Bone caught his arm.

“Whoa there, Mr Monroe.” Bone took his shopping, helped him inside and lowered him down onto an armchair.

“This is all just too much,” Monroe said. He glanced around at the chaos. “What’s gone on here? Has something happened to Barry?”

“We are trying to locate him. He’s missing.”

Monroe was silent, but his chest heaved up and down.

“Would you like a drink of water?”

“What’s happened to him?”

“That, we don’t know. When’s the last time you saw him?”

Monroe, distraught, clearly didn’t hear him.

“Mr Monroe?”

Monroe looked up, his eyes glazed. “About four days ago.”

“How was he?”

“He was fine, perhaps a little quieter than usual.”

“Would you say preoccupied?”

“Yes, possibly.”

“And he didn’t tell you if anything was going on?”

“What like?”

“About Hamish Durie?”

“No, for once we didn’t talk about him.”

“Were you friends with Mr Durie?”

“I didn’t know him that well, but Barry and Hamish were good friends. They went back before I met Barry.”

“Were they close friends, then?”

“Yes, an unlikely friendship, folks called it.”

“Why was that?”

“Hamish was all over the place, in constant trouble with something or other. While Barry is a meticulously organised, ordered person, hates anything out of place. Not that you’d think that looking at what’s happened here.”

“Would Hamish confide in Barry?”

“All the time. Barry was like his counsellor. Helped him deal with so many problems.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t like to say. That’s Hamish’s private business.”

“Even the tiniest pieces of information can help us find who did this to Mr Durie,” Bone pressed.

“He had constant financial problems, gambling, alcohol, lifestyle-related.”

“Did Barry help him out financially?”

“No, of course not. Barry is on a modest salary. Hamish’s debts were beyond most folks.”

“Did you?”

“I wouldn’t be so daft. Hamish had addiction problems, and just paying off his debts would be like a temporary sticking plaster. Barry knew that, too.”

“Would Mr Durie confide in Barry if he was being threatened or someone was after him?”

“Barry wouldn’t talk to me that much about Hamish’s woes, but I’m sure he probably did. I used to tell Barry not to get over-involved. Hamish’s life was too complicated. But Barry is so kind, he’d try and help anyone. And to be fair, Hamish was a lovely, lovely man, too. He had issues, but he had a very kind soul. Barry always wanted to try and save Hamish from himself.”

“Were you jealous of Hamish and Barry’s relationship?”

“Of course not!” Monroe retorted. “Their relationship was totally platonic. They were more like brothers, but with absolutely nothing in common, except they were both caring people.” He looked up. “What’s happened to Barry, Inspector?”

“We don’t know. But if he gets in touch with you, can you please call me or Kilwinnoch station immediately?”

“Do you think Hamish told him something and now he’s in danger?”

“I’m sorry. We’re doing everything we can to track down Mr Graham. We have teams out searching. So please try not to worry.” Bone nodded. “Okay, I’m going to ask a uniformed officer to take down your details, and here is my card with my number. Call me at any time, or if you think of anything that might help us locate Mr Graham.”

Monroe took the card, and Bone went to find Mullens. Outside, the first SOC van arrived and parked in front of the cottage, the team stepping out and collecting their materials before being apprised of the situation by Mullens. When he’d finished, one of the officers glanced him up and down, a smirk curling at the sides of his mouth, his face lighting up.

“Nice outfit, Mark.” The officer giggled.

“Do not start with me, Vernon.” Mullens pointed a warning finger at him.

“Takes me back to those Jane Fonda’s Workout vids I used to watch as a teenager.”

The team erupted in howls of laughter. Mullens stepped forward into the SOC’s face, but before a row could break out, Bone approached and ushered Mullens towards his car.

When he reached his door, Bone turned and glanced along the terrace, at the telephone poles, the lampposts. “No chance of CCTV cameras, then.”

“There’s a pub down the road,” Mullens said. “Maybe Graham had a skinful last night. Came home legless and smashed the place up himself.”

“Somehow I don’t get the feeling he’s like that.”

He and Mullens climbed back into Bone’s Saab.

“No, not you,” Bone cut in before Mullens could belt up. “Call Baxter and tell her we might have a missing person involved here. If not something worse. Then help officers with door-to-door. See if anyone saw or heard anything.”

“How will I get back?” Mullens feigned a pet lip.

“Use your intelligence. Oh, wait.” Bone shook his head.

“Where are you going?”

“Hamish Durie’s place in Bearsden. See what I can find.”

Mullens climbed out and groaned loudly.

Bone wound down his window. “And when you’re done here, get your Lycra arse over to the kit room and get out of that ridiculous clown suit.”

“Aww, sir. It was just starting to grow on me.”

“Aye, like herpes simplex.”

SEVEN

Once Walker reached the foothills of the Ochils, the landscape opened up before her; sweeping green hills dotted with grazing sheep, patches of purple heather, and the occasional glint of a distant loch. The road wound its way through this picturesque scenery, each turn revealing a new vista more breathtaking than the last.

At the entrance to a long, winding driveway, she was stopped by two security guards in black uniforms.

“Police business.” Walker held up her warrant card.

One guard examined it carefully while the other made a phone call. A terse conversation ensued, then they waved her through, their expressions remaining stern and watchful.

After what seemed like an eternity of narrow, twisting lanes, she reached the Durie sisters’ residence.

“Christ,” Walker muttered, “that’s not a house, it’s a bloody fortress.”

The mansion—or more accurately, castle—loomed before her, its grey stone walls rising imposingly against the Scottish sky. It was a Gothic masterpiece, complete with turrets, arched windows, and intricate stonework. While not quite as large as Balmoral, it wasn’t far off. Gargoyles leered from the rooflines, their weathered faces adding to the building’s sinister appearance.

As she approached, a figure emerged from the woods bordering the driveway. The groundsman was broad-shouldered and sturdy, his weathered face etched by years of outdoor work. He wore muddy boots and work clothes, and most notably, carried an axe in one hand. He stopped at the edge of the driveway, his sharp eyes following her car when it drove past.

At the front entrance, two more security guards approached her car.

“ID please, ma’am.”

“Your colleagues just asked me.” Walker glared at them for a moment, then finally complied.

Inside, the entrance hallway was a testament to centuries of wealth and power. Ornate tapestries adorned walls of age-darkened stone, while a grand staircase swept upwards, its mahogany banister polished to perfection.

A stern-faced housekeeper appeared, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Miss Durie is not receiving visitors.”

“DI Walker from Kilwinnoch station,” she said, showing her warrant card again. “I’m afraid this can’t wait.”

The housekeeper led her to a grand library where Elspeth Durie sat by a roaring fire, two walking sticks propped against her chair, her frail frame almost lost in the folds of a tartan throw.

“This is most irregular,” Miss Durie said. Her face was drawn and pale, but her sharp eyes homed in on the detective. “Who is this, Margaret? You know what I told you. There are strict protocols about visitors.”

The housekeeper was about to speak, but Walker cut her off.

“Detective Inspector Walker from Kilwinnoch Police Station.”

“Police? What is going on?”

“Is your sister here?”

“Agnes is abroad. New York.” Miss Durie’s tone was clipped. “Inspector, could you please tell me what this is about?”

“I’m very sorry, but I have to inform you that your brother, Hamish, is dead.”

Miss Durie’s expression barely changed. “I see.”

“We believe he may have been poisoned during his distillery tour this morning. We’re treating it as suspicious.”

“Poisoned?” Miss Durie leaned forward, her fists gripping her chair arms. “At the distillery? Do you understand what this means? Our Japanese contracts alone are worth millions. The Americans…” She shook her head. “The press will destroy us.”

Walker studied the woman. Not a word about her brother’s death, just business.

“Your brother has just died, Miss Durie. You seem more concerned about contracts.”

“How dare you!” Miss Durie’s voice cracked like a whip. “You barge in here, announce my brother is dead, then presume to judge my reaction?”

Silence filled the room. Walker waited.

“When did you last see Hamish?” she asked finally.

“Two, possibly three months ago.” Miss Durie’s anger seemed to deflate. “He’d moved again—some pokey flat in Bearsden. Always moving, always running from something.”

“Your relationship with him was strained?”

“He was…” Miss Durie’s voice softened slightly. “Different. Lived life like a roller coaster. These past few years he’d calmed somewhat, but…” She shook her head. “The people he mixed with…”

“Do you have his new address?”

“Robert—Mr Banks, our general manager will have it—”

“And he didn’t express any concerns or worries about anything?”

“He was always expressing worries about something.”

“What sort of concerns?”

“Usually money. Worried that he might fall off the wagon again.” Miss Durie sighed.

“Tell me about the shares arrangement.”

Miss Durie’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, arrangement? That is confidential company information.”

“Apologies, but I’m just trying to understand his situation. I understand that he had frequent financial issues, and you helped him resolve them?”

“The situation,” Miss Durie said icily, “is that I had to pay off his gambling debts. Again. The shares transfer was part of the arrangement. Everything was completely legal, before you continue with this line.”

“And the company structure?”

“Agnes handles international operations.” Miss Durie straightened in her chair. “I manage things here. Hamish…” She sighed. “We kept him away from the corporate side. His personality could be… problematic. Detective Walker, I really don’t think that our business structure has anything to do with this.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Hamish was troubled, always was, and this is either some horrible accident or he was in deeper trouble than any of us imagined.”

“Has the business been having any financial difficulties?” Walker persisted.

“Your questions are beginning to irritate me, Detective. All businesses have bad patches, and despite what people may think about the whisky industry, we are no exception. Tastes change, and we have to adapt to new markets. And that’s what we did. Three years ago, we rebranded. Changed with the times.” A hint of pride crept into her voice. “Our new blend is doing particularly well in America. That’s why Agnes is there now.”

“I need to speak with your sister.”

“The manager can give you her number. But please, let me call her first.” Miss Durie’s tone hardened again. “Agnes is more… emotional than I am.”

“And just to confirm, do you know of anyone who might have wished to harm your brother?”

“As I said, my poor brother was a complicated man. And he may have pushed his flamboyance a little too far, mixed with the wrong sorts.”

“Do you have any specific names?”

“That’s a world I have the good sense not to frequent, Detective. My brother…” Her face tightened. “Self-discipline and moral strength were characteristics my brother did not possess.”

“One more thing,” Walker said. “The incident with your sister’s pregnancy—”

Miss Durie’s head snapped up. “Who told you about that?”

“I’m so sorry to have to mention it, but as I said, things that may seem irrelevant may prove otherwise.”

“Well, I can tell you right now, that is most definitely completely irrelevant, Detective. You are talking about something that happened over forty years ago!” Miss Durie’s hands trembled slightly. “And quite frankly, it is disgusting that you should mention it right now. That’s Agnes’s private business. I won’t discuss it.”

Walker stood to leave. “So sorry for your loss, Miss Durie. I’m afraid it is likely that we will have to interview you again.”

“My brother’s body… Where is it?” Miss Durie interrupted.

“Once the forensic team are satisfied, he’ll be moved to the mortuary where an autopsy will be conducted.”

“I want him back here. Where he belongs.”

“I will ensure that the body is released as soon as possible.”

“And production?”

“What about it?”

“Whisky-making is an extremely delicate process. We cannot afford to pause production.”

“Even following the potential murder of your brother?” Walker could barely contain her disbelief at Miss Durie’s glacial emotional state.

“That would be the last thing my poor brother would want, Detective.”

Walking to her car, watched by the ever-present security guards, Rhona couldn’t shake the feeling that despite Elspeth Durie’s best efforts to maintain her cold composure, beneath the front, something darker and more complex stirred.

EIGHT

Bone pulled up outside a row of shops on Bearsden High Street. As he killed the engine, he spotted Walker’s car arriving at the same moment. She parked behind his Saab and climbed out.

“I got your message.” She walked over.

“Perfect timing.”

“You know me, sir.”

“Drives like Lewis Hamilton?”

“I was going to say reliable, but I’ll take that.”

Bone leaned against his car, studying the unassuming building. “This isn’t what I expected from a member of whisky royalty.” He pointed to Hamish Durie’s flat above the newsagent’s opposite.

“Far from it.” Walker followed his gaze.

“How’d it go with the Durie sisters?” he asked.

Walker sighed. “Bizarre, to say the least. I interviewed Elspeth Durie, the elder of the two sisters. That woman’s reaction to her brother’s death wasn’t right. Her first concern was how it would impact their contracts. Then, when production could restart. Who speaks about whisky schedules when their brother has just been found dead? Antarctica has warmer winters than her.”

Bone raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. What about the younger one?”

“Agnes is in New York, apparently. I tried the number the manager provided, but it rang out. I’ll try again in a minute. I’ll ring Baxter and tell her to dig deeper into the Durie family—financials, relationships, any skeletons she can find,” Walker added, pulling out her phone.

“Good thinking.” Bone nodded. “Judging by Elspeth Durie’s reaction, there could be a whole graveyard of skeletons still to unearth there.”

With weary sighs, they turned towards the entrance of the flat. The door had been unceremoniously opened by one of the SOC team, the wooden frame splintered where the enforcer had split the lock. They approached, and the scene guard emerged from the hallway clutching a clipboard.

“Morning, sir.” He nodded to Bone.

“Can we have a quick recce?” Bone peered into the gloom beyond. “That all right?”

“Aye, but I’ll need to sign you both in.” He flicked at the pages attached to his board and handed Bone a pen. “And you’ll need these…” He produced two pairs of blue overshoes from his kit belt.

Walker grimaced, struggling to stretch the thin plastic over her Italian brogues. “These things should be classified as instruments of torture.”

“Could be worse,” Bone said, his own feet now encased in blue plastic. “At least we’re spared full Teletubby regalia.”

The officer stepped aside, allowing them to enter. The flat’s hallway was narrow, the wallpaper peeling in strips near the ceiling where decades-old damp had worked its way in. The carpet underfoot was threadbare in places, worn to the backing by years of footfall.

“Jesus, it stinks in here,” Walker mumbled, her nose wrinkling. “Whisky and something else.”

“Loneliness,” Bone replied quietly.

The living room revealed a sorry sight. A tired sofa with sagging cushions dominated the small space, accompanied by a mismatched armchair that had seen better days. An ancient valve television sat in the corner atop a wooden crate, a fine layer of dust coating the screen. Walker’s gaze tracked across the room to the scattered items bearing the Glendurie logo—a glass ashtray, a wooden coaster set, a ceremonial quaich hanging on the wall.

“Look at this,” she said, gesturing to a large framed aerial photograph above the sofa. “The distillery in its glory days.”

Bone squinted at the faded image. The sprawling complex nestled among rolling hills, copper stills gleaming in sunshine that had long since faded from the print.

“No family photos,” Walker observed. “Not a single one.”

“Maybe family wasn’t his strong suit.”

They moved through to the kitchen. Two SOC officers were dusting for prints around the window frame, their brushes making gentle swishing sounds in the quiet. The countertops were almost bare, save for a half-empty bottle of Glendurie’s finest and a single unwashed glass. The fridge, when Walker opened it, contained only a block of mouldy cheese and a pint of milk well past its date.

“Not exactly living the high life, was he?” She quickly closed the door. "I'll check the bedroom."

A third officer entered the kitchen. “DCI Bone, good morning.”

“Sergeant Cartwright,” Bone said. “How’s it going?”

“Scene’s secure, but we’ve barely begun. Won’t be anything conclusive for a couple of days. It’s a sorry bloody mess in here.”

“It is indeed.”

Bone’s attention was drawn to a pile of red-bordered envelopes stacked haphazardly on the small kitchen table. He carefully lifted the corner of the topmost one with his pen.

“Final demands; electricity, council tax, credit card… Man was drowning in debt.”

“Looks like it,” Cartwright said.

“Sir?” Walker called from the adjacent room. “You might want to see this.”

Bone ducked through a low arched doorway into a claustrophobically small bedroom. The curtains were drawn tight, casting the room in a gloomy half-light. The double bed dominated the space, its sheets rumpled and stained, clearly unwashed for some time. An ornate sgian dubh lay atop a narrow bedside cabinet squeezed tight against the wall.

“Part of his Highland dress, or protection?” Walker wondered aloud, pointing at the traditional knife.

“Maybe both.” Bone moved to the window. He drew back the curtains, sending a cloud of dust dancing in the sudden shaft of sunlight.

Below, Bearsden’s high street bustled with midday shoppers, oblivious to the drama unfolding above.

“Bit of a comedown for the Durie heir,” Bone mused. “Living above a newsagent while his sisters hold court in that mansion.”

“Speaking of sisters…” Walker nodded towards a framed photograph on the windowsill. “Looks like he only kept a picture of one of them.”

Bone picked up the frame with his gloved hand. “This is the younger one?”

“Must be.”

Agnes Durie smiled from behind the glass, her arm around a much younger Hamish. Their resemblance was unmistakable.

Walker pulled open the bedside drawer, revealing a jumble of train tickets, receipts, and loose change. “Man was a bit of a hoarder.”

“Or hiding evidence of his movements,” Bone countered.

They made a cursory inspection of the wardrobe—a kilt hanging beside a few shirts and a suitcase tucked in at the back.

“Doesn’t seem like he was planning to do a runner,” he remarked.

Walker nodded towards the ceiling. “What’s that up there?”

Bone reached up and hauled down a dusty rucksack. “Let’s see what—” A jumble of bags toppled down onto him. He staggered backwards onto the bed behind. “God’s sake…”Untangling the bags, he noticed something sticking out from under him.  

“Help me with this.” He grasped one edge of the mattress.

Together, they heaved it up, revealing an envelope taped to the base of the bedframe. Bone carefully peeled it free.

“What have we here?” he murmured, opening the sealed packet.

Inside lay a bundle of fifty-pound notes and a small black Nokia phone.

“Wow,” Walker whispered. “There must be eight or ten grand there.”

“And a burner phone?” Bone turned the mobile over in his hand.

Walker prised off the back cover. “No SIM card.”

“Convenient.” Bone frowned. “Let’s get Digital on to this. And the money—”

“Gambling stash?” Walker suggested.

“Maybe. Or payment for services rendered.”

“Question is, what services? And why hide it under the mattress instead of using a bank?”

“When you don’t want a paper trail,” Bone said grimly. He flagged down a passing SOC officer. “Evidence bags for these, please. And tell your team to search for a SIM card—could be anywhere in the flat.”

As they made their way out, Bone paused in the hallway, his hand unconsciously touching the scar on his temple.

“What is it?” Walker asked.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he said. “The Durie sisters make out he was a waste of space, a drunk, but there’s something else here. Look at this place. It’s not the home of someone living the high life on family money.”

“More like someone barely scraping by,” Walker agreed.

“And a chip on their shoulder as a result?” Bone mused. “Come on, let’s allow the SOC team to do their job. Let’s see what forensics can tell us.”

NINE

When Bone and Walker finally returned to the station, Desk Sergeant Brody stopped Bone at the security barrier.

“I’d turn around if I were you,” he said.

“Don’t tell me, Mark’s still wandering around in his technicolour birthday suit?” Bone said.

“It’s the boss. He wants to see you, and he’s got a new friend with him today who could freeze the nuts off the wheels of a Massey Ferguson.”

“Who is it?”

“No clue. Good luck,” Brody said, then smirked.

“I’ll retreat to the incident room,” Walker said and sloped off before she could get dragged in.

At Gallacher’s door, Bone listened for a second to try and work out who this mysterious nightmare was. But before he could knock, the door flew open.

“Ah, there you are!” Gallacher stood before him. “I was just about to send out a search party.

Bone followed him in. Sitting by the desk was a forty-something woman in a sharp trouser suit and an A4-size folder in her lap.

“DCI Bone. May I introduce Detective Superintendent Vanessa Laverty, my replacement and soon-to-be DSU of the Rural Crimes Unit?”

Bone turned sharply to Gallacher. “Replacement, sir?”

“Detective Superintendent Laverty will be taking over after my retirement next month.”

“Detective Chief Inspector Bone. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Laverty interrupted, her hand extended.

Bone hesitated. Her piercing green eyes drilled into his but gave nothing away. He finally took her hand, and they shook. Her skin was cold and her grip firm.

“How’s your case coming along, and more importantly, how is your young detective doing?”

“Very busy,” Bone said bluntly.

“Yes, but no immediate breakthrough?”

“Early days, ma’am. DS Harper is still in A&E. He suffered a hit on the head, and the paramedics have taken him for further checks to be on the safe side.”

“He was assaulted by a suspect fleeing the scene. Is that correct?” Laverty quizzed.

“As far as we can tell, yes.” Bone’s frustration was growing. “You’re not related to Assistant Police Commissioner Peter Laverty, are you?”

“My father, yes.”

Bone leaned his head back, a knowing expression appearing.

“I earned my law degree at the University of Edinburgh with First Class Honours,” Laverty said. “I chose policing over a legal career, as I prefer action over argument. Joined Lothian and Borders Police at twenty-two as a probationary constable before quickly transferring to SCD, and climbing the ranks to detective chief inspector. I’ve worked major cases all over the country, including organised crime and human trafficking operations, along with overseeing the team that just last year brought down the M9 serial killer. I’ve earned my stripes. Along the way, I’ve also unfortunately become all too familiar with the inability of men, particularly men of your age, to accept that said stripes were earned through merit and not nepotism.”

“Men my age,” Bone said.

“Men older than me,” Laverty said with a smile. “Now tell me, this DC of yours who was injured…”

“Harper,” Gallacher said.

“Harper, yes. Why was he unaccompanied during his investigation? It could’ve turned out much worse for him had he not been so lucky.”

“Well, if our unit had more officers on the ground,” Bone said, “DC Harper would never have been put in harm’s way. But you can take that up with the Police Commissioner’s Office. Ma’am.”

Laverty’s stare intensified.

“DCI Bone, DSU Laverty has requested to sit in on all upcoming team meetings,” Gallacher cut in before things escalated further. “She’ll accompany you on any interviews, review your case notes. You understand.”

“I need to familiarise myself with the day-to-day operations here,” Laverty said. “Office culture, general methodology, as well as your personal tactics. Help me understand your leadership style and the working dynamic of your team. For instance, I spotted your colleague earlier, DS Mullens, in some interesting attire. Is it mufti day in the station? Have I missed something?” She shot Bone a barbed smile.

“DS Mullens was actually on a day off. He was attending a yoga class opposite the distillery. He’s been busy all morning. And to be honest…”

Bone was about to continue, but Gallacher shot him a look, and he bit his tongue.

“Good to know your team have high levels of dedication and keep themselves fit, too.” Laverty checked her watch. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’ve a tour of the forensics lab to attend. DSU Gallacher, thank you for your assistance this morning, and DCI Bone—I look forward to seeing a lot more of you.”

When the door closed behind her, Bone turned to his boss. “I thought your retirement wasn’t until next year.”

“It wasn’t,” Gallacher said. “But when I realised I had several additional months’ leave, I thought, why the hell not?”

“You know her reputation is that of an asset stripper, right?” Bone watched Laverty scoot down a corridor. “She’s going to gut our unit.”

Gallacher faced him. “So you have heard of her.”

“Of course I have. Everyone has. She’s her father’s hound, doing the head office’s dirty work for them.”

“And all the more reason for you to get on with her.”

Bone chortled. “I’d say there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening. With all due respect, sir. The knives are clearly out. She’s already passing judgment on my decisions.”

“Well, make it happen. For once in your life, just play the game. Show her what you and the team are capable of. And for God’s sake, make sure you keep Mullens on a tight lead. She’ll have him up on disciplinary the second he opens that big gob of his. Clearly, she’s already got the measure of him.”

“Passive-aggressive bullshit,” Bone muttered. He looked up. “Apologies, sir.”

“Play the game, Duncan. If not for you, then do it for the unit and your colleagues.”

“I should have listened to Brody,” Bone said. “Should’ve just turned around and left when I had the chance.”

TEN

When Bone entered the incident room, he found Mullens at the table, seated by an impressively large Victoria sponge cake. Walker was beside him, laptop open, scrolling through what looked like financial records. Baxter was by the coffee machine, changing the filter.

“Glad to see you’ve ditched the idea of auditioning for Fame Academy, Mark,” Bone said.

Mullens had returned to his usual scruffy, undersized suit.

“Aye, I went home to change,” Mullens said, tugging at his too-tight jacket. “Wisnae going to take my chances with the dead man’s rags they keep in the supply room.”

“What’s with the cake? Did you make that, Sheila?” Bone called over to Baxter, who was still wrestling with the coffee machine.

“You kidding?” Baxter said. “You want a second poisoning today? Dawson’s Bakery special.”

“I like how you assume I didn’t make it,” said Mullens, his eyes as wide as saucers, ogling the thick cream oozing out of the sides.

“If you’d made it, do you honestly think it would make it all the way from your house to the station?” Bone scoffed. “In that case, maybe I’ll have a piece.”

“If Mark doesn’t bite your arm off first,” Walker said. “I’ve already lost a finger.”

Baxter flipped the lid on the percolator and switched it back on. “Did you catch up with Gallacher?”

Bone grimaced. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

Walker glanced up from her laptop. “Everything okay?”

“Don’t ask,” Bone replied. “I’ll fill you all in later.”

“Is it National Tweed Suit Day or something?” Mullens scooped up a slice the size of his fist.

“If you must know, it was my birthday over the weekend,” Baxter said reluctantly.

“You kept that quiet,” Bone said.

“Don’t blame you. I’d be keeping quiet about my bicentennial as well,” Mullens said, his mouth already full.

“Perhaps I will bake a cake tonight,” Baxter said. “Made with special ingredients, just for you. Gannet guts.”

“By the way, Mark, have you heard about this new fad?” Bone asked. “It’s called chewing before you swallow.”

“Who has time for that?” Mullens mumbled, bits of crumb-shrapnel shooting out of his mouth.

Walker leaned away from him, shooting a look of disgust his way. “Ravenous hyenas have more table manners.”

Bone sat at the far end, out of Mullens’s firing line, and Baxter soon joined him. She stirred her coffee slowly and then took a sip.

“So, dare I ask?” Bone said.

She stared at him. “Ask what?” She frowned, anticipating the next question.

Bone held up his hands. “Nothing.” He smiled.

Baxter stared down again and collected a file folder she’d set down, opening it up.

“I’m fifty-nine,” she said. “But let that be an end to your enquiry.”

Bone smiled. “Well. You don’t look a day over sixty.”

“You can go off people, you know…” She scowled at them both, took another sip of her coffee before finding her place amongst her materials. “I’ve discovered more about the distillery’s finances.” She handed Bone a printout. “Their registered company account reveals that their chief accountant, Morgan Dribble…”

Mullens exploded with laughter, spraying cake like confetti all over the table.

“Mark!” Bone and Baxter yelled in unison.

Walker quickly moved her laptop out of the spray zone. “Why did I choose to sit next to him?” she muttered.

“Sorry, but Morgan Dribble, seriously?”

“You are the living definition of mature, Mark.” Baxter brushed moist crumbs from her notes.

“Mr Dribble collects an annual salary worth two hundred thousand pounds.”

Mullens paused shovelling the last of his cake into his mouth and gawped at Baxter, an expression of complete incredulity on his face.

“Two hundred thousand?” he said. He shook his head and finished wolfing down his cake. “Accountants, bankers. They’re all crooks, aren’t they? Getting rich off moving numbers around while the rest of us are stuck working for a living.”

“Yes, you look hard at work to me,” Baxter said.

“You think I’m a mess now, wait until you see me with low blood sugar.”

“You may well be right, though, Mark,” Bone said, reading over the printout. “Says here that Dribble received three times that amount as a year-end bonus.”

“That lines up with what I’m seeing in these bank transfers.” Walker turned her laptop to show Bone. “Massive outflows to offshore accounts around the same time each year.”

Mullens began choking. Coughing, spluttering, his eyes gone wide. Bone slapped him on the back. Mullens held his hand up, gesturing that he’d be all right. He then coughed a few times more and took a drink of coffee, soon regaining his composure.

“Six hundred grand?” he finally barked out.

“Apparently so,” Bone said.

“That’s perverse.”

“If nothing else, it’s an indication that this Dribble is someone we’ll need to sit down with.”

“I already checked with the distillery,” Baxter said. “He’s on compassionate leave at the moment. His wife is quite ill.”

“Compassionate leave,” Bone said.

“That’s what I was told.”

“Convenient timing,” Walker remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Wife gets sick just as we start investigating financial irregularities?”

Bone rose and walked slowly to the coffee machine, thinking everything over. He poured himself a cup and then turned back to the room.

“All of this is rotten,” he said. “Durie’s poisoning, a missing bar manager, now Dribble getting what looks to be some kind of over-inflated payout.”

He thought a moment more.

“Baxter, see what you can find out about this Leith Hatchett Loans company Hamish Durie got mixed up with,” he said. “And let’s start adding faces to the incident board.”

“I’ll poke into their lending practices,” Walker offered. “See if there’s a pattern with other businesses they’re involved with.”

“Already ahead of you both.” Baxter removed a set of documents from her file folder and walked to the board to start pinning them up. Photographs, spreadsheets, index cards featuring the details of all the relevant players, the relevant organisations.

Bone smiled, admiring her handiwork. “I should’ve known you’d be on top of it.”

“Still sharp after all these years, huh, Nana?” said Mullens, helping himself to a second piece of cake.

“You’re one flying stapler away from an early grave,” Baxter said.

“I think we all are if we keep working with Mark.” Walker caught Baxter’s eye with a small smile.

Bone stepped closer towards the board as she finished setting things up and studied the array of images and information for a moment. Trying to put it all together. Trying to identify where and how it all connected.

Harper’s entrance punctuated the momentary silence, his head bound in medical gauze.

“There he is,” Mullens said. “The Mummy Returns. How’s yer heid, pal?”

“I’ll live,” Harper said. “Was just a couple stitches.”

“You sure?” Bone asked. “You shouldn’t be here. You should take the day or the rest of the week off.”

“I’m fine. The doctor in A&E gave me the all-clear.”

“Well, if you start to feel crap, I want you to go home immediately. And desk duties only, please.”

“I’m really okay. I’d rather be helping out on the case. Try and catch the idiot who gave me this.” He gently tapped his head. He spotted the cake. “What’s that?”

“Mullens’s lunch, apparently,” Bone said.

“I’ll chance my luck and ask Mark for an update. Have you heard back from CFO Cash on the body yet?”

“Mark, can you pause troughing sponge for a moment and update Will on where we’re at?” Bone said.

His phone suddenly pinged with a text notification.

“Ah, speak of the devil,” he said. “The Man in Black is summoning me to his lair.”

ELEVEN

Cash walked with Bone through the forensic lab on their way to the mortuary. In one hand, he carried a clipboard with a report affixed to it, and in his other, a squishy stress ball that he periodically squeezed and released.

“You met the new DSU yet?” he asked.

“How could I miss her?” Bone said. “I bet you could feel that cold front blowing in all the way from Siberia.”

“She seemed all right to me. She’s just been down here giving the place the once-over.”

“She’d fit right in.” Bone glanced down. “What’s with the ball?”

“Trying everything I can to relax my brain.”

“I’d ask how your divorce is going, but I think you’ve just told me the answer.”

“Her. Now, talk about repressed. That woman’s a bloody black hole. Sucking up everything I’ve ever owned. Doesn’t just want the house. She wants my spirit, my soul. I don’t know why I ever got married in the first place. Some misguided attempt at meaning, I suppose. But it’s all a big nothing, isn’t it?”

“I hope those weren’t your wedding vows.”

“You see enough stiffs in here, you start to re-evaluate things.”

“Something tells me you were born this way, Cash.”

“I suppose it pissed her off, though, finding out about my new girlfriend.”

“You think so?” Bone said sarcastically.

“Oh, it wasn’t like that, and you know it. We only hooked up after my wife kicked me out. Mind you, there’s a lot to be said for new relationships. But they do require stamina. She’s bound to put me in one of these freezers soon enough, if she keeps it up. I had no idea that the human tongue could be so expressive.”

“All right!” Bone said. “I’m now formally asking you to change the subject.”

They continued on to the mortuary, Cash quietly chuckling to himself.

Inside, the CFO went straight to one of the coolers.

“I was surprised you got him back so quickly,” Bone said.

“We don’t mess about. It’s a working factory over there. Best to try and clear out as quickly as we can.”

Cash opened the door and pulled out the body tray. Bone shuddered at the sight of Durie’s bloated, naked corpse, his features frozen in the grotesque, contorted scream of his death throes. The skin had taken on a sickly purplish-red hue, taut and shiny across his distended abdomen. A yellowish foam had crusted around his mouth and nostrils, and his eyes bulged from their sockets like overripe plums ready to burst. The stench of chemical death mingled with the sweet-sour odour of decaying flesh.

“Yes, potassium cyanide and the human body make for nasty bedfellows,” Cash said.

“You’ve confirmed this?”

“Yup. The toxicology report verified.”

“Where the hell did the killer get their hands on such a lethal substance?”

“Infamously lethal,” Cash qualified. “Poisons“R”Us on the dark web. You can buy anything on there now. And I mean anything.”

Bone shook his head in dismay.

“His whisky was rammed with the stuff,” Cash continued. “You see how flushed he is around the face, neck, and chest? Cyanide prevents the body from using oxygen, making the skin appear a much deeper red. The blood sample we took from him looked like fruit punch, it was so bright. And he’s got clear cyanosis of his fingers and toes. Even his pupils are still dilated.”

“Poor bastard,” Bone said.

“There was something else, too,” Cash said. “We pulled another individual’s DNA from the glass Durie was drinking from. Found small traces of sodium, urea, and lactate, which suggests it came from particles of sweat.”

“Whose DNA was it?”

Cash shrugged. “No idea. Still running it through the system.”

Bone turned back to Hamish Durie, the man’s protruding, lifeless eyeballs staring back at him as though pleading for help even beyond death.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Cash said, his voice suddenly hollow as he gazed at the corpse. “One minute you’re drinking whisky, laughing, joking, making plans, dreaming about tomorrow… and the next, you’re just lifeless meat on a slab. All your hopes, fears, memories—everything that makes you you—gone. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp in the sterile room. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, what any of this nonsense is for? What it’s all about. Sex, death, and pointless struggle in between.” He ran a gloved finger along the edge of the tray. “I spend all day with the dead.”

“You have mentioned that before, once or twice,” Bone interrupted, rolling his eyes.

“Sometimes I think they’re trying to tell me something. That maybe this”—Cash gestured at the grotesque remains—“is the only truth. That we’re just walking corpses-in-waiting. Everything else is just… distraction.”

Bone recognised the familiar glaze in Cash’s eyes—that thousand-yard stare that appeared whenever he started slipping into one of his existential spirals.

“Goodbye, Cash,” said Bone abruptly, turning on his heel, and bailing before the full-scale spiral began. The CFO’s philosophical descent into the void was a rabbit hole he didn’t have the time nor the emotional energy to navigate today. “Call me when you have updates on the DNA.”

Cash nodded, but barely heard him. “It’s true, though, isn’t it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, romance and endless sex are great fun, but it is all in the end just pointless amino acid, isn’t it?”

Bone threw up his hand and swiftly headed for the exit, Cash’s murmured existential musings fading as the doors swung shut behind him.

TWELVE

Bone returned to the incident room to find DSU Laverty standing centre stage, addressing the team.

“That may well be what you’ve been used to in the past,” she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes, “but I’ve always believed that things can be improved upon. Camaraderie amongst a team is wonderful, truly, but comfort can so easily slip into complacency, can’t it? I’m sure you all agree.”

Bone glanced around the table. He thought his colleagues all looked shell-shocked, dumbfounded, completely caught off-guard by Laverty’s veneer of friendliness that barely concealed her critical assessment. They appeared as if they had no idea who she even was.

“Everybody,” Bone said, “this is the new DSU. She’ll be taking over for—”

“Oh, we’ve already had the pleasure of introducing ourselves,” Laverty interjected, her smile bright. “Change can be… challenging for those who’ve grown accustomed to a certain way of doing things. Wouldn’t you say?”

Bone caught Walker’s eye, and she raised a hand to conceal a smile.

“I’m only trying to help, of course,” Laverty added, her voice laced with backhanded concern. “Some might call it tough love, but I prefer to think of it as… professional guidance.”

Bone couldn’t stand it any longer. “With all due respect, ma’am, this team is the finest group of officers I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. We work fast and efficiently, and we get results. They may find it uncomfortable to have someone new evaluating their work without fully understanding the context.”

“Of course, DCI Bone,” Laverty replied. “We’re all on the same side here. I’d never suggest otherwise. Though sometimes it’s the leadership who struggles most with… constructive feedback, isn’t it?”

She turned back to the team, her expression brightening artificially.

“Now, I’m going to schedule some one-on-one chats with each of you. Nothing formal, just getting to know you better. Perhaps you might consider preparing a little overview of your responsibilities and contributions. It would be so helpful for me.”

Mullens seemed particularly disturbed by this. Bone watching his eyes go wide, his face clench tight, and yet just as he seemed prepared to voice his opinion, Bone loudly cleared his throat to cut him off. Mullens glanced at him, and Bone subtly shook his head, signalling him to knock it off.

“I want to be perfectly clear,” Laverty said, her smile fixed in place. “I’m really just here as an observer right now, learning how this exemplary unit operates. Think of me as a fact-finder for the time being. Still shaping what exactly my role will be.”

“But your role has already been assigned, Detective Chief Inspector,” Bone said dryly, using her current title deliberately. “Your role will be that of a Detective Superintendent, an overseer who does not interfere with the day-to-day operations of the unit.”

“Oh, DCI Bone,” Laverty replied with a small laugh, “I think we both know the role of any DSU goes much deeper than that, don’t we? Now, if DSU Gallacher preferred a more… hands-off approach, then that was certainly his prerogative. But as the soon-to-be boss of this unit, I’ll need to find the right balance of oversight. Perhaps…” she added, her voice dropping to a more pointed tone, “instead of advising me on my role, you might want to revisit the guidelines on chain of command and professional conduct, before I am in post. Just a friendly suggestion.”

Bone gritted his teeth so hard he risked breaking a molar. Yet he resisted a response.

“Wonderful,” Laverty said with another bright smile. “Now then. I couldn’t help but notice—and please correct me if I’m overstepping—but shouldn’t your young DC here be on sick leave? That injury appears rather serious.”

Bone looked to DC Harper, his bandage now sitting a little crooked around his head. “He said he was given the all-clear from A&E.”

“I was. That’s a fact,” Harper confirmed, a wry smile directed at Bone.

“Oh, I’m sure you did. Such dedication is admirable. But is that really the best decision for your well-being? His well-being, DCI Bone.”

“You’re right. It was mine.”

“DC Harper, is it?” Laverty asked, her tone softening.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And your first name, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It’s Will, ma’am. Will Harper.”

“Yes, of course. Will Harper. You came through the fast-track detective programme, didn’t you?”

“That’s correct.”

“How impressive. Though I suppose that explains a certain… eagerness to return to work before one is fully recovered.”

“Hold on a minute,” Mullens blurted. He frowned. “I know he might look a bit glaikit and a Lego version of Luke Skywalker in Star Wars, but that’s how Will always is. The lad is a grafter, and much as I hate to admit it, he’s unfortunately a bloody brilliant copper. That’s the thing about the RCU, ma’am. We work bloody hard day in, day out. But we are all in the shit of it together. And as DCI Bone said, we get results. Our way. It might not win any Miss World competitions or fit in a nice wee box, a bow on top to please head office, but when you get to the absolute dog’s gonads of it, we’re the ones clearing scumbag’s stinkin’ turd dumps off the streets when, to be honest, any lesser idiot would run a mile.”

Baxter let out a stifled laugh before turning her head away from Laverty.

Mullens realised almost immediately that he’d stumbled straight into his own metaphor and stared at Laverty, his expression full of remorse.

“I… I apologise, ma’am,” he said. “That was… unprofessional. It’s just…”

A silence quickly filled the room. All waiting to see how Laverty would respond.

“Oh, I can see why everyone values you so much, Detective Sergeant Mullens,” Laverty said.

“You mean my big gob…” Mullens said.

“It takes a special kind of conviction to speak so… candidly to a senior officer. One might even call it brave. I admire your passion and your loyalty to your colleagues and the force, Detective Sergeant Mullens, though perhaps less so your use of language to explain it.”

Mullens lowered his head. “I have an unstoppable gob on me sometimes, ma’am.”

“Sometimes?” Harper cut in.

Laverty laughed. “It’s been insightful, to say the least.” She took a final glance around the room and then turned to Bone.

“Well then,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a scheduled call with my father. You remember him, don’t you? The Assistant Police Commissioner? I’m sure he’ll be fascinated to hear about the unique dynamics of the RCU.”

“I think you’ll find he has already well-formed opinions on that front.” Bone nodded slightly as Laverty marched by and exited the room.

He watched her go for a moment and then turned back to the team. All of them seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

“I thought she was going to bite Mark’s head off,” Harper said, “like one of them praying mantises.”

“Aye, reminds me of a girlfriend I had back in my police college days. I called her the Rotavator.”

“All right,” said Bone, taking a seat. “Now that Mother Superior’s gone, let’s get down to it. Will, you’re deskbound and digital for the next while. At least until that Tom and Jerry cartoon lump goes down.”

“Come on, boss. I’m fine.”

“So sweet that Laverty’s already mothering you. And now the boss, too,” Mullens said.

“No one’s mothering anybody,” Bone said. “I don’t want you making yourself a liability out in the field. Stay sitting down, Will, you got it? Besides, we need to go through the CCTV footage the distillery sent over, so you’ll have plenty to do.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mark, I want you to go visit this loan company. Leith Hatchett. Sheila already tracked down an address.”

Mullens turned to Baxter as she slid a note to him with the information written on it.

“Of course she did,” he said.

“In the meantime, Rhona and I will speak with this accountant, Dribble, about his year-end bonus.”

“Greedy bastard,” Mullens said.

“You’re only jealous, Mark,” Sheila remarked.

“All right, everyone. Let’s stay on top of it out there. As we all now know, God is watching.”

Bone and Walker made their way to the car park and ran into Laverty again, the DSU just finishing up her call.

Bone grimaced and muttered an expletive as she spotted them and approached.

“DCI Bone,” she said, her smile pleasant. “Headed out?”

“Following up on a lead.”

“Oh, perfect timing. I’d love to join you. See how the famous DCI Bone works his magic.”

“That’s really not—”

“Unless, of course, you’re concerned about having me along?”

Bone stood there for a moment, tongue-tied. Laverty stared back, eyebrow raised, her smile never faltering.

“Shall we go?” she said.

“I really want to help assist in your orientation here…” Bone said finally.

“How very kind of you.”

“But DI Walker and I need to do this alone. It’s tough enough getting people to open up to the police under normal circumstances, but we’ll be visiting our lead at his home, where he’s tending to his seriously ill wife. I don’t want him to think we’re coming at him with all guns blazing and give him another excuse to slam the door in our face.”

Laverty considered this for a moment.

“Ma’am, just give me a chance. Give all of us a fair shake,” Bone said. “Let us do things our way and show you what the RCU can do. And when I’m finished, you can give me all the feedback you think necessary on our methods.”

“All right,” Laverty said after further thought, her smile returning. “But I would appreciate a comprehensive debrief when you return. Don’t leave out any details, no matter how small. That wouldn’t be very collaborative of you.”

“Not one detail,” Bone said.

With that, he quickly marched to his car, Walker chasing behind. He didn’t want to give Laverty one more second to change her mind.

THIRTEEN

Tucked away in the shadow of Fintry’s ancient woods, Morgan Dribble’s home was an imposing five-bedroom estate with a weathered stone exterior covered with ivy. Sitting on the cobbled driveway was an immaculate burgundy S-Class Mercedes. Bone parked alongside, cut the engine, and they stepped out.

Before Bone rang the front doorbell, Walker glanced through the adjacent bay window and shrugged. No sign. Bone rang. No response. He tried again. Nothing. They were about to try around the back when the door suddenly swung open. A Man stood before them in his dressing gown, belt dangling by his waist. He appeared tired and dishevelled, with dark bags under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for days. He glanced between Bone and Walker, and they flashed their warrant cards at him.

“DCI Bone and DI Walker from Kilwinnoch Police Station. Are you Morgan Dribble?” Bone asked.

“Yes. What’s happened officers? Has there been a break-in or something nearby?”

“No, sir. It concerns the distillery,” Bone continued.

“An accident?”

“May we come in, sir?”

Dribble glanced back into the house. “I’m sorry, Officers, can’t this wait, my wife…”

“Forgive us, Mr Dribble,” Walker said. “We’re aware your wife is ill, but unfortunately, this can’t wait.”

Dribble looked from her to Bone.

“We spoke with the general manager at Glendurie,” Bone said. “He told us where you were. Your situation.”

Dribble nodded. “Well,” he said, glancing back inside, “she’s upstairs and has just undergone a round of treatment, so she’ll be quite exhausted. This new stem cell therapy, it really knocks her out. Chemo wasn’t doing any good.”

He stared at the ground and seemed to be lost for a moment, consumed by pain, and when he looked up, his eyes were filled with tears.

“But we have to try, don’t we?” he said. “We have to try.” He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“May we come in, sir?” Bone repeated. “It really is a matter of urgency that we speak with you.”

Dribble nodded, then finally stepped aside. “But please, can we make it as brief as possible? I need to keep a close eye on Claudia.”

They were led into an enormous, rather ostentatious lounge with high ceilings, oak-panelled walls, and two large tapestries hanging on either side of a grand fireplace. Dribble showed them to a velvet settee with matching armchairs, and there, all three of them took seats.

“You haven’t received any news from the distillery this morning?” Bone continued.

“No, I’ve been attending to my wife.”

“I’m sorry to have to inform you that Hamish Durie is dead.”

A silence rose between them, Dribble staring from Bone to Walker and back again.

“Dead?” Dribble said. “What… what happened?”

“It would appear that someone poisoned his whisky at this morning’s tasting.”

“What? I don’t believe it. Who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we are trying to establish, sir.”

Dribble took a long, deep breath and exhaled loudly. “God, can things get any worse? Sorry, Detectives. This is very upsetting news.”

“What can you tell us about Hamish?” Walker asked.

“Hamish was a good man. Loved life, perhaps a little too much, but he was a good egg.”

“Would you say Mr Dribble had a troubled life?” Bone pressed.

“Well. I don’t know too much about that. I wasn’t friends with him. We had a professional relationship. I know he had his problems with gambling, with drink. But in the last few years, he had matured, cleaned himself up a lot.” Dribble shook his head. “I just can’t…”

“Money issues?” Walker said.

“I think so, yes.”

“When did you last see him?” Bone asked.

“I can’t remember. I’ve been off work for a couple of months, so it’s probably more than three or four.”

“Did he have any enemies that you know of?”

“In the past, perhaps, yes, but as I said, I thought he had changed his life. His work at the distillery, holding down his role as a tour guide. That’s a testament to how far he’d come.”

“How’s your relationship with the sisters?” Bone said.

“The Durie sisters? Positive, productive working relationship. I’ve been employed with the distillery for over twenty years now, so I must be doing something right in their eyes.”

“And Hamish’s relationship with them?”

Dribble hesitated. “Family can be tough. But they bailed him out, time and time again, his sisters did. I don’t know what it was—it always seemed like Hamish was in a hurry to get rid of any money he had on him. Like he couldn’t stand the sight of it or something.”

“Did you oversee changes in the share ownership?” Walker asked.

The question caught Dribble off guard, and he responded curtly. “That was nothing to do with me.”

“And your bonus?” Bone said.

“My bonus? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Six hundred thousand pounds deposited into your account in December.”

Dribble narrowed his eyes. “I can’t see why… What are you insinuating, Inspector?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we have to go through every background detail of the case in order to eliminate irrelevant information. Why such a large sum this year?”

“Blood, sweat, and tears,” Dribble said. “Nothing more. Glendurie Whisky has seen a major upswing in business over the last eighteen months, much of it due to a new blend of ours, Glendurie Black, selling very well in America.”

“Your company hasn’t been having financial issues?” Walker checked.

“Every company has issues. Part and parcel of any business. But as far as I’m concerned, the tough times are behind us.”

“That’s quite a turnaround to afford such an impressive bonus.”

Dribble’s face flushed. “I’m sorry, but this is completely inappropriate and somewhat embarrassing. What I earn is my business. And let me say that it’s also perverse, this line of questioning. Discussing financial affairs when Hamish Durie is…”

“Sorry, sir, as I said.” Bone nodded apologetically.

“Tell me,” Walker said. “Since you’ve been working with the Durie sisters for so long, do you know what happened with Agnes?”

“I don’t understand. When what happened?” said Dribble.

“A pregnancy her father couldn’t permit,” Walker said bluntly.

Dribble’s face darkened again.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective Inspector,” he said. “And if I did, I might tell you that matter’s private, and you discussing it like this is yet another example of overstepping your reach. Now, I believe I’ve said as much as can be helpful on the matter.”

“Don’t you want to help us find out what happened to Hamish?” Bone asked. “Find out who killed him?”

Dribble’s tone hardened further. “Perhaps I have misled you, DCI Bone, and you think that Mr Durie and I were closer than we actually were. I used to do his personal accounts for a time, but I soon gave that up. Annual Landmines, as I used to describe them. But I believe I said earlier that my relationship, like that of his sisters’, is strictly professional. Of course, I’m deeply sorry to hear of his passing, for his sisters’ loss, but now that I have had time to consider what has happened, to be completely frank, I’m surprised Hamish did not pass sooner. Either from his addictions or at the hands of the lowlifes he used to fraternise with.”

“I thought you said he’d cleaned up?” Walker said. “It’s what we’ve been hearing, too.”

“Well, who knows? The black dog’s never too far behind, is it? And you said yourself he was drinking at this morning’s tasting.”

A small bell rang out from somewhere above.

“That will be my wife.” Dribble jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance. I trust you can see yourselves out?”

As they exited Dribble’s house, Bone glanced over at Walker, eyebrow raised.

“Interesting shift in tone,” he said.

Walker chortled. “Maybe he spotted our new DSU loitering with intent in his garden.”

They laughed.

“Something’s definitely gnawing at his arse, that’s for sure, and I don’t think it’s just the awful situation with his wife,” Bone said.

At the car, Walker stopped. “You up for that caffeine hit and further dissection?”

“Dawson’s Café?”

“Excellent choice, sir.”

Walker licked her lips in anticipation.

FOURTEEN

On the deserted outskirts of Kilwinnoch, Mullens drove into Garrell Industrial Park, a business enterprise that went horribly wrong in the eighties and never recovered; a collection of half a dozen near-derelict buildings, some of them blackened by fires, others with shutters and doors heavily graffitied. Mullens rechecked the address Baxter had given him, and after some searching and a few expletives, he found the correct unit and parked up.

He sat in his vehicle, staring at the unit, checking the satnav one more time. “This is no bloody loan office,” he muttered to himself.

A campervan appeared at the site entrance and pulled up in front of the building. A plush new Volkswagen EV in bright yellow that, even in the late afternoon gloom, gleamed like some garish neon lemon. A man in a hoodie jumped out and approached the entrance door, tapping his passcode into the keypad before slipping inside.

Mullens got out, went to the door, and peered through the dirty window. The man stood inside a grubby foyer in front of a wall of twelve separate PO boxes. He opened one, collected the mail inside, and sifted through it, turning to face Mullens’s direction. Mullens then smiled to himself, recognising the man immediately. He tried the door but found it locked, and instead tapped on the glass.

“Brendan Hounsell,” he said loudly. “Long time no see.” He grinned.

“DS Mullens,” Hounsell said, taken aback, like a boy caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. “What are you doing here?”

“Why don’t you open the door and find out?”

“I…”

Hounsell looked around for a separate exit.

“I wouldn’t bother running, Brendan. You know what my temper can be like.”

“What do you want?”

“To continue this face-to-face. But hey, if you like talking to people from behind glass, I’d be more than happy to send you back to Barlinnie and we can have our chat there?”

Hounsell hesitated.

“Now come on. I’m not in the mood.”

After a moment, Hounsell stepped forward and let Mullens in, the door whining shut behind him as he entered. Mullens glanced around the foyer for a moment. Water stained the cracked ceiling.

“I didn’t do nothing wrong,” Hounsell protested.

“Then this should be very easy for you,” Mullens said.

He shoved Hounsell back against the wall, pinning him there with his forearm.

“And yet somehow, I don’t believe you, Brendan,” he said. “A convicted loan shark caught collecting mail from a PO box out in the middle of nowhere? Nah, you’re up to your old tricks again, aren’t you?”

“You can’t treat me this way. I’m only doing my job.”

“Job? You?” Mullens scoffed.

“Aye, a legitimate employee. Straight and narrow for me, Detective Sergeant.” Hounsell attempted a smile, but Mullens’s grip tightened, and he winced.

“Of Leith Hatchett Loans?”

“That’s right.”

“You see, you think that makes you look clean, but it only makes them look like someone’s just shit in their food mixer. And I still don’t believe you.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Who’s your boss?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Not good enough, Brendan.”

“The company’s owned by two hedge fund managers in the States. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Tell me about Hamish Durie’s business with the company.”

Hounsell glanced away, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “Come on, Mullens.”

“DS Mullens to you, slug dick. Or I can confiscate your post and send it off to the taxman and the fraud squad, and we’ll see just how legitimate this position of yours is.”

“Oh, right, yeah. Hamish Durie. Works for Glendurie Whisky, right?” Hounsell attempted ignorance.

“You’re not clever enough to play this stupid,” Mullens said. “Now, how much did Hamish borrow?”

“Loan transactions are confidential.”

Mullens pounded his fist against the wall of mailboxes beside Hounsell’s head. The unit rattled loudly.

“I’m low on the pecking order,” Hounsell said quickly. “I only pick up the mail for the company and help out when debt collectors need more men on a job. I just heard from others that Mr Durie paid off his loan in full plus interest last year. He’s no longer on the Leith Hatchett books. I swear that’s all I know.”

“Give me a number, Brendan. How much?”

“I don’t know.”

Mullens pounded the mailboxes harder, the bang reverberating through the empty unit beyond.

“Last payment was eighty-odd thousand,” Hounsell said. “That’s what I heard. But he paid that off, I’m telling you, and we closed his account. Honest.”

“You pulling my love knot?”

“No. I swear.”

“There’s actually a paper trail? You expect me to believe this diarrhoea? Bloody hell, when you were dropped at birth, it must have been from the Empire fucking State Building.”

“I’m telling you, the company is legitimate.”

“You said last payment?”

“Aye, he borrowed more, but I swear to God I don’t know any more.”

“What did Durie need the money for?”

“We don’t ask those kinds of questions. We issue loans and collect repayments. Cut and dry.”

“Nothing’s ever cut and dry with you, Hounsell. You’re as slippery as skitters come. My guess is Hatchett’s hired you to break legs and push people out windows if they can’t repay.”

“That’s no’ me anymore. I’m rehabilitated. Let me just give you my mobile number, and you can call me anytime you want, just to show you I’m on the level.”

“Your mobile?”

Mullens grabbed him with both hands now and rammed him harder against the wall.

“Do you think I was born yesterday?” he said. “I take down your mobile and you disappear to Marbella, is that it? Not today.”

Mullens marched him out of the building and towards Hounsell’s campervan. “I want the ownership document for this monstrosity. And then empty your pockets.”

“You can’t do this,” Hounsell said. “I’m—”

Mullens turned him around and threw him up against his campervan and began going through his pockets.

“This isn’t a game, Brendan,” he said. “Oh, what’s this now?”

He pulled out a small bag of hashish and held it up in front of Hounsell’s face.

“It’s for my nerves,” Hounsell said.

“It’s a one-way ticket back to prison, is what it is. Now, no more arguments.”

He straightened Hounsell up, and his captive handed over his mail, the few items in his pocket, finally reaching into his campervan for his registration.

“You are the registered owner?”

“Correct.”

“So, low on the pecking order, but still able to pay for this fruit machine.”

“What can I say? Crime doesn’t pay.”

“Don’t get smartarse on me,” Mullens growled and flipped quickly through the mail.

“Still at fifteen Chapel Way, Brendan?”

“No, since moved. Eighteen Chapel Way.”

“What, did you burn down fifteen then when you were cooking up the meth?”

“Girlfriend’s place.”

“You have a girlfriend? Is she Tommy?”

“What?”

“Deaf, dumb, and blind?” Mullens sighed. “Never mind. Okay, then that’s where I’ll come and find you if you don’t hand-deliver the paperwork you promised to Kilwinnoch station within forty-eight hours. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“And give me your phone.”

“What?”

“I want your phone.”

“No.”

“Brendan.”

“Fuck’s sake. That can’t be legal.”

“You just told me you’d be happy to provide it, fudface.”

“My number, I said, no’ my entire fucking phone.”

“Oh, sorry, that’s not how I remember it. You were very cooperative. That’ll be in my report.”

“Fuck me.”

He fished it out of his pocket and turned to climb in the van.

Mullens pulled him back.

“What now?” Hounsell complained.

“Access code?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Hounsell mumbled again. “‘Show me the money,’ all lower case.”

“Now get out of my sight, cockbreath.”

He handed Hounsell his mail back, his registration, his keys, and Hounsell climbed into his vehicle and started the engine.

“Jesus,” Mullens said, wincing at the garish colour of the campervan up close. “Hepatitis on wheels.”

FIFTEEN

Back in Kilwinnoch, Bone and Walker caught up at Dawson’s Café. The bell above the door jangled as they entered, and Mrs Dawson turned, smiling warmly at them from behind the counter, her thick specs magnifying her kindly blue-grey eyes. The smell of fresh coffee, pies, and pastries filled the air, the glass display beside the counter fair heaving with homemade scones, lemon drizzle, millionaire’s shortbread, and fresh bridies cooling at the end of the aisle.

“Duncan!” Mrs Dawson exclaimed. “And Detective Walker, too. What an honour.”

“How are you, Mrs Dawson?” Bone asked.

The three exchanged pleasantries for a moment before Mrs Dawson told them to grab a seat.

“You two fancy a piping-hot bridie, fresh out the oven not five minutes ago?”

“Just two black coffees, please,” Bone said, taking a corner table with Walker.

“Rhona, love? How about a nice sausage roll?”

“I’m more than fine, thank you, Mrs Dawson.”

“I see you’ve brought your usual ravenous appetites with you again,” Mrs Dawson joked. “I’ll bring your drinks over in two shakes.”

Bone glanced over at the entrance. “Speaking of ravenous appetites.”

Mullens marched in and went straight up to the counter, unaware they were in the corner.

“Hullo again, Mrs Dawson,” Mullens said.

Mrs Dawson glanced up from behind the coffee machine and smiled warmly. “Hello again to you, too, Mark. Usual?”

“Aye, bridie and a coffee to take away.”

“Coming up.”

Walker shot Bone a mischievous smile and then turned back to the counter. She looked to Mrs Dawson and held a finger to her mouth, telling her to keep quiet, and Mrs Dawson nodded with a cheeky grin.

Walker then silently slipped out of her seat and sidled up behind Mullens.

“Yer nicked!” she shouted.

Mullens spun round, one hand clutching his chest.

“Jesus, ma’am,” he said. “You trying to give me another heart attack?”

“Seems like you’re taking care of that yourself.” Walker stared past him to the row of bridies in the display case.

Mullens glanced at them and then back to Walker, a sheepish expression on his face.

“Let the man be,” Mrs Dawson said. “One pie won’t kill him.”

“It’s the half dozen others he’s had since breakfast that will,” Bone said.

“God’s sake. It’s like the bloody diet polis. Are you following me? You lot are worse than Sandra.”

“Despite what you might think, I need you alive and well, Mark,” Bone said.

“Aww, sir,” Mullens said. “Give us a break. It’s been one hell of a day. And I havenae eaten anything since yoga class.”

“Not a peck since?”

“Not one,” Mullens said.

“You had most of Sheila’s birthday cake earlier, Mark,” Walker added.

“Bollocks. I forgot about that.”

Walker went back to her seat across from Bone as Mullens collected his bridie and coffee from Mrs Dawson.

“Yoga?” Mrs Dawson giggled, handing him his food.

“Don’t you start as well.”

He paid her and then went to Bone and Walker’s table.

“I’ll start healthy tomorrow,” he said. “Honest.”

“Good God, look at that!” Walker pointed out of the window.

“What?” Mullens ducked to see.

“A low-flying pig eating a bridie.”

“Funny ha-ha.” Mullens grimaced.

“How did it go at the Leith Hatchett Loans office?” Bone asked.

“There was no office, sir,” Mullens said. “Just a bunch of PO boxes. And the ever-slippery Brendan Hounsell.”

“Hounsell?” Walker said. “The serial petty criminal idiot.”

“The very same. He said that he works for the loan company, and he’s gone legit. Promised to send over proof that Hamish Durie had squared his debt.”

“When was this?”

“He wasn’t sure, but it was last year.”

“Well, this just keeps getting murkier and murkier,” Bone said. “All right. You head on back to the station and see how Harper’s doing.”

“You might want to finish that thing before you get there.” Walker gestured to the bag that was dripping warm fat onto the floor.

“You kidding?” Mullens flashed a smile. “It’ll be gone before I cross the car park.”

He exited the café, and Mrs Dawson arrived with the coffees.

“There you go, and here’s a wee homemade scone to share, on the house. You’re wasting away, you two.”

Bone thanked her and took a sip of his drink. “God, that’s bloody good.”

“I’m surprised Leith Hatchett even has paperwork to hand over,” Walker said.

“Indeed. But we can talk about the case later,” Bone said. “I thought we’d take a wee break to just have a coffee and a blether. We haven’t done that in a while.”

“No, we haven’t.” Walker stirred her coffee.

“So, how are you? How’s Erin and Maddie?”

“I’m fine. We’re all okay. Rattling along. Oh, but some news about Erin—”

“Has she joined the force?”

“Over my dead body.” She stopped. “Sorry, we shouldn’t say things like that.”

They laughed.

“No, our lovely three-year-old daughter has a boyfriend, actually, if you can believe it.”

Bone smiled. “Is that right? Quick off the mark, then.”

“She’s besotted with this cute little toddler at her playgroup. It’s rather sweet. They’ve been inseparable the last couple weeks. I’m starting to worry she might be a proper handful by the time she hits her teens.”

“The apple not falling far from the tree.”

Walker laughed before looking away, maybe picturing her little girl. “She’s just so adorable.”

Bone turned and glanced out of the window, a bittersweet vision of his son flashing in his mind.

“Well,” he said. “Hold on to every second. And Maddie?”

“She was offered a promotion, Head of English, but she turned it down. She thinks that one of us working full time is more than enough.”

Bone nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. “Dare I ask about the book?”

“Maddie’s book?”

“The very same. The one she’s been at for, what, five years now?”

Walker shrugged. “I tell her at least once a week to keep at it, but Erin’s her world at the minute.”

“Just at the minute?” joked Bone.

“And what about you?”

“Me? Well, I haven’t had one hallucination in four months now, so that’s a bonus. Don’t want to jinx it or anything, but hopefully I’m finally rid of that part of my PTSD. I still get the occasional night sweats, but I reckon that’s probably menopausal.” He chuckled.

“That’s great news.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“No, I just… I’ve just had this strange feeling lately,” Bone said. “Like I’m being followed.”

“Really?”

“I keep seeing this blue Astra everywhere. I first spotted it at Will’s wedding. This guy with ginger hair was driving it.”

“Ah, yes. A common trait amongst all psychopathic stalkers,” Walker said, tucking a loose strand of her fiery red hair back behind her ear.

Bone shook his head.

“The wedding was six months ago,” Walker said. “Why not bring it up before now?”

“Because it was just some ginger bloke in a blue car.”

“But you’ve seen him since?”

“Yes. I’m not certain, but I think I’ve seen the car several times since. Behind me at traffic lights, that sort of thing.”

“And you’re worried it might be a hallucination?”

“Well… some of my prior visions involved a red-haired boy. But no. I’m not too worried. This is real. There was a real man and a real car.”

Walker thought about it. “Might it be someone from an old case? Someone with a grudge?”

“Could be anyone. But it can’t be related to this case, as it started long before Durie hit the distillery’s stone floor. Can it?”

“Well, you should be careful. Report it to Gallacher.”

“No. It’ll just have him second-guessing me. Not to mention it’ll give our incumbent new boss more ammunition to give the unhinged DCI the push.”

“She’s something else, isn’t she? A proper piece of work.”

“She might well be the end of the Rural Crime Unit,” Bone said.

“You think?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Are we talking shop again?”

“Seems like it.” Bone sighed.

“Then what’s your take on Morgan Dribble?”

“What’s yours?”

“That he’s hiding something much more concerning than a sick wife.”

“What I was thinking, too.”

“And beyond that?”

“We need to escalate the search for Graham, the bar manager. Though my instinct is telling me something awful has happened to him as well.”

“You think the Durie sisters might’ve had something to do with all of this? With Hamish’s poisoning? That older one, Elspeth, she was a cold fish.”

“Maybe, but why? Hamish had very little financial stake in Glendurie. Seems like he was all but on the sidelines at the company, other than perhaps being an embarrassment to the family. Tabloid fodder.”

“Indeed. And if they’d wanted to bump him off, they would’ve done it at the height of his debauchery, wouldn’t they? Not now. Not when, by all accounts, he was trying to get straight. And why choose the distillery of all places? That’s tabloid fodder on steroids. Why would the sisters take a wrecking ball to the family reputation like that?”

“It’s more likely he rubbed some thug up the wrong way, and this was payback. But then his debts were apparently all paid up with the loan sharks.”

“If you believe Brendan Hounsell.”

“Even Brendan’s own mother doesn’t believe what he says.” Bone threw up his hands. “Ach, who knows. Let’s hope Harper’s turned up something with the Glendurie footage.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“As if that ever happens,” Bone joked. “Hard graft and heart attacks more like.”

SIXTEEN

The digital unit’s basement room looked like a cross between a computer museum and an electronics graveyard. Shelves groaned under the weight of obsolete hardware, tangled cables hung like technological vines, and a stack of vintage VCRs teetered precariously in one corner. Two gleaming monitors provided the only modern touch, their screens casting a blue glow over Harper and PC Kevin “Jar Jar” Jenkins, nicknamed for his controversial but passionate defence of Star Wars’ most hated character.

“I’m telling you,” Jenkins was saying, “Jar Jar was integral to the whole plot. Without him—”

“Oh, don’t start again, Kev,” Harper groaned. “He has no redeeming—”

“What fresh slurry pit is this?” Mullens interrupted, ducking under a dangling ethernet cable as he entered.

“Mark, this is Kevin Jenkins from digital,” Harper said. “Kev, this is DS Mullens.”

“Haven’t seen you up in daylight before.” Mullens grinned. “I suppose one tiny ray of sun hits that peely-wally skin of yours and you’d turn to dust.”

Jenkins adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. “Better than dealing with actual people.”

Mullens spotted an ancient reel-to-reel player. “Has the boss been dumping his car boot finds down here?”

“We use everything,” Jenkins replied. “Last week we were digitising a four-inch tape for a fraud case.”

“God, reel-to-reel.” Mullens shuddered. “My old man used to make us watch his bloody awful home movies. Hours of folks’ feet on a beach, zoom shots of my maw’s cleavage or arse, horrendous relatives glugging sangria and grinning at the camera. Found anything on our runner?” he asked, mercifully changing the subject.

Harper nodded at the screens. “He’s clever. Watch.” He played footage of the tour, showing their suspect hanging back, face consistently hidden whenever passing a camera.

“Like he knows where they all are,” Mullens observed.

“Exactly,” Harper said.

“Hold on.” Jenkins suddenly straightened. “What’s this?”

The grainy image of the distillery entrance appeared. Jenkins rewound slowly, a hooded figure emerging backwards from the left. Frame by frame, they watched the figure skulk out the gate, then turn back.

“Gotcha!” Jenkins’s fingers flew across the keyboard. A scanning bar swept across the screen, clearing the grain. Another pass sharpened the image further. He isolated the head, enhanced, zoomed.

“Ugly sod,” Harper muttered.

Mullens leaned in. “Is that a mole on his right cheek?”

“Looks like it is,” Jenkins confirmed, and tapped the monitor.

“I know this clown,” Mullens said, scratching his head, then his crotch.

Harper grimaced. “Is that necessary?”

“Sorry, when something’s bugging me, my bollocks get restless.”

“I must sincerely apologise for my colleague.” Harper groaned.

“Restless bollocks.” Jenkins chuckled, clearly delighted by the phrase. “We should run this through our database.”

“Yes, let’s do it quick, before Mark scratches one of his nuts off.” Harper grinned.

A few keystrokes later: “Done.” Jenkins sat back in triumph.

“Come on,” Harper said to Mullens. “Let’s see if we can identify our potential poisoner and put you and your testicles out of their misery.”

They left, and Jenkins’s voice followed them, “May the Force be with you! And Jar Jar forever!”

“I worry about you lot,” Mullens muttered as they climbed the stairs.

“Says the man with dancing golf balls in his boxers.”

“Fair point.”

In the stairwell, Mullens suddenly stopped.

“Only two floors—are you really that unfit?” Harper joked.

“Shut up,” Mullens muttered, staring at the floor.

“Charming.”

“I fucking knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“Come on!” Mullens turned for the stairs.

“Come on, where? Aren’t we going to run this guy’s ugly mug through our system?”

“No need. I know who he is… and who he works—or worked—for.”

“But the boss said I’m grounded today.”

“Oh, come on, young Skywalker. A wee bit of fresh air won’t hurt you. I won’t tell him if you don’t. Anyhow, I need you with me.”

“Really?

“Aye, it’s so boring in the car without the butt of all my jokes there with me.”

Harper sighed and reluctantly followed.

Mullens raced up to the ground floor and burst through the back exit into the car park, Harper struggling to keep up. He stopped by a pool car, an Audi.

“Shite… gonny run back to reception and ask Robinson Crusoe for the keys to this baby?”

“Who?”

“Beardy Brody, numbnut. Come on!”

“Only if you tell me where the hell we’re going.”

“Northlands Prison. For a tête-à-tête with our old mate, Craig Sneddon. Remember him?”

“Raphorse Estate, loan shark Sneddon? The guy we banged up for his involvement in the Isle of the Dead murders?”

“Humanitarian of the Year himself. You’ve got it in one. Our ugly runner used to work for him.”

“Oh God, well, I’d better take this off then.” Harper removed his bandage.

Mullens had a quick look. “Ach, it’s barely a scratch, ya big girl’s blouse.”

Harper winced. “You really can’t say things like that anymore.” He gently tapped the stitches on his scalp.

“Okay, how about… poor wee lamb, let yer dadda kiss it better.” Mullens lunged at him, in full pout.

Harper shoved him away. “Yes, much more appropriate.”

While he made his escape and went back for the keys, Mullens pulled out his phone and dialled ahead to the prison, his agitated tackle forgotten in the thrill of the chase.

SEVENTEEN

Craig Sneddon was leaner than when Mullens had arrested him two years ago, prison weights clearly agreeing with him. His muscles bulged against his grey sweatshirt, though the effect was somewhat marred by a fresh scar running across his forehead, the stitch marks still visible. When he spotted Mullens beaming at him in the interview room doorway, he turned to leave, but the guard pushed him forward.

“Long time no see,” Mullens said as Sneddon slouched into the chair opposite.

“Not fucking long enough,” Sneddon muttered.

“You look well, Craig. Prison must agree with you. Are you the kingpin yet?”

“Why would I want to even smell the same stink as the trotter who banged me up?”

“You did that all on your own, Brain of Britain,” Mullens replied. “How’s business now you’re on extended holiday, courtesy of our fucking taxes?”

“I’d almost forgotten how annoying your foghorn-snorting voice is.”

“What’s with the beauty scar?” Mullens drew his finger across his own forehead.

“Cut myself shaving… Is there a fucking point to this?”

“Oh, are we keeping you from slopping out or something? I was missing you and thought I’d just drop in… We both were, weren’t we, DC Harper?”

“Oh, that’s who he is,” Sneddon sneered. “I thought you were here to barter him or something. He’d fetch a pretty packet down in the sex offenders unit.”

Mullens nodded to Harper, who produced the printout and pushed it in front of Sneddon. “You know this guy, don’t you?”

Sneddon scoffed. “Ha, oh aye, did I tell you I’m a grass now? I love to live on the edge.”

“Come on… simple question. Did he work for you when you were out?”

“Never seen him before.”

“Was he one of your hire-a-fists?”

“Listen, mate, if I was in the business of hiring fists, you’d be the first to know about it. And it wouldn’t be your face you’d need to worry about.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Mullens slammed his hand on the table. “Name!”

“Like I said, mate, never seen him.”

“I’m not your fucking mate. Name!”

“My, my… you’re well pissed off, aren’t you? Fancy giving me a wee smack, do ye? I bet you fucking do. Right on the chops… lay me out under that camera… and I get the last fucking laugh when you’re kicked out of the pigpen on no pension, big fat disgraced lump of lard.”

Mullens stood, his chair crashing to the floor. The guard moved forward as Harper grabbed Mullens’s arm. Then Mullens’s face transformed from rage to a wry smile.

“Every time. I’ll give you that. You are definitely still on my Christmas card list.”

Sneddon sighed and glanced at the guard. “Are we done?”

“Get the fuck out of my sight.”

Sneddon sauntered to the door, clearly feeling victorious.

“And mind how you go,” Mullens called after him, still smiling.

“Jesus, Mark,” Harper said when they were alone. “I thought you were going to floor him there.”

“Don’t be daft. All part of our wonderful relationship. He plays games, and I play back.”

“Really?”

“Oh, aye. Just wanted to push him to the point where I definitely knew he was lying.”

“How did you know?”

“Did you see that thing he was doing with his thumb, pulling it in and out of his fist?”

“No, I was too busy worrying that you were going to kill him.”

“He was nervous… scared even. Something or someone is getting to him.” Mullens uprighted the chair. “Let’s go speak to the governor, see if he knows what’s going on.”

In the corridor, Mullens approached the waiting guard.

“Could we have a word with the governor?”

“He’s off sick.”

“His deputy?”

“I’ll walk you out, Detectives,” the guard urged, nodding to the stairs.

Harper read the guard’s body language. “Okay, thanks.”

“What?” Mullens asked, oblivious to the guard’s desire to speak to them.

“The guard wants to walk us out.” Harper elbowed his colleague discreetly.

The penny finally dropped.

At the front exit, the guard asked, “So what’s wrong with it?”

“Whit?” Mullens turned.

“Keep walking,” the guard whispered. “Open the bonnet of your car when we get there.”

Mullens glanced at him. “Okay, cheers.”

They crossed the front car park, security cameras tracking their progress.

At the car, they both leaned into the engine compartment, heads close together.

“Sorry, but there are cameras, you ken?”

“Well, it is a prison. I would expect at least a modicum of security,” Mullens joked.

“This didn’t come from me, okay? I mean it. If they find out I’ve been talking to you, I’m done for.”

“Sure.” Mullens removed the oil dipstick, making a show of examining it.

“Sneddon’s head of a smuggling ring within the prison,” the guard said quietly. “Heroin on an industrial scale. Addiction is rife—three overdoses already from contaminated batches. It’s carnage in there.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Six, eight months.”

“What’s the governor doing about it?”

“Wall of silence. I don’t know if the suppliers on the outside have got to him, or he just doesn’t want to know. He’s close to retirement, maybe just wants an easy escape.”

“The scar related?”

“Might be. I don’t know, but nothing’s being done, and I’m pretty sure there are a few screws on the payroll. I’m fucking sick of it. So stressed, I haven’t slept for months. I’m losing my hair, and my girlfriend’s dumped me. I want out, but I’m too scared to leave in case they come after me.”

“Have you been approached?”

“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I think their plan is to have the whole fucking place on smack or on their payroll.”

“Who’s the supplier?”

“Can’t be sure, but I’ve heard talk of Frank Feelan’s involvement…”

“Feelan? That would make sense. That fucking monster’s been responsible for the deaths of thousands of junkies across Scotland,” Mullens growled. “Selling poisonous muck. If the operation’s as big as you say, it would take someone like him to run it. Any other prisons involved?”

“I have a mate who’s a guard at Peterhead. He says it’s out of control there as well.”

“Jesus.” Mullens replaced the dipstick and slammed the bonnet angrily. He climbed in, started the engine, and leaned out to give the guard an obvious thumbs-up. Then he got out again. “Thanks for that,” he said, then whispered, “Watch yourself. If you need support, call me direct, okay?”

They watched the guard walk back to the prison before climbing into the car.

As they pulled away from the prison gates, Mullens rubbed his shoulder unconsciously.

“Something wrong?” Harper asked.

“Nah, just remembering the last time I dealt with Feelan. Ten or so years ago, when I was a DC. Armed raid on his house. Two of his knuckle-grazing scrotesacks got the better of me, beat the living shite out of me before the ARU could intervene.”

“So, is it grudge-match time?”

“I don’t hold grudges,” Mullens said, attention fixed on the road. “Fuds like him just get what’s coming. That way is more satisfying.”

“Sounds like this Feelan guy has widened his operations.”

“Aye, back then he was more small-time, on the payroll to another evil bastard called Galbraith. But I remember Galbraith’s severed head was delivered to the procurator fiscal’s office. At the time, it wasn’t clear who was taking over. Now we know…”

Mullens fished his phone from his pocket and handed it to Harper. “Right, ring Bone and fill him in. Tell him it might be a good idea if he pays the governor a visit, turn up the heat a bit more.”

Harper fiddled with the heating controls.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought you were cold… Oh, I see, you just veered into cliché American cop show lingo there for a sec.”

“Smartarse,” Mullens growled. “Just ring the boss before you feel the heat of my fist in your face.”

“I can’t ring him. I’m supposed to be deskbound, remember?”

Mullens pulled over and snatched his phone back. “God’s sake. Whose idea was it to let you out of A&E? You’re a bloody menace.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Harper replied. He gave him the finger.

EIGHTEEN

Bone pulled up to his cabin, turned off the engine, and let out a long, weary sigh. The loch stretched out before him, dark and still in the fading light. Across the water, the familiar outline of the mountains stood solid in the darkening sky, their peaks sharp against the last glow of sunset. His mobile buzzed as he turned off the engine. Mullens.

“Mark,” he answered, suppressing a yawn. “Always a pleasure, never a chore.”

“Sir, I’ve just been up to Northlands prison. I recognised the runner from CCTV footage as a former employee of none other than Craig Sneddon.”

“Is he now? How did it go. I’m assuming Mr Sneddon was thoroughly co-operative and a reformed man?”

“Aye, right. In your dreams,” Mullens replied. “Apparently, Sneddon’s running some massive smuggling operation from inside. Industrial-scale heroin distribution.”

Bone listened to Mullens detailing his conversation with the prison guard, his brow furrowing deeper with each revelation.

“Feelan’s involved?”

“That’s what the guard says. Reckons the governor might be on the payroll and turning a blind eye, too.”

“Good work, Mark. Could you visit the governor tomorrow, then? If Frank Feelan’s involved, then this is escalating, and I think I need to speak to Organised Crime.”

“Sir. And thanks for the compliment. I’ll have the t-shirts with your quote printed up for distribution to the team tomorrow.”

“Don’t push it.” Bone chuckled, for once finding a Mullens joke borderline funny.

Bone ended the call and entered the cabin, flicking on the lights. He went straight for the kitchen cupboard, reaching for the bottle of Macallan that wasn’t there.

“Bugger,” he muttered, remembering he’d finished it last weekend.

He peered out of the side window and could just make out the glowing hotel sign through the trees. He locked up and headed up the path towards the road, but then changed his mind and took the scenic route via the lochside. The narrow pebble beach crunched beneath his shoes as he walked, the water lapping at the stones in a steady, gentle rhythm. He paused halfway, hands in pockets, taking in the view. The loch was a dark mirror in the night, reflecting the shimmering glow of cottages on the distant shore. Stars were appearing overhead, clear and bright in the Highland sky, the kind of view that made even Bone take a sharp intake of breath.

A twig snapped behind him. He spun around, peering into the gloom between the trees that bordered the beach. Nothing. Just shadows and silence. He scanned the tree line again, but saw no movement.

“Get a grip,” he told himself, shaking off the feeling. Too many years as a detective had left him permanently suspicious.

Bone turned back to the loch, its dark surface now rippling gently in a growing breeze. The familiar pull tugged at him, that same urge he’d embraced countless mornings since moving to the cabin. His regular dawn dips were now a ritual, as vital to him as breathing. He inched closer to the water’s edge, imagining how it would feel—the initial biting cold that stole his breath, then the peculiar burning sensation across his skin before the numbness set in. After that came the clarity, the reset, the washing away of whatever case was currently lodged in his brain. There was nothing like this loch’s healing water to scour a man clean, inside and out.

“Tempting,” he murmured. But with another tired yawn, he concluded he needed a drink more than a swim. The Macallan would have to be replaced with whatever Gordon was serving.

“Tomorrow morning,” he promised the loch with a nod.

He cut back to the road and up towards the hotel. The car park was full, and upon his approach came a hubbub of voices spilling from the public bar. Inside, it was heaving.

“Bloody Hell. Quiz night.”

“Duncan!” Gordon, the landlord, spotted him arriving from behind the bar. “Just in time, pal. We’re about to restart.”

“Just a quick pint, Gordon. I’m not staying.”

“No chance,” came a shrill voice from a corner table. “We need you, Inspector Morse! We’re being absolutely massacred here!”

Bone spotted the source immediately—Junior, Loch Gillan’s most notorious and beloved eccentric. The village legend sat at a table, holding court, with two bewildered tourist. Dougie McRae sat at the end of the table, looking about as pleased as a man facing the firing squad. As the village’s grumpy postmaster, Dougie approached quiz night with the same grim determination he reserved for sorting the morning mail.

“How’s tricks, Dougie?” Bone asked.

“Fine, until I drew the short straw and ended up with Zeppo the Clown here.”

Junior’s ankle was in a full plaster cast, sticking out incongruously from beneath a vibrant, multi-coloured toga that glowed like a radioactive peacock under the pub lights.

“What in God’s name are you wearing, Junior?”

“It’s my Zen outfit,” Junior replied with dignity, adjusting the fabric to cover his exposed bare leg. “I’ve taken up Transcendental Meditation. Changed my life, so it has. My new friends here think I look very regal.”

“Aye, Embassy Regal King Size,” Gordon shouted over from the bar.

“Duncan here is an actual police officer, so if we don’t win, he’ll have everyone arrested for fraud, won’t you, DCI Bone?” Junior said.

“I’m off duty, Junior. And the ankle?” Bone nodded at the plaster cast, which someone had covered in crude anatomical drawings.

“Er, I got a wee bit carried away with the lotus position,” Junior admitted. “Fell off my kitchen table. He beamed proudly, despite the admission. “The doctor said I broke it in two places. I told him that I was only in the kitchen.”

His tourist companions laughed. The postmaster’s frown deepened.

“Superfans, I see,” Bone said. “How do you do?”

The shy holidaymakers nodded enthusiastically.

“I wouldn’t sit too close to this one. He’s not house-trained yet.” Bone glanced back at Junior’s regalia. “Is that a curtain?” He spotted a couple of plastic rings sticking out from under the hem.

“Zen Curtain, if you don’t mind,” Junior huffed.

“Whose hoose did you nick that from, ya thieving get?” Dougie said.

“How so very dare you? This belonged to my mother.”

“You mean you were born the normal way, Junior?” Bone joked.

The tourists laughed again.

“Anyways, I’m a new man. Oh, and I’ve got into CBT as well,” he added brightly, ignoring Bone’s dig.

“Cognitive Behavioural Therapy?”

“No, weed!” Junior grinned, then his eyes widened. “Er, I mean the legal kind, of course,” he added sheepishly. “CBD. The oil stuff. Not Satan’s lettuce. Though, between you and me,” he leaned forward conspiratorially, nearly knocking over three pint glasses with his curtain, “I think Mrs McPherson up the road from me is growing some suspicious plants in her greenhouse. Told me they were ‘exotic herbs for her arthritis.’ Aye, righto.”

The tourists exchanged alarmed glances.

“Junior here thinks he’s Magnus bloody Magnusson,” Dougie interrupted. “So far, he’s got us negative points. We actually had points deducted for his last answer.”

“How is that even possible?” Bone asked. “Wait, what am I thinking? It’s Junior we’re talking about here.”

“Then he insisted Irn Bru was invented by Buddhist Monks in Tibet and wouldn’t back down,” Dougie grumbled. “The man’s obsessed with tantric this and chakra that. He’s driving me bananas.”

“I am here, you know. It was a joke!” Junior protested. “You have no sense of humour, ya miserable old fart. You thought it was hilarious, didn’t you?” He nodded to the bewildered tourists, who looked totally befuddled.

Gordon arrived with Bone’s pint, rolling his eyes. “God help us all. Remember, Junior, you’re still banned from answering the geography questions after what happened at the last quiz night.”

“I think you’ll find I was anatomically correct,” Junior complained.

“I’m not even going to…” Bone muttered. “Apologies, folks. I’m not fit for this tonight.”

“Who the hell is?” Dougie replied and took a large swig of his whisky.

Ignoring Junior’s protests, Bone took his drink to the bar.

“Bailed already?” said Gordon, wiping down the counter before Bone put his pint down.

“Long day.”

“Aye, I heard about what happened at the distillery. Nasty business.”

“Very.”

“The Chronicle been hounding you?”

“Oddly, no. Though McKinnon’s left the paper, so no idea what he’s up to these days.”

Dougie approached the bar. “Can you start the next round, Gordon, before I strangle the Dalai Lama over there?”

“Sorry, Duncan. Duty calls.” Gordon returned to the mic stand setup in the corner of the bar. The first question boomed over the speakers moments later, the landlord’s voice unnecessarily amplified in the small space.

“What was the first James Bond film?”

“Dr. No!” Junior shouted immediately, earning a chorus of “Shut up!” from his teammates.

“I got one right!” Junior exclaimed, arms raised triumphantly, his makeshift cape unravelling to reveal a pair of pink boxers. “That deserves a celebration dance!” He attempted to stand despite his ankle cast, wobbled precariously, and was hastily pulled back into his seat by Dougie, who threatened to break his other leg.

Three questions in, the noise level had doubled. Bone drained his pint and slipped out, the cool night air a blessed relief after the crowded bar.

NINETEEN

The walk back was quicker, Bone’s mind turning over the Northlands Prison situation. He rounded the final bend to his cabin, and a movement caught his eye—a dark figure slipping out of his doorway.

“Hey!” Bone shouted, breaking into a run.

The figure froze for a split second, then bolted towards the trees. Bone’s police instincts kicked in instantly. He sprinted across the gravel, his feet pounding on the stones, closing the gap with every stride. The intruder disappeared into the treeline, but Bone was right behind him, plunging into the darkness without hesitation.

Branches whipped at his face as he charged through the undergrowth. His lungs burned, heart hammering against his ribs. The intruder created a lot of noise ahead, crashing through the foliage, breathing hard.

“Police! Stop!” Bone bellowed, ducking under a low-hanging branch.

The figure veered left. Bone followed, leaping over a tree stump. He was gaining ground, close enough now to make out a dark jacket, a hood pulled tight. Just a few more feet and he’d have them.

Then his foot caught on an exposed root. He stumbled, arms windmilling, before crashing hard to the ground. Pain shot through his shoulder, and he scrambled back to his feet.

The woods ahead had gone quiet. He strained to listen, turning slowly. Nothing.

Then came the sound of a car door slamming, followed by an engine roaring to life.

“Damn it!” Bone charged towards the sound, bursting through the trees just in time to see a vehicle speeding away down the narrow track. The red taillights gleamed briefly in the darkness before disappearing around a bend. No chance to make out the plate, not even the model—just two crimson eyes vanishing into the night.

Bone bent over, hands on knees, sucking in lungfuls of air. After a moment, he straightened and jogged back to his cabin. The door hung open, splintered around the lock where it had been forced.

His hand instinctively moved to his phone. He could call traffic, get units out on the main roads, try to intercept whoever it was. His finger hovered over the screen. But what would he tell them? An unidentified vehicle, colour unknown, make unknown, heading in an unknown direction from his arse-end-of-nowhere cabin?

“Pointless.”

He crept up the steps. There could still be someone inside. He counted to three and moved swiftly, pushing the door wide. The cabin remained dark, but the faint glow from outside revealed the shadowy outlines of furniture. Still no sound from within.

“Police!” he called out sharply and reached for the light switch.

Nothing happened when he flicked it. The power had been cut.

Bone edged forward, pulling out his mobile for the torch. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the living room. Nothing seemed disturbed, but that didn’t mean the intruder was gone. He walked methodically through the space, checking behind the sofa, in the corners. Nothing. Bone headed towards the bedroom, pushing the door open with his foot, the mobile’s light sweeping across the empty room. The bathroom, too, was clear.

Back in the kitchen, a faint tinkling sound. Glass on tile. He swung the light towards the floor—shards of a broken tumbler glittered beneath the sink, the pieces still rocking slightly as if just disturbed.

He directed the beam back and forth, scanning every corner of the room, looking for any sign of movement. Nothing. But the hairs on his neck remained at attention. Someone had been here. Recently. Perhaps still hiding.

Bone lowered his light, and it caught something on the kitchen table that hadn’t been there before he’d left for the hotel. A playing card, placed precisely in the centre. He approached cautiously, as if the card might bite, and picked it up.

The father from a Happy Families set of cards.

The significance hit him with the force of a physical blow. Was this some kind of threat to him and his family? A cold weight settled in his stomach; he turned the card over. On the back, written in what appeared to be red ink—or something he desperately hoped was ink—were two words: Happy Now?

Bone stepped outside, scanning the darkness, but whoever had been there was long gone. He examined his Saab and swore under his breath. The tyre on the driver’s side was flat, a deep puncture mark visible. Not random slashes—precise, methodical damage. The message loud and clear.

Back inside, he frantically dialled Alice’s number, his hand shaking as he held the receiver.

“Duncan? Everything all right?” She sounded tired.

“Thank God. Are you okay?”

“It’s late, Duncan. Of course we’re okay. What’s the matter?”

Bone took a breath. “Listen, I need you to take Michael to your sister’s for a couple of days.”

A pause. “What? Why? I have work tomorrow, and he has school.”

“It’s just a precaution.”

“A precaution against what?” Her voice sharpened. “Duncan. Explain, please. Are we in danger?”

“I found something… It might be nothing, but until we know what we’re dealing with—”

“If it’s only precautionary, is it strictly necessary? Do you know how disruptive—”

“Alice,” he cut in, his voice low and urgent, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. There is a possible threat, and I need to know you’re both safe.”

The silence stretched between them.

“Fine,” she said finally. “I’ll request to work from home, say Michael’s poorly. But I’m not amused, Duncan.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

After hanging up, he dialled Walker’s number.

“Boss?” She sounded surprised. “Bit late for a chat, isn’t it?”

“Someone’s broken into my cabin,” he said without preamble. “Left a playing card—Happy Families. The father. With a message.”

“What kind of message?”

“Happy Now?”

“Somebody trying to warn us off?”

“Whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing. Power cut. Tyres punctured. No fingerprints, I’d bet.”

“I’ll pass the word to the team. You want me to come up there?”

“No, stay where you are. Just… watch your back. Take all necessary precautions.”

He ended the call and poured himself a glass of water, wishing he’d bought that bottle of Macallan after all. The playing card sat on the table before him, its smiling cartoon father now seemed to mock him with a sinister grin.

Bone checked every window and door, then settled into a chair facing the entrance, his back to the wall, and prepared for a long night.

TWENTY

The following morning, Bone called Gallacher and brought him up to speed on his eventful previous day. The break-in, the playing card, the Northlands heroin connection. All of it.

“I’d like your permission to speak with Organised Crime,” he said.

Gallacher let out a low moan, clearly thinking things over. “This has taken a rather darker turn, hasn’t it?”

“Don’t they all, sir.” Bone rolled his eyes. “Aside from Hamish’s dodgy connections with the underworld, his various habits, addictions, and out-of-control lifestyle that probably point to a revenge killing, we have no hard evidence. And I can’t shake the feeling there’s something else going on here.”

“Such as?”

“Something connecting either Hamish Durie or even the distillery itself to something much bigger and more dangerous.”

“What exactly?” Gallacher asked.

“Money laundering, drugs, human trafficking, the usual rotting bag of shit that criminal gangs serve, but I just don’t know yet. That’s why I need to speak to Organised Crime.”

Gallacher sighed. “Tread very carefully, Bone. The distillery has been around for over one hundred and fifty years. It’s a major employer in the area, and above all that the Duries have limitless cash to throw litigation after litigation at us.”

“I understand, sir.”

“But you are right. I mean, if whoever’s behind this has got the nerve to threaten my lead detective, then who knows what they’ll do to the rest of the team? And it looks like they’re spooked.”

“My thoughts exactly. I wanted to see if we could get more support. More uniforms on the ground. Put some PCs on security detail.”

“I’ll do all I can, Bone. But you need to take extra care out there. I mean all of you.”

“Aye, sir.”

Bone hung up and set off for the hotel. In reception, he asked one of the cleaners if he could speak with Gordon, and she quickly fetched him from the back room.

“Bone,” the landlord said. “What can I do for you?”

“My car was vandalised last night in front of my cabin.”

“Seriously? Who the hell would do that?”

“Have you seen anyone hanging around the village in the last couple days? Any unusual vehicles, unusual faces?”

“Aside from Junior’s attire, no, I don’t think so. I was behind the bar most of the night. We closed up early after Quiz Night, actually, as it got pretty dead. Junior drove everyone out. But I can ask around.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“For sure. Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

“It’s a big ask.”

“Go on then.”

“Can I borrow your van?”

The landlord reached into his pocket and tossed his keys at Bone.

“Thanks, Gordon. I owe you one.”

“How bad did they do your Saab?”

“To be honest, the state it was in, they might’ve done it a favour.”

The landlord laughed. “I’ll ask Junior to have a look later.”

“Good God, first it’s the cover of Vogue, and now he’s a mechanic. Is there nothing this man can’t do?”

“Pay his bar bill.”

Bone held up his keys. “Thanks again.”

“You going far?”

“Glasgow.”

“Ah, the citadel of dreams,” the landlord said.

“Organised Crime Division HQ, the temple of doom.”

TWENTY-ONE

Mullens parked up outside the modest semi-detached house on Beech Avenue. The leafy suburbs of Craiglynn were a far cry from the grim corridors of Northlands Prison, where Governor Griffin usually spent his days. Neatly trimmed hedges lined the driveway, and hanging baskets adorned the porch—a picture of suburban respectability just a few miles from the chaos of the unfolding nightmare at Glendurie.

He approached the front door and pressed the bell, its chime echoing through the house.

A woman in her early fifties answered, her face etched with the tight expression of someone carrying too much worry.

“Mrs Griffin? I’m Detective Sergeant Mullens. I was hoping to have a word with Governor Griffin.” He flashed his lanyard.

Her eyes widened slightly. “Tony’s off sick, I’m afraid. He’s had a terrible accident.” She began to close the door. “Perhaps you could call the deputy governor instead?”

Mullens placed his giant foot firmly against the door. “I understand, and I wouldn’t disturb his recovery, but this is urgent. Police business. I’ll only take a few minutes of his time.”

She hesitated, then reluctantly let him in. “He’s in a terrible state, Sergeant.”

The interior was exactly as Mullens had expected—cream-coloured walls adorned with watercolour landscapes, a collection of Royal Doulton figurines in a glass cabinet, and family photographs documenting holidays in the Mediterranean. The living room had that overly clean smell of a house permanently tidied for unexpected visitors.

Governor Griffin was propped up in a high-backed armchair, surrounded by cushions. His neck was encased in a rigid brace, his jaw wired shut with metal fixtures visible at the corners of his mouth. One arm hung in a sling, and his face was a canvas of purple and yellow bruises in various stages of healing. The TV was tuned to a police procedural, the fictional officers dealing with what sounded like a far simpler case than the one Mullens was working on.

Mrs Griffin walked over and switched it off. “You have a visitor, Patrick. Detective Sergeant Mullens.”

The governor’s eyes registered recognition, followed quickly by what Mullens thought might be alarm.

“Jesus,” Mullens blurted, taking in the full extent of the governor’s injuries. “I bet all that lot makes your toilet visits an interesting experience, eh?” He attempted a chuckle before catching Mrs Griffin’s horrified expression. “Sorry, sorry—completely inappropriate. I apologise, Governor.”

He sat opposite without waiting for an invitation.

Griffin made a guttural sound that might have been anywhere between get out to what do you want, saliva collecting at the corner of his mouth. His wife quickly reached for a tissue from a box that seemed permanently stationed on the side table, gently dabbing at his chin.

“What happened?” Mullens watched the man’s eyes carefully.

The governor began a laboured explanation, slurring through the wires, a thin stream of drool escaping despite his best efforts. His wife quickly jumped in, wiping his mouth again with practised care.

“A car went into the back of his on the Cumberland bypass three nights ago and the impact pushed him off the road,” she said, her hands fidgeting with her cardigan. “Hit-and-run. The driver left him for dead at the scene. If another motorist hadn’t stopped…”

“Did they get the driver?” Mullens asked.

Griffin shook his head slowly, wincing at the movement.

“No,” his wife answered, her hand resting protectively on her husband’s good shoulder. “Nothing on CCTV, apparently. It was late, and that stretch is poorly covered.” She frowned. “Look, Detective Mullens, I really don’t think this is the time. Patrick’s still in shock from the accident. The doctor said he needs complete rest, minimal stress.”

Mullens nodded. “I understand, Mrs Griffin, but I just really want to ask about a prisoner. Sneddon. I understand he’s been quite active at Northlands recently.”

The governor’s eyes narrowed slightly. Even through the bruising, Mullens could see a flicker of tension.

“He’s a snake,” Griffin managed through gritted teeth, each word clearly causing pain, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. His wife quickly dabbed at it with a tissue. “Up to all sorts… but we are on to it with him.”

“What about drugs in the prison? Is Sneddon part of a supply chain?”

Mrs Griffin shifted uncomfortably. “Patrick, perhaps the sergeant could come back when you’re better?”

The governor raised his good hand slightly, silencing her. “That’s… what we’re looking into,” he said slowly. “But at the moment… we have nothing to go on. There are always drugs in prison… It’s impossible to stop. Like a leaking bucket. Block one hole… then the bastards find another way through.”

Mullens leaned forward. “Do you have any intel on who may be supplying Sneddon on the outside?”

Griffin shrugged his good shoulder, then winced at the movement. “Nothing yet.”

Something felt off. Mullens had interviewed enough people to know when answers were being crafted rather than given.

“Governor, I have to ask: do you think your accident might have been deliberate? A scare tactic by one of the drug gangs involved?”

Mrs Griffin’s teacup clattered against its saucer.

“No.” The governor’s response came too quickly. “Traffic investigators think… a boy racer… His stupid souped-up engine too big for the lad to handle.”

“Would you like us to dig a bit deeper into this for you?” Mullens offered.

“No need,” Griffin insisted, a fresh trickle of saliva appearing at the corner of his mouth. “Just a young idiot.”

The governor’s eyes darted briefly towards his wife.

“No threats or intimidation before the accident?” Mullens checked. “Has someone got to you, Governor?”

“That’s quite enough!” Mrs Griffin interrupted. “How dare you come in here and make such accusations when my husband can barely speak!” Her face flushed with anger. “Patrick’s been through hell, and now you’re suggesting, what? That he’s been intimidated? Bought off? Does he look like someone who’s been bought off?”

“To be honest, you look like someone who’s taken a professional beating.”

“Unbelievable. I’ll be speaking to your seniors.”

The governor locked eyes with his wife, who stopped her rant and dropped her gaze to the carpet.

“No,” he said firmly, his voice straining through the wires. “As soon as this heals… I’ll be back to sort out Mr Sneddon. Don’t you worry about him.”

Mullens stood, thanked them both, and left before Mrs Griffin started at him again. Back in his car, he called Baxter.

“Sheila, it’s me. Can you get your famous shovel out and do some digging around Prison Governor Griffin?”

“What’s happened?” Baxter asked.

“I’ve just come out of an interview. Griffin’s full of shit, that’s what’s happened. Somebody tried to flatten him with a motor on the Cumberland bypass, and he’s terrified. Won’t admit it, but it’s all over his face—what’s left of it anyway.”

“Car accident?”

“Aye, so he says. Can you fish out the accident report, if there is one, and any CCTV footage on the Cumberland bypass in the last few days?”

“On it. Shall I stick him on the wall of fame?”

“Aye, but maybe use another name. He’s threatening my dismissal, and as much as I’d love that to happen…” He hung up and jerked angrily at his seat belt. “Speaking to your seniors. What arseholes.” The car roared to life, and he took his frustration out on the accelerator.

TWENTY-TWO

The ancient Honda Jazz’s suspension wailed like a wounded cat as Harper attempted to navigate his way into Edinburgh city centre. As he wrestled with the wheel, the pint-sized hatchback lurched left with malicious intent. Catriona grabbed her seat belt, her expression one of well-practised resignation—a woman who’d survived this particular torture more times than she cared to remember.

“Maybe it’s time to think about a new car,” she suggested as they narrowly avoided a pothole large enough to swallow the Jazz whole. “Something that doesn’t actively try to kill us every morning.”

Harper patted the dashboard affectionately. “She’s got character. Mum drove this for fifteen years before me.”

“Sentiment won’t get me to work in one piece,” Catriona countered, absent-mindedly adjusting the waistband of her skirt. “And we might need to think about getting something… bigger?”

She rolled her eyes meaningfully, but Harper was too focused on preventing the Jazz from mounting the kerb to notice.

“We’ll need to wait for that promotion Bone promised to come through first,” he replied, wrestling the car back into the lane. “In the meantime—”

“We go to work in a twin tub,” Catriona finished for him, and reached into her bag for a plain cracker. She nibbled at it delicately.

“How’s that identity case coming along, by the way? The one with the missing person?”

“That’s why I’m meeting McKenna.” Catriona steadied herself when the Jazz hit a pothole. “I’ve finished my analysis of the handwriting samples. Three decades of separation, and the patterns are still distinctly comparable.” She paused for a moment, swallowing hard before continuing. “I’ve got sufficient evidence now to present my conclusions about whether he’s really who he claims to be.”

“Exciting,” Harper said, his attention momentarily diverted; the car drifted towards the kerb. He yanked the wheel, over-correcting and sending the Jazz lurching wildly across the lane.

“Jesus, Will!” Catriona gasped and braced herself against the dashboard. “Or maybe I won’t be alive to present my findings after all.”

“Sorry,” Harper muttered, face flushed. “So, what did you find? Is he the real deal or an imposter?”

“It’s confidential, Will. You know that.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “But let’s just say one of the parties involved isn’t going to be happy with my conclusions.”

Harper nodded, then asked, “What do you reckon about another wee break away before it’s too late?”

Catriona laughed, stifling a small yawn. “We’re not going to prison, you know. It’s only been four months since the wedding, for God’s sake.”

“I know, but things change quickly. Work gets busy, life gets complicated…”

“You just want to head back to that comic convention and fawn over Mark Hamill again.”

“And you don’t?”

Catriona smiled, blinking tiredly. “Wasn’t he something?”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing you in that Princess Leia outfit one more time.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” She gave him a cheeky grin. “Maybe we could dig it out one of these nights. Though I’m not sure it fits the same way it used to.”

“‘I am your father!’” Harper quoted, doing a terrible impression of Darth Vader.

“Egh. Creepy and inappropriate. And has Darth Vader been inhaling helium again?” Catriona laughed and reached for another cracker.

Finally arriving in New Town, they headed east down Princes Street. The crowded pavements rammed with wet tourists filing in and out of tartan-festooned souvenir shops, disgruntled locals weaving between them with practised impatience. The traffic lurched to a halt at a red light, and Harper’s face suddenly darkened.

“What is it?” Catriona turned slightly green as the car jerked to a stop.

Harper stared past her out the window. “It’s him.”

Catriona followed his gaze, taking a deep breath to settle the queasiness that had become her constant morning companion. “Who?”

Walking down Princes Street, directly in Harper’s line of sight, was the runner from the distillery. Harper instantly recognised him from the CCTV footage—the black anorak was a dead giveaway.

Harper watched him cross the street and disappear up Hanover. He quickly flicked on the indicator and swung the tiny Jazz around.

“Where the hell are we going?” Catriona grabbed the door handle.

“That’s the suspect from the Glendurie Distillery case.”

“The one who cracked your skull open?”

“Aye.”

Harper followed and soon watched the man disappear down George Street. He jerked the car to a stop and yanked on the handbrake.

“What are you playing at?” Catriona said.

“I’ve got to follow him.”

“Will, for God’s sake, no.” She reached for his arm, concern etched across her features.

“It’s my job. Just head to your meeting with the professor, and I’ll ring you when I’m done.”

“Done with what? Will!”

But Harper was already out of the car. He quickly rushed to make up ground. He spotted the man up ahead and began walking faster to catch him. The suspect crossed the street to the other side, and Harper followed. An approaching car sounded its horn and swerved around him.

Hearing the commotion, the suspect ahead stopped, turned, and, for a split second, eyeballed Harper. Then he made a run for it.

Harper sprinted after him, both men careening down George Street. They weaved through clusters of shoppers, the suspect barging people aside. An elderly woman tumbled to the pavement, her shopping spilling across the concrete. The man in the anorak tripped, sprawling forward, but scrambled back to his feet in seconds.

When they reached St David Street, the man charged across the busy junction. Vehicles veered and braked, a Mini slamming into the back of a delivery van in a sickening crunch of metal. The suspect kept running, not even glancing back. He raced across the roadway towards St Andrew Square.

Harper followed, dodging through the stationary traffic, his lungs burning. He reached the centre of the junction, and a double-decker bus bore down on him, horn blaring. Harper threw himself sideways, the massive vehicle missing him by mere inches, the rush of air from its passing buffeting his body. He stumbled but kept his footing, his heart hammering wildly. The thudding of his pulse pounded in his skull, and he pushed on, the site of his previous head injury throbbing. The suspect was disappearing across the square.

The man had passed the Melville Monument, and several tourists were turning to gawp at the wild chase unfolding. To Harper’s relief, the man in the anorak slipped on the waterlogged grass, his feet shooting out from under him. He landed with a heavy thud on the sodden lawn.

Harper summoned a final burst of energy and threw himself at the suspect. They rolled over and over, trading blows, Harper’s glasses flying off his face. Harper managed to get the upper hand, flipping the man onto his stomach and yanking his arms behind his back. He fumbled for his handcuffs, snapping one bracelet onto the man’s wrist.

But as he reached for the second wrist, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him. Harper’s vision blurred, the buildings around the square swaying as if in a high wind. He tried to focus, to finish cuffing the suspect, but searing pain shot across his skull.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the world tilting sideways.

The suspect sensed his opportunity. Violently bucking his hips, he threw Harper off balance and scrambled free, one arm still cuffed. Harper lunged for him, but his coordination was shot. He toppled sideways, his face hitting the wet grass.

The man in the anorak was on his feet in seconds. He took off across the square, glancing back once at Harper’s crumpled form before vanishing into the crowd.

Harper tried to push himself up, but the effort was too much. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, and the last thing he saw before losing consciousness was a groundskeeper running towards him, mobile phone already pressed to his ear.

TWENTY-THREE

Bone approached the hulking grey monstrosity of Police Scotland’s Organised Crime Headquarters in Glasgow with a weary sense of resignation. The brutalist concrete tower loomed against the rainy, slate-grey sky. It was, Bone thought, the architectural equivalent of a police mugshot—grim, unforgiving, and utterly devoid of charm.

The front desk was manned by an officer who looked like he’d been chiselled from the same concrete as the building—grey-faced, square-shouldered, and about as approachable as a hungry Rottweiler.

“DCI Duncan Bone, Rural Crime Unit. I’ve an appointment with Detective Superintendent Thomson.”

The officer barely glanced up. “Warrant card on the scanner.”

Bone obliged, biting back a sarcastic comment. After a series of beeps and clicks, the officer handed him a visitor’s pass with all the warmth of an automated bank machine.

“Security gate, then Building C, fourth floor.”

The metal detector alarm screamed as Bone walked through, several officers snapping to attention.

“Sorry.” Bone tapped his temple. “Steel plate. Souvenir from a previous case.”

“Step aside for a pat-down, sir,” an officer instructed, his Glasgow accent as thick as treacle.

“Every bloody time,” Bone muttered, assuming the position. “I’m basically the Terminator, except I can’t shoot anyone or travel back in time naked.”

The officer remained unamused and completed the search.

By the time Bone reached the fourth floor, the rain had intensified, battering against the windows and rendering the view of Glasgow a blur of grey and brown. Detective Superintendent Thomson was waiting in the corridor, a stocky man with the weathered face of someone who’d spent too many years on the force and not enough time with his family.

“Duncan.” Thomson extended his hand. “Been a while.”

“Not long enough,” Bone replied, but his smile took the sting out of his words. “Still fighting the good fight in your concrete fortress, I see.”

Thomson snorted. “Come on in. DCI Morrow’s waiting.”

The office was austere to the point of monastic—bare concrete walls, utilitarian furniture, and not a personal item in sight. The rain-streaked windows offered a blurred, miserable view of Glasgow that seemed entirely fitting for a division tasked with tracking the city’s most dangerous criminals.

They entered, and DCI Alec Morrow stood. He was younger than Bone had expected, early forties perhaps, with dark hair cropped military-short and eyes that carried a haunted look that Bone immediately recognised.

“DCI Morrow,” Thomson said. “This is DCI Bone from Kilwinnoch Rural Crime Unit.”

“Alec, please,” Morrow said, offering his hand. His grip was firm. “Heard a lot about you.”

“All terrible, I hope,” Bone replied with a smile. “Otherwise, I’m losing my touch.”

Morrow’s face relaxed slightly. “Ach, away with you. Your reputation precedes you. Take a seat.”

Bone sat, aware that despite the friendly welcome, he was still an outsider here. “I appreciate you making time to see me.”

“What can we do for you, Duncan?” Thomson settled behind his desk.

“I believe your operation may have crossed paths with a murder investigation I’m running.”

“Okay, before we go any further.” He opened a drawer and produced a ring binder. He flipped it open. “I need you to sign this.” He turned the folder and pushed it towards Bone.

“A confidentiality agreement?” Bone quizzed.

“If you wish to proceed, then yes. We could be dealing with highly sensitive information and that will mean you’ll have to be indoctrinated into the operation.”

“Okay,” Bone agreed, wondering what can of worms was about to be opened before him. Thomson handed him a pen and he signed.

“Right, formalities out the way,” Thomson continued. “We are talking about the Glendurie poisonings, correct?”

Morrow leaned forward.

“Yes, that’s right,” Bone replied. “One of our team members identified a suspect who fled the crime scene as an associate of Craig Sneddon. When my colleague interviewed Sneddon at Northland’s Prison, Sneddon was uncooperative, as you would expect, but afterwards, on his way back out, my colleague was then approached by one of the guards who told him Sneddon was part of a large-scale heroin distribution operation involving a number of Scottish prisons, and the name Frank Feelan came up.”

Morrow exchanged a glance with Thomson.

“And then, last night, my cabin up at Loch Gillan was broken into, and this was left.” He pulled out his phone and found the photo of the playing card. “They also vandalised my car. Some kind of attempt at intimidation, or something to derail or distract us?”

Thomson studied the image, frowning. “Bit cryptic for a threat. I’m not sure the scum we deal with have that level of sophistication.”

“Well, I’m thinking we may have a direct link to our victim, Hamish Durie. We’ve discovered he was involved with a loan shark company, Leith Hatchett—nothing concrete yet, but we are working on a theory that he might have got himself in a little too deep with the wrong people.”

“What exactly are you asking for here, Duncan?” Thomson asked, his tone carefully neutral.

“Information. I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

Morrow leaned back, studying Bone for a moment before sighing. “Operation Highwater is potentially the biggest drug bust in Scotland since the eighties. We’re talking hundreds of kilos of heroin being smuggled through the prison system.”

“I’m not here to step on toes,” Bone said quietly. “Just trying to keep my team safe while solving a murder.”

Morrow nodded and, seeming to appreciate Bone’s candour, cleared his throat. “Show him the board, sir?”

Thomson hesitated, then nodded. Morrow moved to a wall covered by a pull-down blind. He tugged a cord, revealing a complex network of photographs, documents, and connecting lines.

“We’re looking at a multi-faceted operation,” Morrow explained, his voice taking on a more professional tone. “At Northlands, we know Sneddon is coordinating deliveries, but we can’t touch him yet—no concrete proof.”

“The operation involves at least two major gangs working together,” Thomson continued.

“One’s definitely Frankie Feelan’s outfit. Feelan controls central and eastern Glasgow.” Morrow tapped a photograph of a bald, bull-necked man. “But he hasn’t got the resources to bankroll this alone. Intelligence suggests he’s partnered with the Gill brothers from Oban.”

“The fishermen?” Bone asked, surprised.

“They’re far more than that now,” Thomson said grimly. “They’ve been moving up the food chain for years. Literally and figuratively.”

“So Feelan provides some funding and handles distribution through the prisons,” Bone said, studying the board. “The Gills handle initial logistics, supply the transfer boats from the main vessel to the shore?”

“Correct.”

“And the loan shark operation could be part of the funding arm?”

“That’s our working theory,” Morrow confirmed. “But there are two weak links in our understanding of their operation. We still don’t know exactly where they intend to land the drugs. We had intelligence about a possible location near Ullapool, but we had to pull our inside man when his cover was compromised. And then how and where the consignment will be transported and stored before distribution.”

“Those are pretty big holes in your intel.”

“We’re confident we’ll get there.” Morrow nodded.

“What about the runner from Glendurie?”

“Low-level. Probably one of Feelan’s hire-a-heavies, but we don’t have confirmation. We definitely have no intel connecting him to the Durie poisoning.”

Bone rubbed his temple. “I need to speak to Feelan.”

He expected resistance, but Morrow shrugged. “Be my guest.”

“Seriously?”

“It might work in our favour,” Morrow explained. “You are simply following up leads in  your investigation. Feelan will probably expect you to uncover that Durie owed his company money. All normal procedure, while at the same time, we shake the tree, see what falls out. Might make them nervous, cause a slip-up.”

“Our people on the ground will be watching,” Thomson added.

“Do I get to know who your undercover officers are?” Bone asked. “In case things go sideways?”

Morrow shook his head firmly. “Absolutely not. That information stays on a need-to-know basis. And that goes for this conversation, too. I know it’s a cliché, but loose tongues can kill our officers.”

“What if I run into them accidentally? What if they need to communicate with me?”

Thomson and Morrow exchanged glances again.

“If one of our officers needs to identify themselves to you,” Morrow said reluctantly, “they’ll use a code phrase.”

“Which is?”

Morrow’s lips twitched. “Porky Pig.”

Bone couldn’t help but laugh. “And here was me, hoping we’d all be best friends.”

“Just be careful with Feelan,” Morrow warned, suddenly serious. “He’s not called ‘The Butcher’ for nothing.”

“And how much of this can I share with my team?”

“Thomson reached into his folder. “I’ve prepped a briefing sheet. You’ll need to stick to this script. We need to keep the circle of knowledge small.”

Bone glanced through the bullet points. “When you say brief…”

“As I said, we are at a critical phase. The less information that is out there, the better.”

Bone sighed. “For you maybe.” He got to his feet.

“And no heroics, okay?” Thomson said.

“Too long in the tooth for that malarkey, sir.” Bone replied. He glanced at them both. “And that’s it all? You’re not sitting on anything else.”

“That’s the sum of it.”

As Bone made his way out through the security labyrinth, the rain still hammering against the windows, he couldn’t shake the feeling that OCD might not be showing their full hand. But the questions were what and why? Back in the borrowed van, he sat for a moment, considering his next steps. His phone burst to life, interrupting his thoughts. It was Baxter.

“Harper’s collapsed. He’s been taken to Stirling Infirmary.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Bone burst through the sliding doors of Stirling Infirmary’s A&E department, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

The reception area was chaotic. The distinctive antiseptic smell mingled with the metallic tang of blood and the sweat of anxious relatives. A Tannoy crackled overhead, summoning a trauma team to Resus 2. Bone shouldered his way to the front desk, flashing his warrant card.

“DC William Harper. Head injury. Brought in about an hour ago.”

The receptionist’s face softened slightly.

“He’s been taken straight to theatre. Neurosurgical unit, fourth floor, East Wing. Follow the blue line on the floor. The lifts are over there, but they’re slow—stairs might be quicker.”

Bone took the stairs two at a time, his mind racing through possibilities, each worse than the last. He’d seen what head injuries could do—the plate in his own skull a constant reminder.

The neurosurgical unit was eerily quiet compared to the mayhem downstairs, the hushed atmosphere punctuated only by the soft beeping of monitors and the squeak of nurses’ shoes on the polished floor. A wall-mounted screen displayed the theatre status: THEATRE 3 — HARPER, W. — EMERGENCY CRANIOTOMY — IN PROGRESS.

Catriona sat alone in the waiting room, hunched forward, her fingers locked together. The overhead fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across her face. She looked up as Bone approached, her face blotchy and tear-stained, still wearing the blood-spattered blouse she must have been in when it happened.

“Duncan.” Her voice cracked. “Thank God.”

Bone crouched before her, taking her trembling hands in his. “What happened?”

“He was chasing someone.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “By the time I got to him, he was unconscious on the grass. There was blood everywhere—from his ear and nose.” She made a helpless gesture to her right ear. “He started having some kind of seizure in the ambulance. The paramedic kept saying his pressure was rising… I don’t know what that means.”

“Have they told you anything else?”

She shook her head. “Just that he’s in surgery. They took him for a CT scan as soon as we arrived, then rushed him straight to theatre. They made me wait out here.” Her voice broke. “Someone brought me forms to sign. For the operation. It’s been nearly two hours.”

Bone straightened, scanning for a nurse or doctor. “I’ll find someone—”

“Mrs Harper?”

They both turned. A woman in scrubs approached, her face carefully neutral in that way medical professionals have when delivering uncertain news.

“I’m Dr Malhotra. I’ve been assisting with your husband’s surgery.”

“Please,” Catriona whispered. “Just tell me.”

The doctor glanced at Bone questioningly.

“It’s okay,” Catriona said quickly. “You can speak in front of him.”

“DCI Bone,” he explained. “Will’s boss.”

Dr Malhotra nodded and consulted the clipboard in her hands. “Your husband has suffered an epidural haematoma—bleeding between the skull and the dura mater, the tough outer covering of the brain. His GCS score on arrival was nine, indicating moderate-to-severe trauma.”

“GCS?” Catriona asked, her voice trembling.

“Glasgow Coma Scale,” the doctor explained. “It’s how we assess consciousness. The paramedics noted that he was already showing signs of increasing intracranial pressure—his left pupil was fixed and dilated, and he had bradycardia, an abnormally slow heart rate.”

The doctor was careful to use past tense, not present. Bone’s stomach tightened.

“The CT scan showed a blood clot over the left temporal region. Mr Harper is currently undergoing an emergency craniotomy—the neurosurgeon will access and evacuate the blood clot. They’ll also locate and seal the damaged blood vessel, which appears to be the middle meningeal artery.”

“But he’ll be okay?” Catriona’s voice was small, childlike.

“The operation typically takes two to three hours.” Dr Malhotra’s expression softened slightly. “The fact that he received medical attention quickly is extremely positive. With epidural haematomas, time is absolutely critical.”

“But people recover from this, right?” Catriona pressed.

“Many do, yes, especially with prompt intervention. However,” the doctor added, her tone measured, “we’ll need to monitor for secondary complications—cerebral oedema, seizures, or infection. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be crucial.” Her cautious phrasing wasn’t lost on Bone. “We’re doing everything we can. I’ll come back as soon as he’s in recovery.”

After the doctor left, Catriona seemed to fold in on herself. Bone guided her back to the waiting room chairs, sitting beside her.

“This is my fault,” she whispered.

“Don’t be daft—”

“He was dizzy last night. Said it was nothing, but I should’ve made him stay home.” She looked up at Bone, her eyes swimming. “I’m pregnant, Duncan. Almost three months.”

The words hit Bone like a physical blow. He thought of Alice, of Michael.

“Christ, Catriona. Does Will know?”

She nodded. “Told him last week. He was over the moon.” Her face crumpled. “I should’ve locked him in the bloody house. But you know what he’s like about work.”

“Aye,” Bone agreed softly. “Stubborn as they come.”

Silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken fears.

“Is anyone coming for you?” Bone asked eventually. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“My sister’s driving up from Ayr. Should be here within the hour.” She wiped her eyes, then straightened, a sudden determination hardening her features. “You need to go.”

“I’m not leaving you—”

“Yes, you are.” Her voice was steady now. “You need to find the bastard who did this to Will.”

“Did you see who he was chasing?” Bone asked.

She shook her head. “Just some lowlife in a black anorak. Will just suddenly shouted, ‘That’s him!’ and jumped out of the car before I could even stop him. He took off after this guy like he was possessed.” Her voice caught. “By the time I got to him on the ground, the man was gone. People were gathering around Will, someone was already on the phone to 999.”

Bone hesitated, torn between duty and compassion.

“Go,” she insisted. “My sister will be here soon. Will would want you out there, not holding my hand.”

Bone knew she was right. He squeezed her shoulder as he stood. “I’m on the end of the phone. Rhona, too. Call us, day or night.”

Catriona nodded, attempting a wan smile. “Just find him, Duncan.”

In the corridor, Bone paused, looking back at her small figure in the waiting room. Her hand rested protectively over her stomach, her head bowed. The future suddenly seemed so fragile, hanging by the finest of threads.

Bone turned away, rage building in his chest. Whoever had done this to Harper would pay. That was a promise.

TWENTY-FIVE

The incident room was unnaturally quiet when Bone entered, the usual banter and background chatter replaced by a sombre hush. Every face turned to him, their expressions a mixture of concern and barely contained anger. In the corner, Walker was pinning something to the board, her movements stiff and mechanical. Gallacher stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the rain-washed car park. And Laverty—Internal Affairs’ gift to Police Scotland—perched on the edge of Harper’s empty desk like a vulture eyeing up a dying animal.

“How is he?” Mullens asked, breaking the silence.

Bone dropped his sodden coat on a chair, aware of the puddle forming beneath it. “Still in critical condition. They’ve completed the craniotomy, drained the haematoma, but he’s not regained consciousness.” He swallowed hard. “Next forty-eight hours are crucial.”

“And Catriona?” Baxter asked quietly.

“Holding up. Her sister’s with her now.” Bone deliberately avoided mentioning the pregnancy. That was Will and Catriona’s news to share, if—when—he pulled through.

Gallacher turned from the window. “Where are we with the investigation?”

“We are pursuing various lines of enquiry,” Bone replied.

“That wasn’t my question, Duncan,” Gallacher interrupted. “What progress have you made in concrete terms? Because from where I’m standing, we’ve got a dead distiller, a colleague in intensive care, and not one single arrest.”

A flash of irritation flickered through Bone, quickly suppressed. “Sir, the case is complex. We’ve got multiple lines of enquiry developing. The financial angle is showing promise. And we’re exploring connections to an organised crime network that may be—”

“Exploring?” Laverty cut in, her voice like steel on glass. “Isn’t that a rather relaxed term considering you sent DC Harper chasing after a suspect without backup, said suspect escapes, and now he’s fighting for his life? It is your call to take care of officers’ well-being.”

The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Bone clenched his fists at his sides. “DSU Laverty,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet, “DC Harper was off-duty when he spotted a suspect. He made an operational decision as a trained detective. And if you think I don’t take the welfare of my team seriously—”

“That’s enough,” Gallacher said sharply. “This isn’t helping anyone, least of all DC Harper.”

Bone reeled it in. “We need to be vigilant. The attack on my car and the Happy Families card suggest we’re being watched. If organised crime is involved, as we suspect, we’re dealing with dangerous people. As a precaution, I’ve sent Alice and Michael to her sister’s.”

Walker’s eyebrows shot up. “Alice agreed to that?”

“I didn’t give her much choice.” The memory of the phone call still stung. “I’m not taking any chances. Whoever’s behind this may just be trying to intimidate us, send a message to back off.”

“As if!” Mullens snorted.

“As if indeed,” Bone agreed, a ghost of a smile crossing his face.

Gallacher cleared his throat. “The press is circling. News of the poisoning is out, and rumours are flying. We need to issue a statement.”

“McKinnon will be at his trough again,” Mullens muttered.

“He’s walked away from journalism,” Bone replied. “That’s what he told me last time we spoke.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Walker said sceptically.

“Haven’t you heard? The Kilwinnoch Chronicle has been syndicated,” Baxter cut in. “It’s now part of a larger group of half a dozen or so papers and media outlets. The paper seems to be just full of ads these days.”

“That would explain the lacklustre scattering of journos outside,” Walker said.

Bone shrugged. “I won’t be grieving its loss.”

“I’ll make the public statement,” Gallacher offered. “You need to focus on the investigation.”

“Okay, Sheila. Where are we up to?” Bone refocused.

Baxter straightened up behind her desk. “I did some digging around the Lochmoran Distillery Group. In the last ten years they have acquired eight failing or failed distilleries. It seems to be their policy to take over smaller family-run businesses then adapt and expand.”

“Whisky Big Mac,” Mullens said. “Commercial crap.”

“But would they stop at nothing to bring down the Durie empire?” Walker added, adopting a mock-evil grin.

“Digital has also sent over the CCTV footage from the bar,” Baxter continued, turning to her computer.

The team gathered around as grainy black-and-white footage filled the screen. The familiar figure—their runner—approached the young barman. After a brief exchange, something small changed hands.

“Pause it there,” Bone instructed. “Enlarge that section.”

Baxter fiddled with her keyboard, and the image disappeared. “Sorry, not quite as competent as Will at this.” She tried again, and the image finally returned. She zoomed in, and despite the pixelation, the unmistakable shape of a set of keys, including a mortice, was visible.

“Well, that confirms what the lad told you,” Bone said, looking at Mullens.

“Forensics also got back with the prints and DNA taken from sections of the broken glass. They picked up a thumbprint identified as belonging to Hamish Durie, but nothing from our suspect.”

“Gloves!” Mullens muttered.

“You’re sharp as a precision tool, Mark, I’ll give you that,” Walker said.

“Hold on,” Bone interrupted. “Sheila, can you go back a few frames?”

“Oh, now you’re asking.” She fiddled with the recording again, and it zipped back a little too far. “Sorry.” She restarted and skipped forward until she reached the encounter again.

“There. Stop!” Bone instructed.

The screen froze moments before the runner emerged from the right. Bone approached the screen. “Yup. That’s what I thought. See?” He tapped the corner of a tray and the edge of a shot glass just visible in the top corner of the screen. “Looks like the lad had already prepped the whisky for the tour.”

“Aye, he couldn’t remember if he had, but this is proof. The bastard must have slipped in the cyanide while the boy went to collect the other stuff in the stockroom.”

“Do we have any other footage of the bar from a different angle?” Bone asked Baxter.

“No, sorry. I’ve been through it all, and that’s it.”

“Bugger.” Bone sighed. “What else do you have?” He was aware of both Gallacher’s and Laverty’s judgmental eyes on him.

“The private stem cell therapy that the accountant’s wife is undergoing costs upwards of a hundred grand,” Baxter continued. “And company records show he received a bonus of six hundred thousand last year—three times his salary.”

“Lucky he got that bonus then eh?” Mullens said.

“And lucky he’s in charge of company accounts too.” Bone added. “That’s all?”

“’Fraid so.” Baxter frowned.

Bone straightened up. “Right. Rhona, I want you to re-interview the accountant. Find out why he received such a large sum, considering the company has been underperforming for some time.”

“Is that necessary?” Laverty interjected. “We don’t want accusations of police intimidation. Company bosses awarding themselves huge bonuses is not a crime. If it was, we’d have to arrest half of the executive sector.”

Bone stared at her in disbelief. “There are major financial discrepancies that need to be accounted for—no pun intended,” he added dryly. “We’re following procedure. It might be nothing, but that’s what detectives do—follow every microscopic detail of a case. With all due respect, can you please let me continue? The quicker we finish this meeting, the sooner we will solve the crime.” He smiled, barely concealing his frustration at Laverty’s interference.

Laverty pursed her lips but said nothing.

“Mark, I want you to get an update from missing persons and see if we’re any closer to finding the bar manager. The guy can’t just have disappeared without trace.”

“Unless he’s at the bottom of Kilwinnoch reservoir, swimming with the fishes,” Mullens said, attempting a terrible impression of a New York mobster.

“Sheila, can you continue to pursue our runner’s connections with lowlife Sneddon and see if you can dig out a name, and even better, an address?”

“Wouldn’t that be good?” Mullens rubbed his hands. “I’d be first round there with a baseball bat.” He turned to his bosses. “Figure of speech.” He grinned.

Bone continued. “Also, Sheila, I need you to go to Lochmoran HQ in Edinburgh. Talk to the boss about this rivalry between the two companies.”

Baxter stared at him in shock. “Me? On my own?”

“We’re a team member down. All hands to the pump.”

“I’m happy with my hands on the coffee machine, thank you very much,” Baxter replied, nervously laughing. “I haven’t interviewed anyone on my own for months.”

“We’ll finally find out if Sheila has legs or not when she gets out from behind that pile of reports,” Mullens teased.

“You’ll be fine,” Bone reassured her.

“I’d like to accompany DS Baxter,” Laverty announced.

The look of horror on Baxter’s face would have been comical in any other circumstance.

“That won’t be necessary,” Bone began, but Gallacher cut him off.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” the superintendent said firmly. “Give you both a chance to see how the other half works.”

Bone caught Gallacher’s eye, saw the warning there, and reluctantly nodded. “Fine.”

“And when you’re done,” Bone said to Mullens, “come back here. You and I are going to pay Frank Feelan a visit.”

“The Butcher?” Mullens’s eyes lit up. “Now you’re talking.”

The team dispersed, gathering coats and notebooks, a renewed sense of purpose in their movements. Bone touched Baxter’s arm as she passed.

“Got a minute?”

They moved to a quieter corner of the room.

“Sorry about that,” Bone said.

“Out of the frying pan, eh? Oh well, I’ll live.”

“But will she after you’ve finished with her?” Bone replied. “I wanted to ask if you have found out any more about that old black-and-white family photograph of the Peekaboo horror show?”

Baxter shook her head. “Nothing additional to report, sir. I double- and triple-checked records and chased as many paper trails as I could. As I said before, the mystery red-haired boy could be Peekaboo’s younger brother—the one allegedly killed in that forest fire. But I haven’t got any further with that.”

Bone sighed, rubbing at the scar on his temple.

“I seem to recall you mentioned a blue Astra as well?” she asked.

“Yes. I keep seeing it. About ten years old. But that’s all I’ve got.”

“That’s vague, sir. Potentially a lot of vehicles.”

“I know. Sorry. No plates or even a partial. Could you dig into records and see what it throws up?”

“No problem. Shall I put that on the board?”

“Hold off for now. I didn’t ID the car that drove off last night, so it’s more than likely a direct threat from whoever’s behind the crime.” He frowned. “But why would someone be following me long before this investigation?”

They were interrupted by Sergeant Brody, who appeared at Bone’s elbow, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but Miss Agnes Durie—the younger one—has turned up. I’ve put her in the counselling room.” He lowered his voice. “She’s on the warpath and has her solicitor in tow.”

Bone sighed. Just what he needed.

“Right,” he said, straightening his tie. “Let’s see what fresh hell this brings.”

TWENTY-SIX

In the counselling room, Agnes Durie perched on the edge of an armchair, her designer outfit—a tailored navy suit that probably cost more than Bone’s monthly salary—incongruous against the shabby furnishings and faded pastel walls. Despite being fifty-seven, she could easily pass for a decade younger, her ash-blonde hair expertly highlighted, her skin smooth and taut in the way that spoke of expensive treatments rather than good genes.

Beside her sat a woman of similar age, though with none of Agnes’s glamour. Her charcoal suit was expensive but severe, her coal-black hair pulled back in a tight bun.

Agnes’s eyes were red-rimmed, her carefully applied mascara slightly smudged. She clutched a monogrammed handkerchief in one manicured hand. When Bone entered, she looked up with the pained expression of someone nursing a fresh wound.

“DCI Bone,” he introduced himself. “I’m leading the investigation into your brother’s death.”

“Agnes Durie,” she replied, her voice steady despite her obvious distress. “And this is Margaret Sinclair, our family solicitor.”

The solicitor didn’t offer her hand. “Miss Durie returned early from New York upon hearing the tragic news. We’d appreciate an update on your investigation.” Her voice was curt and rang out with a privileged Bruntsfield twang.

Bone settled into the sofa opposite. “I understand you were at a whisky sales conference?”

Agnes nodded. “I handle all international business for Glendurie. I’ve spent the last three months between Europe and Asia, with New York as my final stop.”

“That’s quite a journey,” Bone observed.

“The business doesn’t run itself,” Agnes said, a flash of something harder beneath her grief. “Now, can you tell me what happened to my brother?”

Bone outlined the basics—the poisoning during the tasting, the cyanide in Hamish’s whisky, the suspect who’d fled the scene. With each detail, Agnes’s composure cracked a little more, but Bone couldn’t help noticing how little of the information seemed to surprise her.

“And this… this man who ran, you haven’t found him yet?” Agnes asked, dabbing at her eyes.

“We’re pursuing several leads.”

“Several leads,” Agnes repeated coldly. “My brother is murdered, and all you have are ‘several leads’? I could hire private investigators to assist, if that would expedite matters.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Durie,” Bone said firmly. “When did you last see your brother?”

“Before I left for Milan. I can’t remember exactly.” She twisted the handkerchief between her fingers. “We had dinner. He seemed… better than he had in years. Almost happy.”

“Better in what way?”

Agnes sighed. “Hamish had his demons, Detective. Alcohol, drugs, gambling. He’d struggle, then recover, then fall again. It was a cycle we’d all grown accustomed to. But recently, he seemed to have found some stability. I thought, finally, he might be on the right path.” Her voice cracked. “And now he’s gone.”

“I understand you and your brother were close?”

“Closer than either of us was to Elspeth. Our older sister is… Well, she’s not a people person.” Agnes’s mouth twisted. “While I was single-handedly rescuing the company from financial ruin, traipsing across the globe to secure contracts, Elspeth remained at home, counting pennies and criticising Hamish’s lifestyle.”

“Yet she helped him financially when he needed it,” Bone said.

Agnes sniffed. “That’s one interpretation. I prefer to think of it as controlling him through his weaknesses.” Her expression softened. “Hamish and I were only three years apart, you see. We were always allies against Elspeth’s sternness and our father’s tyranny.”

“Your father was tyrannical?”

“Our father,” Agnes said with sudden venom, “was a monster in a tailored suit. He ruled Glendurie like his personal fiefdom and his family as his subjects. Hamish bore the brunt of it—never good enough, never worthy of the Durie name.” She shook her head. “Is it any wonder he sought escape wherever he could find it?”

“And your sister continued this pattern?”

“In her way. More subtle, perhaps, but no less damaging.” Agnes gave a bitter laugh. “Elspeth puts the business, the ‘legacy,’ above all else. Hamish’s scandals were an embarrassment she could hardly tolerate. But she needed him—the charming face of Glendurie Whisky, while she lurked in the shadows pulling strings.”

Bone leaned forward. “I understand there was an incident in your youth. A pregnancy—”

“That’s quite enough,” the solicitor interjected sharply. “This line of questioning is completely irrelevant to your investigation and adds unnecessarily to my client’s distress.”

“I’m trying to build a complete picture of the family dynamics—”

“Then focus on the present, not on events from years ago,” Sinclair snapped. “This is a murder investigation, not a therapy session.”

Bone changed tack. “Your brother’s shares in the company—I understand there was some arrangement whereby they were substantially reduced?”

Agnes’s face closed like a shuttered window. “Another private family matter, Detective. Irrelevant to Hamish’s death.”

“Is that so?” Bone pressed. “Financial motives are often central to murder investigations.”

The solicitor placed a warning hand on Agnes’s arm. “I must insist you focus on relevant matters, DCI Bone. My client’s brother has been murdered, and you seem more interested in ancient history and company structure than in finding his killer.”

Bone met the solicitor’s gaze steadily. “Everything connects, Ms Sinclair. That’s how police investigations function.”

“Who do you think could have done this to Hamish?” Agnes interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I was rather hoping you might have some insights on that,” Bone replied.

Agnes looked away. “Hamish had… connections from his former life. He ran up huge debts due to his addictions, his lifestyle. When credit cards and bank loans ran out, he’d go elsewhere.”

“Where exactly?”

“Finance companies, I suppose.” She twisted her handkerchief again. “Which may have led him to some very unsavoury characters.”

“Did you or your sister ever restrict his access to money?”

Agnes didn’t answer immediately. “At points, his debts were spiralling out of control. I helped him once, but he blew the lot, so… lesson learned.” She sighed. “Addiction is a disease, Inspector. He couldn’t help it.”

“Could this be a payback killing, do you think?” Bone asked quietly.

Agnes’s composure finally crumbled. “I don’t know,” she sobbed. “Anything is possible with Hamish. I loved him so much, but… but he was Hamish, you understand? Always in trouble, always in danger, always…” She broke down completely.

“That’s enough,” the solicitor declared and rose to her feet. “Miss Durie is too upset to answer any more of your questions.”

Bone stood. “Where can I reach you if I have further questions?”

“I’m staying at the mansion,” Agnes managed between sobs, “but in the West Wing. Separate entrance.” She attempted a watery smile. “I love my sister, but the thought of living with her without lockable doors between us isn’t something I can face right now.”

“Why is that?” Bone asked.

“We’re fine with each other in small doses.” Agnes straightened, composing herself. “As I said, we’re very different people.”

As the solicitor ushered Agnes from the room, Bone remained standing, mulling over the interview. Why make the effort to come to the station with the press lurking outside and why turn up with her high-powered lawyer in tow?

Agnes Durie, Bone decided, was either genuinely devastated by her brother’s death, or putting on one hell of a performance.

TWENTY-SEVEN

As Walker pulled into Morgan Dribble’s driveway, she found him by his Mercedes, loading cardboard boxes into the boot. She pulled up alongside and climbed out.

“Going somewhere, Mr Dribble?” she said, approaching.

Dribble started, nearly dropping the box he was holding. “Detective Walker.” His voice was strained, higher than she remembered. “This is unexpected.”

“Evidently.” Walker gestured to the packed car. Through the passenger window, she spotted a passport sitting on the seat. “Planning a trip?”

Dribble set the box down and straightened his back, grimacing. “Not exactly. My wife has been taken to a private clinic. I’m on my way to check on her.”

“And you need all these files for that?” Walker circled the car slowly. More boxes filled the back seat, along with what looked like a hastily packed suitcase.

“It’s the distillery’s annual audit,” Dribble said, his tone defensive. “And the passport is for ID purposes. Security at the clinic is quite strict. As you can see, I have my hands full, quite literally.”

“Stem cell therapy, wasn’t it?” Walker asked.

“That’s right. Very expensive, very specialised. And very time-sensitive.” Dribble closed the boot with a decisive thud. “So if you’ll excuse me—”

“I’d like to have another look inside your house,” Walker said.

“Now?” Dribble’s voice rose an octave. “That’s really not convenient. As I said, I need to get to the clinic.”

“It won’t take long,” Walker assured him, though her tone made it clear this wasn’t a request. “You mentioned your wife was receiving treatment upstairs during our last visit. I’d like to see her room.”

Dribble’s right eye twitched. “She’s… she’s not here anymore. As I said, she’s at the clinic now.”

“I see.” Walker held his gaze. “The house, Mr Dribble?”

After a moment of silent standoff, Dribble’s shoulders slumped. “Fine. A quick look, but then I really must go.”

He led her up the path to the front door, fumbling with his keys. Inside, the house seemed different from her previous visit—less pristine, more chaotic. Small signs of hasty packing were everywhere: empty spaces on shelves, a picture frame lying flat where it had once stood, drawers not quite closed.

“Where’s your wife’s room?” Walker glanced up the stairs.

“Second door on the left,” Dribble muttered. “But as I told you, she’s not here.”

Walker climbed the stairs, the thick carpet muffling her footsteps. The room stood ajar. Inside was a neatly made bed, everything in perfect order. A small medical monitor sat on the bedside table beside a plastic tray holding several pill bottles and a rolled-up tube. A single water glass and a folded newspaper suggested recent occupation, though the room’s pristine condition seemed at odds with Dribble’s wife’s apparent serious illness. No personal items cluttered the surfaces, no evidence of the extended medical treatment Dribble had described.

She returned downstairs to find Dribble hovering anxiously by his study door. “Everything all right?” he asked with a poor attempt at casualness.

“Very tidy up there,” Walker said.

“Yes, we have a professional team of nurses looking after her.”

“May I?” Walker gestured to the study.

“I don’t see why that’s necessary.”

Walker pushed the door open anyway and stopped short. The room was in disarray, desk drawers pulled out, papers scattered across every surface. A large bin bag bulging with shredded documents stood in the corner, overflowing onto the carpet. The shredder itself hummed softly, still warm to the touch.

“Been doing a bit of spring cleaning?” Walker asked.

Dribble pushed past her into the room. “I told you. I’m in the middle of the company’s annual audit, on top of everything else.” He let out a deep sigh and gathered up papers from the desk. “The company finances need to be in order. It’s the last thing I need with my wife so desperately ill, but I have no choice. It’s an essential part of my job.”

“But I thought you were on compassionate leave?” Walker quizzed.

Dribble gave a bitter laugh. “Unfortunately, aside from Miss Durie, I’m the only other member of the executive team who knows their way around the company accounts. And of course, the company comes first—always has.”

“I understand that, but this doesn’t look like an audit,” Walker replied coolly. “It looks like you’re destroying evidence.”

“Evidence? Of what?” Dribble laughed, a brittle sound. “I’m an accountant, Detective Inspector. Paperwork is my life. Sometimes it needs rationalising.”

“With a shredder?”

“Confidential client information. We take privacy very seriously at Glendurie.”

Walker moved farther into the room.

“Look, I’ve answered your questions, twice now. I have explained. I’ve shown you around my home. But I need to get to the clinic, and if I delay any longer, my wife will be extremely distressed.”

“When did she go?”

Dribble’s face flushed dark red. “About an hour ago, and I need to be with her. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He moved towards the door.

Walker blocked his path. “I’m not done here, Mr Dribble.”

“Well, I am.” He attempted to step around her. “Get out of my way.”

“I need to see those papers you have loaded in your car,” Walker insisted. “And I’d like you to accompany me to the station to answer some more questions.”

Something changed in Dribble’s expression—a flicker of panic replaced by cold determination. “I don’t think so,” he said, and then he lunged, shoving Walker hard with both hands.

The sudden violence caught her off guard. She stumbled backwards, her heel catching on the edge of a rug. Walker went down hard, her elbow cracking against the corner of a bookcase on the way. Scrambling back to her feet, she set off after the accountant, who was already halfway down the hallway, heading for the front door.

“Stop!” she shouted and gave chase.

Walker reached him just as he yanked the front door open. She grabbed his jacket, spinning him around and using his own momentum to slam him face-first against the doorframe with a satisfying thud.

“Morgan Dribble,” Walker said, twisting his arm behind his back while he groaned in pain, “I am arresting you on suspicion of obstruction of justice and assaulting a police officer.” She recited the caution as she cuffed him, her voice steady despite the throb in her elbow. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Blood trickled from Dribble’s nose where it had connected with the doorframe. “This is outrageous,” he spluttered. “I need to be with my wife. You can’t do this!”

“I just did.” Walker retrieved her phone to call for support. “Looks like your visit to the clinic will have to wait.”

She marched Dribble to her car and glanced back at the house, at the abandoned Mercedes with its cargo of boxes, at the immaculate façade of Dribble’s life that was now crumbling around him.

“I demand my solicitor,” Dribble snarled.

“All in good time, Mr Dribble.”

She guided him into the back seat, returned to the Mercedes, and started transferring the boxes to her boot.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Lochmoran Distillery’s headquarters occupied the top floor of a gleaming glass tower in Edinburgh’s New Town—a stark contrast to Glendurie’s rustic stone buildings. The reception area was all polished concrete and brushed steel, with abstract representations of whisky barrels rendered in expensive-looking sculptures.

Baxter tugged at her tweed jacket, suddenly conscious of a frayed cuff. She sat beside the immaculately tailored Laverty. Ten years of desk duty had left her woefully unprepared for field interviews, and having the new DSU observing her first one in ages wasn’t helping her nerves.

“Remember,” Laverty murmured, consulting her notebook, “we need to establish if there’s any corporate rivalry that might have motivated—”

“I know what we need to establish,” Baxter snapped, then immediately regretted her tone. “Sorry, ma’am. Just a bit… out of practice.”

Laverty raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Charles Cunningham emerged from a set of double doors, offering a brisk handshake to each officer. He was tall and reed-thin, with rimless glasses. He looked like a man who spent most of his working life in power meetings.

“Detective Sergeant Baxter, I presume?” he said, extending his hand.

“Yes, and this is…” Baxter fumbled for her words.

“Detective Superintendent Laverty,” the DSU jumped in.

Baxter flinched.

“Please come through, Detectives. I’ve set aside thirty minutes for you. Will that suffice?”

“We’ll certainly try to be efficacious with our time.” Baxter winced internally at her ridiculously stilted formality.

Cunningham’s office featured floor-to-ceiling windows with a panoramic view of Edinburgh Castle. He settled behind his desk and gestured to the chairs opposite.

“Now, I understand this concerns the unfortunate incident at Glendurie?” His tone suggested they were discussing a minor supply chain issue rather than a murder.

“Yes, Mr Cunningham.” Baxter cleared her throat. “We’re exploring all angles, including potential business conflicts. I understand there’s been some rivalry between your companies?”

“Rivalry?” Cunningham made a dismissive gesture. “Hardly. We operate in completely different spheres. Lochmoran is a global brand with standardised production and international distribution channels. Glendurie is a… family operation with limited reach.”

“Yet you both compete for market share,” Laverty interjected.

Baxter shot her a look. This was supposed to be her interview.

“In the strictest technical sense, I suppose,” Cunningham conceded. “But it would be like comparing a craft shop to Tesco.”

“No bad blood, then?” Baxter pressed.

Cunningham’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t say that. The Durie sisters are… formidable in their own way.”

“In what way?” Baxter asked, getting into the swing of it now.

“They’re ruthless. Elspeth handles the numbers with a steel trap of a mind. Nothing escapes her notice—a misplaced penny would likely result in someone’s dismissal. Agnes is the face, the charmer, but don’t be fooled. Behind that smile is a shark.”

“And Hamish?” Baxter asked.

“The black sheep.” Cunningham shook his head. “Talented, mind you. Could sell sand in the Sahara. But unreliable. He once showed up drunk at an international trade fair and proceeded to insult Japanese distributors. Cost them a major contract.”

“When was this?” Laverty cut in again.

Baxter’s irritation rose. “If you could let me—”

“Three years ago,” Cunningham answered Laverty directly. “Since then, the sisters have kept him on a tighter leash. Though I’ve heard whispers of financial impropriety on his part.”

“What kind of impropriety?” Baxter asked, determined to regain control.

“Nothing specific. Industry gossip. But they’ve been pushing into new markets aggressively for the past eighteen months. Central and South America primarily. Unusual strategy for a small distillery.”

“Why unusual?” Baxter asked.

“High entry costs, complex import regulations, established competitors. It’s a challenging market, even for a multinational like us.” He adjusted his cufflinks. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that Agnes has been practically living on a plane—Mexico City, Bogotá, Santiago, São Paulo. Trade fairs, distributor meetings. Very hands-on approach.”

“Could a Central American connection have anything to do with what happened to Hamish, do you think?” Laverty asked.

Baxter suppressed a sigh. So much for her interview.

“I doubt it,” Cunningham replied. “Though I did hear rumours that they had been cutting corners with the quality of some of their exported products following their financial problems.”

“I see.” Baxter made a note. “Do you have anything that could substantiate that?”

“This is all industry hearsay. Things you pick up at conferences. But I did speak to a couple of suppliers who weren’t happy with one of their new products.”

“Thank you. And your relationship with the Duries personally?” Baxter continued.

“Cordial but distant. We offered to buy them out three years ago, when their business first hit turbulence. But Elspeth wouldn’t even consider it. Agnes might have been more amenable, but her sister has the controlling interest.”

“One final question,” Baxter said. “Where were you on the morning Hamish died?”

Cunningham looked startled, then amused. “In London, at our board meeting. Twenty witnesses, video conference recordings, and my corporate card shows breakfast at The Savoy. Feel free to verify.” He smirked. “We may be rival organisations, Detective, but even I do not take my work that seriously.” He laughed, a strange, high-pitched yelp that was at odds with his appearance.

As they wrapped up, Baxter fumbled with her notebook, dropping it and scattering loose pages across the polished floor.

“Oh blethering hell—” She knelt to gather them, mortified.

To her surprise, Laverty crouched beside her, efficiently collecting the papers. “I think we’ve got what we need, Mr Cunningham,” she said smoothly.

Outside, in the lift descending to the ground floor, Baxter expected criticism. Instead, Laverty said quietly, “Good line of questioning. And interesting to learn about Agnes Durie’s trips to South and Central America. You handled that very well.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Baxter replied, shocked. “Though I would have preferred to conduct my own interview without quite so much… assistance.”

Laverty had the grace to look slightly abashed. “Force of habit. I’ll try to restrain myself next time.”

They reached the car. Baxter glanced over at her soon-to-be boss and wondered if perhaps the ice queen wasn’t quite as glacial as they’d all assumed.

TWENTY-NINE

Frank Feelan’s nightclub sat wedged between a bookmaker’s and a pawnshop on a grimy stretch of Charing Cross, its neon sign dark in the afternoon gloom. Club Class proclaimed peeling gold lettering above a door guarded by two men with necks thicker than their heads, both dressed in black suits that strained against their muscular frames.

Bone pulled up across the street in a pool car he’d exchanged the borrowed van for. Mullens was already halfway out of the car, his face set in fight mode.

“Mark,” Bone said sharply. “Cool the beans, all right? We need information, not a brawl.”

Mullens paused. “The bastards put Will in intensive care, for fuck’s sake.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Bone reminded him. “And walking in there like the Incredible Hulk won’t get us answers. Restraint, and that’s an order.”

Mullens took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Aye, sir. But if Feelan so much as smirks about Will…”

“Then I’ll hold your coat while you knock his teeth down his throat,” Bone promised. “Just not until we get what we need.”

They approached, and the heavies straightened, moving in perfect synchrony to block the entrance.

“Members only,” the taller one said, his guttural Glasgow accent as thick as concrete.

Bone flashed his warrant card. “DCI Bone and DS Mullens, Rural Crime Unit. Mr Feelan’s expecting us.”

The guards exchanged glances.

“Wait here,” the shorter one grunted, disappearing inside.

He returned moments later, nodding reluctantly. “Follow me.”

They were led through the empty club, past a horseshoe-shaped bar and a small stage where a cleaner was half-heartedly mopping the floor. The place stank of stale beer and cheap aftershave, with undertones of industrial disinfectant failing to mask the smell of decades of spilled drinks and cocaine-induced sweats.

Frank Feelan’s office was at the back, behind a door marked Private. Inside, the space was cluttered with mismatched furniture, boxing memorabilia, and stacks of paperwork. A half-eaten kebab occupied pride of place on the desk.

Feelan himself was squeezed in behind, a bloated parody of the boxer he’d once been. His face was a mass of scar tissue and broken capillaries, nose flattened, ears cauliflowered. He wore an expensive suit that strained across his gut, a gold watch flashing on his wrist as he gestured for them to sit.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted them, his voice strangely soft. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Bone remained standing. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, Feelan. I want to know why you’re threatening my officers.”

Feelan’s eyebrows shot up, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead despite the room’s chill. “Threatening police? Do I look like I want to stick a gun in my own mouth?” He laughed, a wet, phlegmy sound. “I’m a businessman, not a fucking lunatic.”

“I can arrange that for you if you like,” Mullens said quietly.

Feelan’s eyes shifted to him, narrowing slightly. “Your fat friend is a charmer, isn’t he?” His face suddenly lit with recognition. “Ah, but you’re the guy who put that piece of shit Sneddon away, aren’t you? You’re a hero in my eyes, Detective Sergeant. A guardian of the community. One less scumbag on our streets.” He grinned, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “I hope you got a commendation medal.”

Mullens’s jaw clenched, but he held his tongue.

Bone produced a photograph of the distillery runner. “Know this man?”

Feelan barely glanced at it. “Never seen him before.”

“Look again,” Mullens growled. “Big mole on his right cheek. Thick cockney accent. May work as a freelance hire-a-heavy.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Feelan pushed the photo away. “I hire locally. Support the community, you know.”

“Like you supported Hamish Durie?” Bone asked. “With your loan company?”

“Leith Hatchett Loans is a perfectly legitimate business, as are all my enterprises these days. Our US partners mean we can register abroad and avoid tax. Legally, I might add.” He spread his hands wide. “I’ve no intention of going back to jail, gentlemen. I’ve gone legit.”

Mullens snorted.

Feelan’s eyes hardened. “Something funny?”

“Just wondering about all the security,” Bone interjected. “The second-rate Goodfellas extras at the door? Seems excessive for a nightclub manager.”

“I’m a very rich man, Detective Chief Inspector. I receive weekly kidnapping threats.” Feelan dabbed at his forehead using a handkerchief. “And old enemies who won’t leave me alone. Can’t be too careful in my position.”

“You are full of more shite than a Dyno-Rod tanker,” Mullens growled.

“Maybe you should keep your own overweight muppet on a leash.” Feelan eyeballed Mullens again. “Before he hurts himself.”

Mullens lunged, grabbing the edge of the desk.

The door burst open, both heavies rushing in. Mullens spun, fists clenched, and Bone stepped between them.

“Enough!” Feelan barked, and the guards froze. “The detectives are just leaving.”

“Not until we discuss Hamish Durie’s debts,” Bone said firmly.

Feelan sighed. “Client confidentiality, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll have a warrant on your desk by morning,” Bone countered. “Or perhaps I’ll just ask HMRC to take a closer look at those ‘legal’ tax arrangements.”

The room fell silent. Feelan studied Bone for a long moment, then shrugged. “Fine. Durie ran up a hefty debt. It was paid off. End of story.”

“Who paid it?”

“The distillery’s accountant met with one of my staff. Paid cash.”

“Why in person?” Bone pressed.

“Said he didn’t want the transaction connected to the distillery or any individual who works there.” Feelan leaned back.

“How much?”

“I don’t see—”

“How much, Feelan?”

The crime boss hesitated. “A few thousand.”

“Bullshit,” Mullens snapped.

“Fine. Six figures.”

“Aye, with your extortionate interest rates added,” Mullens said.

Feelan smiled coldly. “We all have to put food on the table, Detective Sergeant Mullens, is it?” He stood, smoothing his jacket, his gut straining against his suit buttons. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a business to run.”

“And you have paperwork to prove this?” Bone asked.

“Of course. I believe Monster Munch here met one of my employees yesterday, who was very clear about that.” Feelan nodded knowingly at Mullens, trying again to wind him up. “I’ll have my team send that over to you within the hour.” He gestured to the door. “So, gentleman, I really do have to go.”

“We’re done for now,” Bone conceded. “But this isn’t over, Feelan. Not by a mile.”

“I’ve told you everything I know,” Feelan protested, fake sincerity oozing from every sweaty pore. “I’m a changed man. Ask anyone.”

The heavies escorted them back through the club.

They reached the door, and the shorter one bumped Mullens hard, muttering, “Watch yourself, Porky Pig.”

Mullens reacted instantly, grabbing the man by his lapels and shoving him around the corner into an alleyway, slamming him against the wall. “What the fuck did you say to me?”

The second heavy approached, fists clenched.

Bone stepped in. “Back off. Now.”

In the alley, Mullens had the guard’s face pressed against the brickwork.

“Mark!” Bone grabbed his arm. “Stand down. Let me deal with this.”

Mullens slowly released his grip, his face a mixture of confusion and disappointment.

The undercover officer remained still while Bone took Mullen’s place.

“The man you described is working at a new container storage site at Muirhead, owned by Feelan,” the UCO whispered quickly into the wall. “Heavy security up there. Everyone’s twitchy.”

Bone twisted the UCO’s arm behind his back. “You think you’re funny?” he called out, loud enough for the second goon to hear.

“Something big going down. Speak to my controller.”

“Bone grabbed him by the collar and pushed him back out into the street. “Next time I won’t be so gentle, arsehole!”

The man stumbled forward, spun round and gave the detectives the finger. “Fuck you!”

Mullens started towards him, but Bone caught him again. “Enough. Let’s go.”

In the car, Mullens turned to Bone. “Was that guy a UCO?”

“I can’t explain but he’s on our side.”

“Fuck. Right. Good job you stopped me before he was wearing his teeth on the other side of his arsehole.” He thought for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. “So that fuckhead runner could be up at these storage units?”

Bone started the car.  “There’s only one way to find out."

THIRTY

Walker sat across from Morgan Dribble, the accountant’s face flushed with anger. The interview room felt smaller than usual, the air thick with tension.

“As I’ve already told you, Detective Inspector, I won’t be answering any questions until my solicitor arrives,” Dribble said, his arms firmly crossed.

“I understand your position, Mr Dribble,” Walker said calmly, “and I’m sure your solicitor is on their way, but the sooner we clear this up, the sooner you can return to your wife. Surely that’s what you want?”

Dribble stared at a point on the wall behind her, his silence deliberate.

“It shouldn’t take long,” Walker continued. “Just a few simple explanations about those company files, the shredded documents. That’s all I need and you can go.”

Nothing.

“How is your wife responding to the stem cell treatment?” Walker asked, changing tack.

A muscle twitched in Dribble’s poker face, but he maintained his silence.

“I suppose that’s what the six-figure bonus was for,” she remarked casually. “Convenient timing.”

Dribble’s eyes flashed, his composure cracking.

“Or perhaps it was to pay off Hamish Durie’s debts?” Walker pressed. “Interesting that he was poisoned just after everything was supposedly settled.”

“That’s absurd!” Dribble snapped, his resolve finally breaking. “I had nothing to do with that!”

Walker leaned forward, her voice steady. “But you were loading company files into your car, with a passport on your passenger seat. Your home office was ransacked, bags of shredded papers everywhere. That is not a good look following a murder at your place of work, Mr Dribble.”

Dribble slammed his palm on the table. “For the last time, I’ve explained this! It’s the company’s annual audit. My wife is fighting for her life at Stoneway Clinic, and I should be there for her right bloody now.”

Dribble’s fingers drummed rapidly against the table, stopping only when he caught her looking.

“But surely a routine audit doesn’t require ransacking an entire office and shredding hundreds of documents,” she added.

“For God’s sake,” Dribble huffed. “You have no idea.” His eyes darted to the door. “Where is my solicitor?” He exhaled. “The CEO wanted everything in order before the shareholders’ meeting.”

“With your passport ready?”

“I bloody told you the passport is for ID!” he snapped back. “The private clinic where my wife is being treated has strict security protocols. They have VIPs there—politicians, celebrities. You need photo ID to get through security.”

“So what’s wrong with your driving license?” Walker asked.

Dribble threw up his hands. “I just grabbed it, all right? I’m not exactly operating at one hundred percent considering my wife is at bloody death’s door, and you insist on holding me here, wasting the precious time I have with her.” His voice cracked with emotion. “She will be worried sick in there on her own. She relies on me to be there.”

Walker raised an eyebrow. “Private stem cell treatment? That must be costing you a fortune. What are we looking at—hundreds of thousands?”

Dribble’s face darkened. “It’s my wife we’re talking about. Money is no concern. I’d do anything to save her.”

“Anything?” Walker leaned forward. “Would that include breaking the law?”

“What?” Dribble jerked back as if slapped. “What are you insinuating? That I’m stealing money from the distillery? Is that what this is about?” His voice rose to a near shout. “That’s an outrageous accusation!” He stopped and let out a cynical laugh. “Oh, I see. You think I killed Hamish? I am so looking forward to the lawsuit after all of this garbage, Detective.” He loosened his collar, revealing a reddening neck. He suddenly sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly. After a moment or two, he glanced up. “I’m sorry for pushing back. It’s just that I’m going out of my mind with worry for my wife.”

Walker nodded. “Is someone putting pressure on you, Mr Dribble?”

“Like who?” His eyes flickered with what seemed like recognition.

“You tell me. You met with a known Glasgow crime syndicate and paid them thousands of pounds.”

Dribble paled visibly. “Miss Durie instructed me to go in person to settle Hamish Durie’s debt.”

“Why?” Walker leaned forward.

“Hamish was always an embarrassment, but he was tabloid gold,” Dribble said, voice lower now. “They just wanted to keep things under the radar. I wasn’t happy, but I agreed to do it.” He shook his head. “Something I am beginning to regret now.”

“Are you scared, Mr Dribble? And I don’t mean about this interview. Are you being threatened by someone?”

Dribble’s eyes narrowed. “I’m tired of this circus. I don’t have to answer any more questions. I want my solicitor.”

“That’s your right, but—”

“No buts! This is harassment. Do you have any idea what my wife is going through? What I’m going through?” His voice cracked slightly at the edges. “And now this?”

A sharp knock interrupted them. The door opened, and Detective Superintendent Laverty stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

“DI Walker. A word.” It wasn’t a request.

In the corridor, Laverty leaned in. “You need to let him go.”

Walker blinked. “Sorry?”

“Release Dribble. Now.”

“Ma’am, with respect, I caught him practically fleeing the country with boxes of company files. His home office was ransacked, documents shredded. There are serious questions about his six-figure bonus and the company accounts.”

“On what grounds have you arrested him?” Laverty’s voice was clipped.

“Apart from all the suspicious activity I just mentioned, he knocked me over in his panic to get away. I’d call that assaulting an officer.”

“That’s an overreaction, and you know it.”

“But he’s connected to Hamish Durie’s dodgy finances,” Walker protested. “The timing, the panic—it all fits.”

Laverty glanced around before leaning closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Dribble is currently the subject of an investigation by HMRC. They’ve been monitoring his activities for months.”

Walker’s eyes widened. “Is this bigger than fraud? Is HMRC working with our Organised Crime Division?”

“I can’t confirm that,” Laverty said. “What I can tell you is that OCD has instructed us to let him go.”

“But—”

“No buts, Walker. You need to release him without charge.”

“But what will I say? Won’t it look suspicious if I walk back in there and say off you pop?”

“Use your professional expertise and make something up, DI Walker.” Laverty smiled.

Walker held Laverty’s gaze for a long moment before finally nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”

Back in the interview room, Dribble stood when Walker entered.

“My solicitor is here?”

“Sit down, Mr Dribble, please,” Walker insisted.

“Not until…”

“Please,” Walker urged.

He slowly sank back into his chair.

“Evidence has come to light that corroborates your statement about your wife. I… apologise for the misunderstanding.”

Dribble stared at her in disbelief, then let out a harsh laugh. “A misunderstanding? Is that what we’re calling it?”

He stood, straightening his jacket with deliberate slowness. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? My wife could be dead for all you care, and you’ve kept me from her side for what—a hunch? Some misplaced suspicion?”

“Again, I apologise—”

“Your apology means nothing,” he spat. “You’re everything that’s wrong with the police. Nasty, inhumane, separating a man from his desperately sick wife.” He moved towards the door. “My solicitor, the one you probably held back from seeing me, will be in touch.”

The door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the two-way mirror.

Walker slumped down at the table, shaking her head, her rage at Laverty’s intervention on the verge of boiling over. After a sharp intake of breath, she found her phone and called Bone. This was one for him to sort out.

THIRTY-ONE

The Saab’s engine laboured as Bone guided it up a steep hill towards Muirhead, the dying light casting long shadows across the potholed tarmac. Mullens stared out of the window, uncharacteristically quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight with barely contained rage.

“When I get my hands on that mole-faced cock, I’m going to make him wish he’d never set foot in Scotland.” He cracked his knuckles. “Harper’s lying in that hospital bed because of him.”

“We’ll get him,” Bone replied, calm. “But I need you to stay focused, not on a revenge mission.”

“Just saying, when we do catch him, I might accidentally trip and land on his wart. With my fist. Several times.”

Bone sensed Mullens spiralling and changed tack. “How’s your dad doing?”

Mullens sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Not great. I think he’s depressed. The nurses do their best for him, but his dementia’s worsening, and the cocktail of drugs doesn’t help.”

“How can you tell he’s depressed?”

“He’s stopped trying to molest any nurse who reminds him of my mum when she was young.” Mullens caught Bone’s alarmed expression. “Male and female, I hasten to add.”

“Not molest, surely?”

“No, that’s a bit harsh. Inappropriate with his hands and his mouth.” Mullens rubbed his forehead wearily. “Always was a randy old bugger.”

“That sounds even worse. His mouth?” Bone recoiled.

“Relentless attempts at snogging,” Mullens clarified. “I mean, the X-rated filth he spouts. God, it’s embarrassing. But that’s stopped now, and even though it was horrendous, his silence is a worry.” He stared out at the darkening landscape. “The old bastard is never quiet. His nickname was Foghorn Leghorn when he worked at the bus corporation.”

“Well, I’m relieved that gene seems to have skipped a generation,” Bone said dryly.

Mullens managed a genuine laugh, but it faded quickly. “It feels like he’s on the last lap, boss.”

“He’s immortal, your dad,” Bone said. “He’ll be partying with Keith Richards and the cockroaches when we’ve all gone.”

Mullens shook his head. “I’m not so sure. And I’m running out of ways to keep him happy.”

“Maybe you just have to accept it’s part of the condition,” Bone said, gently. “You can’t do anything to stop it.”

The GPS announced their destination was approaching. Bone killed the headlights and pulled onto the verge, parking the car behind a copse of trees.

“Looks like the middle of bloody nowhere,” Mullens muttered, peering through the gloom at the high-security fence about five hundred metres ahead. “How are container lorries supposed to get up here? And why put a storage facility so far from a port?”

“Questions worth asking.” Bone checked his phone. No signal. “Perfect.”

They approached on foot, keeping low in the lengthening shadows. Two guards stood at the main gate, smoking and chatting. Both carrying sidearms or pepper sprays, clearly visible, belted around their waists.

“Not exactly your average security detail,” Bone whispered. “You circle left through those trees. I’ll take the right. Stay in contact if you can, but don’t take any risks.”

Mullens nodded and disappeared into the undergrowth.

Bone made slow progress through the thick woodland, cursing softly as brambles snagged his trousers and mud sucked at his shoes. By the time he reached the fence, his suit was ruined and his patience was wearing thin.

Kneeling in the undergrowth, he peered through the chain link. Rusting shipping containers were stacked in dense rows, creating a maze of metal corridors. Beyond them, the skeletal frame of a new warehouse rose against the darkening sky, flanked by a couple of site huts.

He worked his way farther around the perimeter, careful to stay hidden. Near the rear corner of the compound, an outcrop of rock jutted above him. Bone clambered up, now high enough to reach the top of the fence. With a muttered curse, he began to climb, only to notice an open rear gate about twenty metres away.

“Bloody hell.”

He climbed back down, tearing the seat of his trousers on a jagged edge. “For fuck’s sake.”

Ducking low, he sprinted across open ground to the first row of containers. As he pressed himself against the cold metal, a group of men emerged from one of the site huts—two construction workers in hard hats and a third man in a black coat.

Bone squeezed into a gap between containers. They passed. The man in the coat turned, and in the fading light, Bone saw it—the distinctive mole on his right cheek.

Heart pounding, Bone waited until they’d passed before emerging. “Police! Stop!” he shouted, sprinting after them.

The suspect’s head whipped around, eyes widening in recognition. He bolted, darting between the container rows with Bone in pursuit. They weaved through the metal labyrinth, boots clanging on the gravel.

The suspect broke from the containers, making a desperate dash for the exit. “Open the gate!” he bellowed. His thick London accent resonated off the nearby buildings.

The guards, startled but compliant, swung the gate open. The suspect burst through, racing towards a parked car.

Bone skidded to a halt at the gate, lanyard in hand. “Police! Do not interfere!”

The guards hesitated, hands hovering close to their belts.

“Do. Not. Do. It!” Bone ordered again.

The guards relented and raised their hands in surrender.

Bone exhaled.

The suspect dived into a blacked-out Range Rover and fired up the engine. The car lurched forward, executing a hasty three-point turn to escape up the narrow lane.

Suddenly, a broad figure stepped into the road.

Mullens.

He planted his feet, hands at his sides, directly in the vehicle’s path.

The car accelerated, headlights illuminating Mullens’s unflinching form. For one terrible moment, Bone was certain he was about to witness his colleague’s death.

At the last possible second, the driver swerved, tyres shrieking. The car careened off the road and plunged into a deep drainage ditch with a sickening crunch of metal.

Before the airbag had even fully deflated, Mullens was there, wrenching open the door and dragging the dazed suspect up the muddy bank.

“You suicidal maniac!” Bone shouted, arriving moments later. “He could have killed you!”

Mullens grinned. “Aye, but he didn’t.” He shoved the suspect face-first onto the hood of the car, cuffing him efficiently despite the man’s struggles. “And now we’ve got Mr Mole Man, haven’t we, buddy?” Mullens elbowed his captive hard in the ribs.

The suspect groaned and spat out a slurry of linguistic spaghetti.

“I think he likes you,” Bone said.

“Sounds almost as rude as Glaswegian,” Mullens replied, hauling the man upright.

The security guards approached cautiously. One spoke into a radio.

“Back off,” Bone warned them. “Unless you fancy joining your friend here.”

Mullens manhandled the still-cursing suspect into the pool car. Slamming the door, Bone glanced back at the compound, now shrouded in darkness except for the harsh security lights illuminating the entrance.

“What the hell is Feelan up to here?” he muttered.

“Whatever it is,” Mullens replied, eyes fixed on their prisoner, “it’s no fucking Cub Scout camp.”

THIRTY-TWO

The atmosphere in Gallacher’s office was charged with tension as Bone burst through the door. Walker was already seated by the super’s desk, and across from her sat a man Bone didn’t recognise—lean, middle-aged, wearing an immaculately pressed suit that screamed head office. Standing by the window, arms folded across her chest, was Laverty, with the same conceited expression written all over her face.

“Sit down, Duncan,” Gallacher said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“With respect, sir, I’d prefer to—”

“I said sit down,” Gallacher repeated, his voice hardening. “And when you’ve done that, shut up and listen.”

Bone clenched his teeth and reluctantly lowered himself into the chair. He glanced over at Walker, who gave him the briefest shake of her head—a warning to tread carefully.

“DCI Bone, I believe you know Detective Superintendent Thomson from Organised Crime,” Gallacher said. “He has information pertinent to your investigation.”

Thomson leaned forward and smiled. “I think you’ve been chasing your tail long enough.”

“With all due respect sir, while my team’s been ‘chasing its tail,’ a detective constable is lying in hospital with a bleed on the brain..”

“DCI Bone,” Gallacher warned.

“I have some more information to share with you,” Thomson continued. “We’re working with HMRC on a significant money laundering operation based out of Glendurie Distillery,” he explained. “HMRC were tipped off by an insider at Clyde Central Bank—substantial monthly deposits from the distillery’s cash account that don’t align with their declared revenue. We believe Mr Dribble has been managing these transactions for quite some time.”

“When we met before, you said to me, and I quote, that’s the sum of what we know.”

“Sorry, DCI Bone. But we were acting on instructions from HMRC to sit tight until we have sufficient evidence. I couldn’t risk blowing our joint investigation.”

“There seems to be a few of those so called investigations that you don’t want to blow. Do you think we are that incompetent?” Bone snapped back, his anger building.

Gallacher was about to reprimand Bone again but Thomson raised his hand.

“Okay, so can you at least tell me who is he washing the cash for?” Bone continued, reigning in his frustration.

Walker caught his eye. “Who do you think?”

“Frank Feelan,” Bone said flatly.

Thomson nodded. “We have surveillance footage of the accountant visiting Feelan’s nightclub on at least six occasions over the past four months.”

“Aren’t those visits related to paying off Hamish Durie’s debt?” Bone countered.

“Initially, yes,” Thomson conceded. “But our undercover officers report that Feelan may have proposed this alliance. Either Dribble is acting alone, or he has the knowledge—possibly even direction—of one or both sisters.”

Bone ran a hand across his face. “But why? This is suicide for everyone concerned, including the distillery.”

“Because the distillery’s finances are in a worse state than the Duries would have you believe. Six months ago, they were teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Either Dribble, through misguided loyalty to the sisters, set this up to save the business, or they’re all in it together.”

Walker shifted in her seat. “Do you have enough to make arrests?”

“We have sufficient evidence to nail Dribble,” Thomson said, “but links to either sister are tenuous at best, circumstantial. They’re either completely oblivious to what’s going on, or they’re very smart at covering their tracks.” He paused. “That’s one of the reasons why DI Walker had to let the accountant go. We’re very close, but we need more to close the investigation.”

“One of the reasons?” Bone echoed. “What are the others?”

“We believe there could be a much bigger and more serious crime in progress.” Thomson turned to Walker. “That’s why I’ve asked you to attend today, DI Walker.”

“Hold on,” Bone said, his voice rising. “I still can’t believe you’ve been sitting on this information while we’ve been running around like headless chickens, one almost literally?”

“I apologise for that,” Thomson said, looking genuinely contrite. “But I couldn’t tell you anything without jeopardising our own investigation.”

“You let me interview Feelan,” Bone said incredulously. “You let me stir up the bloody hornet’s nest—”

“As I told you before, we needed you doing your job as normal,” Thomson cut in. “Anything else would have raised Feelan’s suspicions immediately.”

Bone fell silent, fuming but reluctantly accepting the logic.

Thomson turned back to Walker. “When you were at Inverness, you were part of the drug enforcement unit, is that right?”

Walker nodded. “Yes.”

“And your DCI was Harry Gilbert?”

“Correct.”

“We believe Feelan’s gang is about to collect a significant haul of heroin from a remote cove somewhere around the Lochinver area. We’d like you to join combined operations there. Your local knowledge and experience would be invaluable.”

“We’re already an officer down,” Bone protested. “Shall we all just take a week off and let you guys run everything, then?”

Laverty’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Gallacher cleared his throat. “That’s enough, Duncan.”

Bone exhaled slowly. “I apologise.”

“This could be one of the largest consignments of Class A narcotics to be smuggled into Scotland since Operation Valiant in 2016, where half a billion’s worth of cocaine was seized,” Thomson continued, undeterred.

“If it were an Olympic sport, Scotland would be top of the medals board,” Walker quipped, then quickly refocused. “So I assume this is linked to the financial crime at the distillery?”

Thomson nodded. “We believe the accountant may have been persuaded—with significant financial incentives, given his wife’s expensive bone marrow treatment—to let Feelan use distillery lorries to ship the heroin back to Glendurie storage units.”

“And the sisters are none the wiser?” Bone asked, sceptically.

“As I said earlier, that, we still don’t know,” Thomson admitted. “Dribble could be creaming off the top while still shining in the sisters’ eyes for his shrewd financial planning that saved their company. He might be a hero to them.”

“Hence the massive bonus,” Bone said.

Thomson nodded. “Exactly.” Then added, “There’s another possibility we’ve been considering. Hamish Durie himself might have been involved initially but then bottled it when he realised the scale of the operation.”

“I’m not sure. That doesn’t quite fit with the profile we’re building of him.”

“He had the connections, the access, and certainly the financial motivation.”

“Possibly. But aside from his sisters, we haven’t met anyone who has anything but praise for the man.”

“His public face, perhaps,” Thomson suggested.

“I can’t imagine Durie would be party to the devastation all that heroin would cause,” Bone insisted. “We’re talking about thousands of addictions, an epidemic of deaths. Everything I’ve learned about the man suggests he was troubled, yes, but not malicious.”

Thomson shrugged. “But he did have addictions. You could be right, but then, not playing ball may have cost him his life.” He shifted in his seat. “Whatever way you look at it, Hamish Durie was a liability, a loose cannon—the last thing Feelan needs at this critical point in his operation.”

Bone frowned, a sudden thought striking him. “What about the missing bar manager, Graham? Do you have any intelligence on his whereabouts?”

Thomson’s expression darkened. “We don’t have anything on that, unfortunately. He may just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You think he may have been killed?” Bone pressed. “Surely your undercover officers must have picked up something on his whereabouts or his fate?”

“Unfortunately, we have nothing,” Thomson repeated, his tone grave. “But with Feelan’s brutal and ruthless track record, I fear for his safety. I will, of course, keep you updated on that, should intel pick anything up.”

“Gee, thanks,” Bone replied sarcastically.

Gallacher frowned at him again.

Thomson turned to Walker, ignoring the dig. “Are you up for it, then, DI Walker?”

“So I’ll be going to Inverness?” Walker asked.

“No," Thomson said. "We need you to go to Ullapool, where your old boss, along with officers from OCD, will brief you. But we’re at a critical point in the operation, so you’ll have to play this very carefully so as not to spook Feelan’s men on the ground.”

“You mean undercover?” Walker asked, eyebrows raised.

“No, we don’t have time for you to build a legend, but plain clothes, and make sure you’re not recognised. DCI Gilbert will pick you up when you get there.”

“When will I be going?” Walker asked.

“In about forty minutes,” Thomson said.

Walker seemed taken aback. “What? I’ll need some time to sort this with my family.”

“Sorry,” Thomson said. “Time is something we don’t have. Our intel indicates there could be a drop at any point in the next forty-eight hours. The ground team needs your expertise, and we can’t risk you being tailed.”

“What does that mean?”

“A squad car will drop you at Stirling Train Station. Then you need to catch the train to Garve and the connecting bus to Ullapool.”

“But that’s a four-hour-plus journey?”

“You need to be in the local supermarket by nine-thirty p.m., so it is imperative you catch the last bus from Garve to Ullapool.”

Walker looked at Bone. “Sir?”

“That’s short notice, not only for DI Walker but for the RCU,” Bone complained.

“Sorry about that. It’s a rapidly developing situation,” Thomson replied.

Bone sighed. “What are we supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Carry on with your investigation. You’ve just brought in the suspect who fled the poisoning, is that correct?”

“News travels fast round here. Yes, correct.” Bone nodded.

“If you think you have enough to charge him with poisoning Hamish Durie, then go ahead. We need to keep everything as normal as possible. He’s clearly only a monkey, and we’re after the grinder.”

“Or grinders,” Walker added.

Bone glanced over. “How do you feel about this, Rhona?”

“It’s very sudden. My partner—” She took a breath. “If it means we stop a massive amount of heroin landing ashore, then of course I’ll help all I can.”

After a long moment, Bone nodded. “All right. DI Walker can go. But I want daily updates, and if there’s even a whiff of risk to your personal safety, you get yourself out of there. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Walker replied, the flicker of an anxious smile touching her lips.

“We’re done here, then?” Gallacher said, rising from his chair.

“Just one more thing we’d like you to do, DCI Bone,” Thomson said.

“Take early retirement?” Bone sneered.

“The Durie sisters have set up a book of condolences in Kincraig Village Church. Pay the church a visit. Show the local community we care. Keep things as normal as possible and play the game, okay?”

“You’re all heart, aren’t you?” Bone said.

“We’re in the business of saving lives, DCI Bone. Tens of thousands of lives.”

“The sisters are quick off the mark there, aren’t they, sir?” Walker said, trying to defuse the tension.

“I think the church minister urged them to set it up following quite a number of requests from upset parishioners. Apparently, it’s been well attended.”

Bone nodded.

“Are we all set, then?” Thomson asked.

“Sir,” the detectives replied together.

As they filed out of the office, Bone pulled Walker aside in the corridor, waiting until the others were out of earshot.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” he asked quietly.

“It’s okay, honestly,” Walker said. “It’ll be good to see some of my old mates.” She grinned. “I might even stay. I always preferred them.”

“No jokes, Rhona,” Bone said, his expression grim. “You need to be very careful. I’m still not sure our esteemed colleagues are giving us the full picture. I don’t trust them or what’s going on, especially Laverty. I’m sure she knows more than she’s letting on.”

“Can I be candid, sir?”

“When are you not?”

“I’m finding her supremely annoying,” Walker said, “and worrying that she’s going to take over.”

“Unbelievable that she pulled rank on you like that. But hey, that’s a battle for another day,” Bone said. “Now you have the odious task of telling Maddie.”

“Yes, I know. She’s not going to like it.”

“Where are they?” Bone asked.

“At home.”

“So you didn’t tell them to find a safe house while our investigation continues?”

Walker frowned. “A safe house?” Have you been watching US crime dramas again, sir? We don’t have a safe house. Now, you’re worrying me. Maybe I should refuse this.”

“I’d set a condition,” Bone said. “You’ll do it if the force provides round-the-clock protection for Maddie and your daughter.”

“Well, an officer outside the house would be good,” Walker agreed. “Maddie will think it’s OTT, but I would feel a lot happier about it.”

“Okay, I’ll make that happen,” Bone promised. “But you can back out of this at any time, and you will have my full support.”

“That would be a first,” Walker joked. “What about our phantom runner? Do we have enough to charge him?”

“We have the video evidence, he fled the scene, and when Harper wakes up, he may be able to ID him, too.” He checked his watch. “I think we probably do, but let’s hold him until tomorrow. You get off home.”

“Wish me luck.” Walker rolled her eyes. She headed for the rear door.

“Take care up there, okay?” Bone called back to her. “The NHS can’t afford any more RCU casualties clogging up hospital beds.”

Walker attempted a smile, but it was obvious her mind was already on the daunting task ahead.

THIRTY-THREE

The interview room reeked of stale cigarettes and fear. Mullens dropped into the chair opposite the runner, his bulk making the plastic creak ominously. The suspect sat rigid, arms folded, staring at a point somewhere above Mullens’s left shoulder.

“Right then, dickhead.” Mullens slammed a thick manila folder onto the table with enough force to make the suspect flinch. “Time for a wee heart-to-heart.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“What’s your name?” Mullens cracked his knuckles, the sound as sharp as breaking bones in the silence.

The runner remained poker-faced.

Mullens sighed and opened the folder in front of him with theatrical slowness. “That’s fine by me. I’ve got fuck all else to do today except sit here and admire your pretty face.”

He withdrew a grainy CCTV still and flicked it across the table like a playing card. “Feast your ugly face on that beauty.”

The man’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second before resuming its study of the ceiling tiles.

“That’s you, cockwipe. Nine forty-five yesterday morning, Glendurie Distillery, looking like butter wouldn’t melt.” Mullens produced a second photograph. “And here’s the same handsome mug, bolting through the gates like the devil was chasing your arse with a red-hot poker. Interesting timing, wouldn’t you say?”

The silence stretched between them like a taut wire.

“Man drops dead from cyanide poisoning,” Mullens continued, “and you decide it’s time for a morning jog. Bit of a coincidence, that.”

“Got bored.”

The words emerged in a flat London accent that had seen the inside of too many cells.

Mullens raised an eyebrow. “He speaks! Thought maybe your tongue had been cut out by your old boss Craig Sneddon.”

A flicker of recognition crossed the suspect’s face before he could mask it.

“Oh aye, I know all about you and our friend in Northlands Prison,” Mullens continued with satisfaction. “You work for Frank Feelan now?”

“No.”

“Then what were you doing sniffing around his storage facility up at Muirhead? Bit of sightseeing?”

A muscle twitched beneath the man’s left eye. “Job interview. Didn’t get it.”

“What kind of job interview takes place in an empty warehouse?” Mullens leaned forward. “Security guard? Or something a bit more hands-on?”

Before the suspect could respond, Baxter’s face appeared around the door. She held up a sheet of paper and gave Mullens a knowing nod.

“Hold that thought.” Mullens hauled himself upright and stepped into the corridor.

“Terry Voss,” Baxter confirmed, handing Mullens the printout. “Just as you suspected. Extensive record here—GBH, aggravated assault, suspected arson, extortion, textbook hired goon material. Definitely worked for Sneddon until our boy got his current accommodation.”

Mullens returned to the interview room, settling back into his chair with renewed enthusiasm. He waved the printout in the runner’s face. “Well, well, Terry Voss. Quite the CV you’ve got here.”

Voss’s composure cracked slightly at hearing his name.

“Says here you used to break legs for Craig Sneddon before he got banged up. Small world, eh? From one scumbag’s payroll to another.”

“Did my time for that,” Voss muttered. “I was a naughty boy. Now I’m legit.”

Mullens barked a laugh. “Legit? You’re hilarious.”

“I like whisky. I like Glendurie. Had some free time, thought I’d take a tour. That a crime now?”

“When you left in such a hurry, did you attack my colleague?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“Not me. Went straight home.”

“Got witnesses to that, have you?”

Voss shrugged. “Do you have evidence I did anything wrong?”

Mullens thumped the metal table with the force of a sledgehammer. The sound reverberated through the small room like a gunshot.

“My colleague is lying in a hospital bed with his skull cracked open because of your handiwork, you piece of shit!”

“Prove it.”

The two words hung in the air like a challenge.

“Were you hired to kill Hamish Durie?” Mullens leaned across the table, his face inches from Voss’s. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Who’s paying your wages? Who sent you?”

“I have no idea what you’re on about.” Voss’s voice remained maddeningly calm. “And I haven’t been offered so much as a glass of water since I got here. This is harassment. I want my brief.”

“Your brief?” Mullens straightened, his face the colour of an overripe tomato. “I’ll give you a fucking brief, you worthless bag of—”

He caught himself before he did something he probably wouldn’t regret. “Interview suspended at eighteen-twelve,” he snarled at the recording device.

Mullens yanked the door open with enough force to nearly tear it from its hinges. The uniformed officer in the corridor jumped back in alarm.

“Take this piece of human waste back to his cell,” Mullens growled. Then, with a visible effort to control his escalating rage, he added, “And give the bastard his phone call.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Mullens found Bone and Baxter in the incident room, both looking up expectantly as he stomped through the door.

“Well?” Bone asked, though Mullens’s thunderous expression already provided half the answer.

“Waste of bloody time.” Mullens slumped into his chair, which groaned under his weight. “Got him to admit that he was at the distillery, and that was the sum of it.”

“Difficult for him not to with his ugly mug all over the CCTV footage,” Bone said.

“But he claims he got bored and left early. He then insisted he was at Feelan’s storage facility for a job interview he didn’t get.”

“Believable?” Baxter asked with a cynical smirk.

“About as believable as a chocolate teapot.” Mullens rubbed his face wearily. “But he’s no amateur. Knows exactly what to say and when to shut his gob. Despite his cockrot features, Voss is a professional thug, London bred. Hard bastard to crack.”

“Enough to hold him?” Bone leaned against the wall.

“For now. But without Harper’s testimony or concrete evidence linking him to the attack…” Mullens shrugged helplessly. “And he’s requested a solicitor, who’ll probably be one of Feelan’s paid stooges as well. Keeping it all in-house, tight as a stripper’s sweaty thong.”

Baxter cringed.

Bone checked his watch—nearly seven o’clock. They’d been at it for over twelve hours. Voss wasn’t going anywhere, and pushing forward while they were all dead on their feet would only lead to mistakes.

“Right, that’s our lot for today.” He straightened up. “We’ll have another crack at him tomorrow when we’re all thinking straight. Get yourselves home and rest up. You’re going to need it.”

He switched off the lights and followed his colleagues out. In the car park, it took him a moment to remember where he’d left the hotel’s van. His weariness was slowly getting the better of him.

“Can you see a white Ford Courier van anywhere?” he asked a passing uniform.

“That one?” The PC pointed at the van directly in front of them.

Bone rolled his eyes. “Thanks. Long day.” He smiled.

“Goodnight, sir,” the PC said and exited the rear gate.

Bone slumped down in the driver’s seat, stretched and yawned, almost dislocating his jaw in the process.

“Time for a pint,” he murmured. He was about to set off when his phone rang. He sighed. “What now?” An unrecognised number. “No, I haven’t been mis-sold fucking life insurance,” he complained. He waited until it ceased wailing, then started the engine. But it rang again. This time, he answered.

“DCI Bone, Police Scotland.” He hoped his greeting would result in an immediate termination of the call.

“It’s Barry Graham, Glendurie Bar Manager.” The voice was barely above a whisper, frantic and trembling.

Bone straightened. “Mr Graham. Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Listen,” Graham interrupted. “I need to speak to you. Just you. Nobody else. I’m at the Forestry Commission car park on the old North Road. Come alone.”

“Hold on, I should—”

“No!” The panic in Graham’s voice escalated. “If you bring anyone else—any backup, colleagues, uniforms—or if you’re followed, I won’t show. I’ll be watching closely, so don’t try anything on. I mean it, otherwise, I’m gone for good.”

“Barry, we can protect you—”

“Just you or nobody. Your choice.” The urgency in his tone was unmistakable. “One hour. Alone.”

The line went dead.

Forty minutes later, Bone pulled into the deserted car park, his headlights cutting through the thickening evening mist. The place was empty, nothing but towering pines and a dilapidated information board at the forest’s edge. He killed the engine, plunging the scene into an oppressive silence.

The temperature had plummeted with the setting sun, and Bone’s breath formed clouds as he stepped out of the car. He zipped his jacket against the biting cold, his shoes immediately soaking up moisture from the sodden ground.

“Mr Graham?” he called, his voice swallowed by the gloom.

Nothing.

Bone squinted into the shadows. Was that a figure at the far side of the clearing? He began walking, keeping his movements deliberate, non-threatening.

“Barry? It’s DCI Bone. I came alone, just like you asked.”

A rustling came from the trees to his right.

“Stop there!” Graham’s voice cut through the fog, high with panic. “Don’t come any closer. I’ve got a weapon. I’ll use it if I have to.”

Bone froze, peering into the darkness between the trees. He couldn’t see a thing.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, calm. “I just want to talk.”

“You don’t understand,” the bar manager said, his voice cracking. “If they find out I’ve contacted you, I’m dead.”

“Who’s ‘they,’ Barry?” Bone edged a little closer to the voice. “Give me names. I can help you.”

A bitter laugh emerged from the darkness. “Help me? But they’re everywhere.”

“We can offer protection,” Bone pressed. “Round-the-clock security. Whatever you need.”

The forest fell silent again. Bone strained to hear any movement, wondering if Graham had fled.

“Are you injured?” Bone tried to engage again, taking another cautious step towards the voice.

“I got away from them,” Graham replied. “They didn’t know about my motorbike in the backyard. I managed to get free, but… they’re hunting me.”

“Who is ‘they,’ and why?” Bone asked, careful when navigating between the trees. His fingers brushed against wet bark, pine needles crunching softly beneath his feet.

“Stay back!” Graham warned again. “I told you, I’m armed.”

“I believe you.” Bone halted his progress. “But you called me here for a reason. How can I help if you won’t explain or let me near you?”

A long pause followed. Bone’s scar itched beneath his finger as he waited, the silence stretching like a wire about to snap.

“There’s something I want to give you,” Graham finally said. “It’s why they are after me. They know I have it. But I need your reassurance that you really can protect me.”

“We have all the necessary resources to do that, Barry. You have my word on that. What is it you have?”

“Something Hamish trusted me to give to you.”

“You know he’s dead?”

“Yes, I know he’s bloody dead, and that’s why I’m so terrified. That’s what they came looking for.”

“Just hand it over and I will make the necessary calls. You have to trust me, Barry.”

Bone inched even closer.

“No. It’s not here. When he told me what was on it, I—”

The sudden crunch of tyres on gravel cut him off. Headlights swept across the car park as a vehicle pulled in.

“Who’s that?” Graham hissed, panic rising in his voice. “You said you’d come alone!”

Bone spun around, squinting through the fog. “I did. I swear I don’t know who that is.”

“You set me up! I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

“No,” Bone insisted. “Let me go check who it is. Stay here.”

Heart pounding, Bone emerged from the trees and strode towards the idling car, its headlights blinding him. He approached, raising his hand to shield his eyes, and the engine revved viciously.

The car lurched forward, accelerating directly at him.

Bone threw himself sideways, hitting the ground hard. The vehicle thundered past, missing him by inches. It skidded across the gravel, tyres spinning, then shot out of the car park and disappeared into the night.

Bone scrambled to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins. “Barry!” he shouted, sprinting back to the trees. “Barry, are you okay?”

Silence.

Bone plunged into the woods, pushing through undergrowth, brambles tearing at his clothes. A sudden mechanical roar split the darkness, and he changed direction, fighting his way towards the sound.

Breaking into a small clearing with a dirt path, he arrived just in time to see the red taillight of a Honda 125 vanishing up the trail, engine whining as it accelerated away.

“Bugger!” Bone shouted, his voice echoing uselessly through the empty forest.

He took out his phone and called it in. With luck and timing, this time traffic units might just intercept a motorbike or blacked-out Jeep or Land Rover in the vicinity. But he wasn’t hopeful.

Meticulously, Bone searched the area where Graham’s voice had come from, looking for anything the frightened manager might have dropped or left behind. He found nothing but mud, pine needles, and darkness.

He returned to the hotel van, locked the doors, and waited for the response team to arrive. He speculated on what Barry had been about to give him and who could scare him so badly that he’d rather run than accept police protection.

“Feelan!” Bone growled. He scanned the entrance for signs of police headlights.

THIRTY-FIVE

The fluorescent lights of Ullapool’s Late n’ Local Convenience Store cast a harsh glow over the chipped linoleum floor. Walker weaved unsteadily between the shelves, dressed in old jeans and a plain sweatshirt—practical clothes that wouldn't draw attention—topped with a woollen beanie pulled down low over her forehead, shadowing her features and keeping her anonymous in a place where being recognised could complicate everything.

She examined bargain toothpaste with feigned interest, waiting for DCI Gilbert, her old boss, to make his pre-arranged appearance. The shop assistant couldn't have been more than nineteen—thin, anxious-looking, with a name badge that read MURIEL pinned to her polyester uniform.

Walker caught a glimpse of a tall man at the far end of the shop, examining lightbulbs. Something about his posture seemed familiar, but he kept his back turned. Was that Gilbert? She couldn't be sure from this angle.

Her speculation was interrupted when the shop door burst open with violent force. A man stumbled in—gaunt, hollow-eyed, with the telltale pallor and twitchy movements of a long-term addict. His clothes hung off his skeletal frame like rags on a scarecrow.

The newcomer lurched toward the food aisle, movements erratic and predatory. Walker watched as he grabbed packets of sandwiches, stuffing them inside his torn jacket with shaking hands.

“Excuse me,” Muriel called from behind the counter, her voice quavering. “You need to pay for those.”

The man spun around, eyes wild and unfocused. “The fuck you say to me?”

He advanced on the counter, and Walker saw Muriel shrink back in fear. Walker's police instincts kicked in despite her cover. She moved closer, ready to intervene.

 “I-I saw you take some items,” the girl stammered. “You need to pay or put them back.”

“You calling me a thief?”

“I’ll call the police.” Muriel threatened, her hand searching under the counter for the panic button.

“I said keep yer hoachin’ wee face oot of it!” the man snarled at the terrified girl, then spotted Walker watching. “You got a problem too, ya manky bitch?”

Before Walker could respond, he shoved her hard in the chest. She stumbled backward, catching herself against a display stand, packets of crisps scattering to the floor. Her training kicked in automatically—she was already shifting her weight, preparing to take him down, when a commanding voice cut through the chaos.

“Detective Sergeant Fraser, Ullapool Police! Stop right there!”

A stocky man with dark hair emerged from the shadows near the lightbulbs, warrant card raised. Walker didn't recognize him—definitely not Gilbert. He moved with quiet authority, his sharp eyes taking in the scene.

The addict took one look at the warrant card and bolted for the door. The detective gave chase, his footsteps pounding on the pavement outside. Walker could hear shouting in the distance, then silence.

Muriel stood frozen behind the counter, hands trembling. “Are you all right?” Walker asked.

The girl nodded shakily. “Thank you. I thought he was going to...”

The detective returned moments later, slightly out of breath. “Lost him down one of the side streets. Slippery bastard.” He approached Walker with concern, his accent betraying his Highland upbringing. “Are you hurt? I saw him assault you.”

“Just shoved me a bit,” Walker replied, “Twat.”

“That was still assault,” the detective said firmly, then turned to Muriel. "I'll have an officer come down to take statements from you and anyone else who witnessed this. We know who he is—local troublemaker. Your statement will help us nail him properly this time.”

He looked back at Walker. “I'll need you to come to the station as well. Make a formal statement about what he did to you.”

Walker's stomach tightened. This wasn't the plan, but she needed to get to the station somehow. Still, she couldn't appear too eager. “Ach, I'd rather not get involved, if it's all the same to you. Don't like dealing with the polis.”

“I understand your reluctance,” the detective said with practiced patience, “but it'll only take five minutes of your time. Your statement could make the difference in getting this character off the streets before he hurts someone else.”

Walker made a show of reluctance, shifting uncomfortably and avoiding his gaze. “I don't know...”

“Five minutes,” he repeated. “Then you're free to go.”

She sighed heavily, as if giving in against her better judgment. "Aye, all right then. But just a quick statement, mind.”

“Absolutely. My car's just outside.”

As they walked toward the door, Walker wondered where Gilbert was and whether this unexpected turn would compromise the operation. The detective led her out into the grey Highland evening, a carefully laid plan now taking an unforeseen direction. Whatever was supposed to happen next, this certainly wasn't it.

THIRTY-SIX

Mullens was halfway home when he changed his mind, turned the car around, and headed for his dad’s care home. Parking up outside, he called his wife.

“I’m just worried about him, Sandra,” Mullens explained.

“Well, don’t be late or your dinner’ll be in the dog,” Sandra replied, predicting where Mullens might end up.

“We don’t have a dog, darlin’.” Mullens chuckled.

“You’re such a dick,” Sandra shot back. “Say hello for me, not that he’ll know who I am.”

At the entrance, he paused, took a sharp intake of breath, and went in.

The manager in reception wrung her hands. “He’s in the dayroom, Mark, but we’re still a bit worried. He’s ever so quiet.”

“Still quiet?” Mullens raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same George?”

In the dayroom, George and Frank sat together at the far end, like forgotten bookends, staring into space. Mullens’s greeting barely registered with either of them.

“Have you two fallen out or something?”

Nothing.

“Dad, you could do with a haircut and shave. You look like a demented Kenny Rogers.”

Still nothing.

“What’s wrong with you pair?”

Frank glanced up briefly. “A wee squirt of WD40…”

“There you go!” Mullens said. “Now we’re lubricating…”

But Frank just slumped back down. Mullens watched them both, these once-larger-than-life characters reduced to silent shadows. Not surprising really, locked up with a bunch of away-with-the-fairies zombies.

“Right, how about I take you both for a pint?” The words escaped before he could stop them.

George’s head snapped up. “A pint?”

“Aye, a pint!”

“Wae you?”

“Correct. And yer pal here, Frank.”

George glanced at his friend without recognition, then back at his son. “Don’t be daft, yer no auld enough,” he scoffed.

“I turned eighteen last week, ya bampot. Have you forgotten already?” Mullens said, stepping into his father’s world.

He found a nurse in the corridor, the manager having gone home. “I’m taking George and Frank for a pint. That okay?”

“I’m not sure, Mark. Your dad’s quite a handful, and Frank might get stressed.”

“Oh, come on, Nurse Ratched, don’t be a spoilsport. They’re going aff their heids in there. Just an hour at the most, quick half in the Fells. Five-minute walk, if that. I’ll feed them as well. I’m sure they’d love some pub grub.”

The nurse pondered, then smiled. “Okay, and I’m only agreeing because you’re a senior police officer and have access to a SWAT team if required. But promise they’re back before their evening medication at seven. And zero alcohol, please.”

“You’re an absolute star. I think it’ll do them good.”

“Maybe, but will it do the patrons of the Fells any good? That’s the question.”

***

The Fells was heaving as usual, the pungent aroma of beer and chip fat hanging in the air. Every table was taken, locals hunched over their pints while the racing results blared from the TV above the bar.

Landlord Andy’s eyebrows shot up when he saw George’s wheelchair appear in the doorway. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he called out. “How you doing, George? Frank?”

Neither responded, staring straight ahead.

Mullens shot Andy a look. “Moody bastards tonight.”

“Ach, well, hopefully your wee trip out will cheer them up.”

“I hope you’re insured,” Mullens joked.

He pushed George to the farthest corner, Frank shuffling along behind. Regular patrons called out greetings, asked after George’s health. To Mullens’s surprise, his dad responded with uncharacteristic politeness.

“What’re you having, Da?”

“The black one.”

“Guinness?”

“The black one, aye. Like—”

Mullens cut him off before the inevitable racial slur could escape. “And you, Frank?”

“A wee squirt of WD40.”

At the bar, Mullens almost ordered alcohol-free Guinness, then thought better of it. “Three pints of the real stuff, Andy.”

“You sure that’s wise? Aren’t they on the happy pills?”

“Ach, what harm can just one do?”

“If it was me, I’d be heading to Basel for the big sleeping pill.” Andy laughed. “Still, must be better than sitting in with the wife, eh?”

George’s eyes lit up at the sight of the pint. “What’s this?”

“Guinness.”

“Aye, and the chaser?”

“God’s sake, Da. You might be away ta-ta but you’re still all there when it comes to the sauce. Let’s just start with the black one, okay?”

“A wee squirt,” Frank said as Mullens handed him his pint.

“Aye, this’ll lubricate your squeaky heid better.”

George downed his pint in three or four massive gulps.

“Da! What did you do that for?”

“Bloody thirsty. Is there another one, or have the moths locked the doors to your wallet?”

“Let’s get some food in you first.” Mullens eyed the chalkboard menu. “Special’s pie and mash.”

“Scallops,” George announced suddenly.

“What?” Mullens turned to his father.

“I want scallops. And chips.”

“Da, you’ve never eaten a scallop in your life. You once called calamari ‘deep-fried foreskins.’”

“I want scallops,” George insisted in a familiar tone that meant an argument was futile.

“Bloody hell,” Mullens muttered. He returned to the bar, where Andy was polishing a glass. “Any chance of scallops for the demented one?”

“Does he think this is the Ritz?” Andy chuckled, leaning over the bar. “Kitchen might have some from yesterday’s seafood special.”

“He’s never eaten a scallop in his life,” Mullens grumbled. “It’ll be wasted on him.”

“I’ll charge you the special price, no worries,” Andy said, and winked. “Might be worth it just to see his face when he tastes them.”

When the food arrived, George stared at his plate as if it contained evidence from a crime scene. He prodded a scallop with his fork, then lifted it to inspect it more closely.

“Tastes like used Durex,” he announced after one tentative bite, loud enough for the entire pub to hear.

Mullens threw up his hands. “I told you!”

“How would you know what that tastes like?” asked an elderly woman at the next table who clutched her double whisky like it was a set of holy beads.

“Forty years on the buses, hen.” George winked. “I’ve seen—and tasted—everything.”

Meanwhile, Frank was silently moulding his mashed potatoes into a distinctly phallic shape, his concentration absolute. When he finished, he looked up at George with childlike pride.

George’s laughter boomed across the pub. He picked up one of his scallops and balanced it precariously atop Frank’s mashed masterpiece.

“There we go!” he cackled. “The full wedding tackle! No accidents the night wae that!”

Frank clapped his hands in delight, then reached for the gravy boat. Before Mullens could intercept, Frank was pouring gravy onto the table leg.

“A wee squirt of WD40.”

“Christ on a bike,” Mullens groaned. “Come on Frank, put that—”

But George was already reaching for the ketchup, his face alight with mischief. “Needs transmission fluid, too!”

Andy appeared holding a cloth. “I should’ve known better than to serve you lot.”

“I’m not sure their happy pills are working.”

“Oh, they seem happy enough to me.” Andy giggled.

“A wee squirt of WD40!” Frank shouted, now upending the gravy boat entirely.

At that moment, Ronnie McIlroy and Billy Houston appeared, swaying slightly in rumpled black suits and loosened ties.

Mullens groaned. “Of all the days…”

“Where’ve you two been?” Mullens noted their unsteady gait.

“Wake,” Ronnie said, then turned to George. “Remember Jimmy Patterson, George? The bus driver? Snuffed it couple of weeks ago. We’re getting picked off one by one.”

“Aye, and I’d be starting wae you first, ya horse’s arse,” George shot back.

“Da!” Mullens protested, surprised at his father’s sudden lucidity.

“I thought your da was livin’ in la-la land noo?” Billy laughed. “Seems more like his old charming self to me.”

“Do you know these two, Da?” Mullens asked carefully.

“Whit? I have the misfortune to work with these clowns. Day after day, I have to put up with their shite.”

“Hear that?” Ronnie grinned. “Still thinks he’s at the depot, Billy. La-la land it is. Probably thinks he’s twenty-five and still chasing that Wimpy waitress fae Kirkie.”

“Steady on, lads,” Mullens warned, stepping forward.

“Or what?” Billy squared up. “You’ll arrest us for insulting the village idiot?”

“That’s my father you’re talking about, you drunken waste of space.”

“Some father,” Ronnie cut in. “Can’t even remember what year it is.”

“Right, outside!” Mullens grabbed Ronnie’s collar.

“Hey! Take it easy, the lot of you!” Andy called over.

“Aye, listen to the barman,” Billy sneered. “Before somebody gets hurt.”

George was trying to wheel himself into the fray. “I’ll show you hurt, ya pair of useless bastards! Couldn’t change a tyre without an instruction manual and a committee meeting!”

The whole pub was watching now, the air thick with tension. Suddenly, Frank stood, his voice cutting through the chaos, clear and pure: “Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling…”

The pub fell silent. Even George’s wheelchair stopped mid-ram.

Frank’s voice filled the room, rich and deep. Mullens had never heard anything like it. The old man’s eyes were closed, his weathered face transformed as the ancient melody poured out of him. Even Andy stopped polishing glasses, transfixed.

When Frank reached the final verse, “And if you come, when all the flowers are dying,” tears rolled down George’s cheeks. And soon every punter was joining in, their collective chorus raising the rafters. And when the end approached, the pub quietened again to listen to Frank finish the song alone, his voice filling the lounge in a pitch-perfect climax.

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then Frank opened his eyes, seemingly surprised to find himself the centre of attention. He looked down at his empty glass and whispered, “A wee squirt of WD40.”

The spell broke. The pub erupted in applause and cheers. Even Ronnie and Billy were wiping their eyes.

“Christ almighty, Frank,” Andy said, his voice rough. “Where did that come from?”

Frank seemed completely oblivious to his performance, but there was something in his face—a glimpse of the young man he must have been, singing in pubs like this long ago.

Before George could return to his previous mission of vehicular assault, Mullens seized the moment to make their exit. They walked through Burngreen, the night air cool on their faces. Frank started humming. Soon he was singing again, softer now, and George joined in, his voice cracked but sincere. Mullens found himself adding his own voice to the harmony.

Two generations of trouble, walking through the darkness, singing like they didn’t have a care in the world. For just a moment, Mullens thought, maybe they didn’t.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Once the car was clear of the shop, Fraser glanced at Walker in the rearview mirror.

“DS Ian Fraser,” he said, his Highland accent thick. “Sorry about the unorthodox pickup. We had to adapt when our original plan went sideways.”

“Yes, I know who you are,” Walker replied dryly. “You shouted it loud enough.”

Walker pulled off her grimy beanie and ran her fingers through her hair with obvious relief. “Thank God for that. I picked this thing up from supplies, but I'm sure it's riddled with nits. Haven't stopped scratching since Stirling train station.”

Fraser chuckled. "Such a glamorous job, isn't it?"

As they passed the last row of houses and Fraser turned onto the coastal road heading north out of the town, Walker studied his weathered face in the mirror. “Where exactly is this secure location?”

Fraser remained silent, checking his mirrors.

“Can you tell me anything about what's going on?” Walker pressed.

Again, Fraser said nothing, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and the mirror.

Walker gave up and sat back, watching the landscape become increasingly remote through the window. The scattered houses gave way to rolling hills and moorland, the road winding through terrain she recognised from her past life.

They'd been driving in silence for about ten minutes when Fraser's eyes lingered longer in his mirror.

“What's up?” Walker asked, resisting the urge to turn around.

“Car behind us. Been there since we left town.” Fraser suddenly took a sharp left turn down a side road. The headlights followed. “Shit,” he muttered, making another turn deeper into the countryside. The car stayed with them.

Fraser accelerated, pushing the unmarked police car harder than the rough terrain allowed. The following vehicle matched their pace, bouncing over potholes.

“Someone's definitely tailing us,” Walker said, now glancing back through the rear window.

“Hold on.” Fraser cut the wheel hard to the right onto a farm track and pulled up alongside a tall hedgerow. The pursuing car's headlights swung wide, then shot past the turning, continuing straight ahead.

They both waited in silence.

“False alarm?” Walker asked after a moment.

“Maybe.” Fraser didn't sound convinced. “Or they realised we spotted them.”

After another nervous check, he reversed back out to the main road and they continued on. For the next thirty minutes, they drove north along increasingly remote roads, Fraser checking his mirrors obsessively every few seconds. His tension was palpable in the confined space. Walker found herself scanning the road ahead for potential choke points or ambush locations—old habits from her Highland days.

Finally, seemingly satisfied they were clear, Fraser doubled back and turned onto an unmarked farm track. Moments later, they pulled up beside a weathered-stone farmhouse.

“Welcome to operational HQ,” Fraser said, as Walker climbed out.

Inside, the quaint façade gave way to a hive of focused activity. The living room had been transformed into a makeshift incident room—dining table commandeered for maps and surveillance equipment, walls stripped of pastoral artwork to make space for tactical diagrams.

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice drawled from across the room. “If it isn't the ginger ninja. DS Rhona Walker. Sorry, DI Walker now.”

“I could have sworn you once had a hairline as well,” Walker replied with a dry smile, then her expression warmed. “DCI Gilbert. Good to see you, sir."

Gilbert smiled back. “You too, Rhona. Glad you haven’t lost that gale-force Lewis wit. So how's life down in happy valley?”

“Beats chasing Highland drug dealers through blizzards. Though we've had our share of excitement lately.”

Gilbert nodded. “So it would appear. And how's the legendary DCI Bone these days? Still as grumpy as they say?”

“He's doing well now, back to his old self. A way better boss than you ever were.”

“And again!” Gilbert rolled his eyes. “When are you coming back, Rhona. I miss your insults.” He noticed her overly casual clothes. “Sorry about having to abandon the original rendezvous, by the way. We discovered Feelan may have people inside Ullapool station and there are eyes all over me there. So you can understand our jitters.”

Before Walker could reply, a movement in the corner caught her eye. The gaunt man from the shop sat at a small table, no longer the twitchy addict but alert and professional, his appearance somehow less desperate without the performance.

Gilbert noticed her stare. “I believe you've already met DS McNabb.”

McNabb stood, looking genuinely contrite. “Apologies for the abuse back there. Had to make it look convincing.”

Walker raised an eyebrow. “Well, you had me fooled. I was about to body drop and cuff you.”

A detective approached—a woman in her forties with close-cropped silver hair.

“Allow me to introduce DI Hazel McLeod,” Gilbert said, gesturing to the woman and then to Fraser. “Colleagues, this is DI Rhona Walker from Kilwinnoch. Rhona and I go way back to her days at Inverness nick. She spent eight years stopping drug importation in the Highland region and has local knowledge we desperately need right now.”

“Good to meet you,” DI McLeod said, returning Walker’s nod.

“And that’s the OC Team Leader over there in the corner.” Gilbert said.

A flustered-looking man dressed head-to-toe in black looked up from a set of radios, his expression betraying the tension of someone overseeing a complex operation. He stopped what he was doing and came over. “DI Walker—Superintendent Rory Macintyre.” He extended his hand. “Good to have your expertise on this one.”

Walker took in the scene. “Quite the setup you've got here.”

Macintyre gestured to the farmhouse around them. “Rented it three days ago. We're posing as a lovely middle-aged couple, coast walkers—lots of binoculars and outdoor gear to explain our presence. The local community's tightknit, so we had to establish cover quickly.”

Gilbert tapped the table. “Right, now we’re all acquainted. Our undercover operations have been running for months, but we're at a critical juncture now. We've been monitoring Feelan's network extensively. Intel reports that a major cargo of heroin is due to land before dawn in a secluded cove north of Lochinver.”

“Well, well, well,” Gilbert drawled. “How the mighty have fallen, DS Rhona Walker. Sorry, DI Walker now.”

Walker removed her beanie. “It’s good to see you, Harry.”

“You, too, Rhona. So how’s life down in the valley of sin?”

“Beats chasing Highland drug dealers through blizzards. Though we’ve had our share of excitement lately.”

Gilbert nodded. “So it would appear. And how’s the legendary DCI Bone these days? Still as grumpy as they say?”

“He’s doing well now, back to his old self. A way better boss than you ever were.”

“Ouch!” Gilbert rolled his head. “After all I taught you. Well, it looks like we’ve won you back in the end.” Gilbert beamed in the mirror again.

“Temporary loan from the Premier League.”

“Ouch number two!” Gilbert laughed. “I see you’re still as sarcastic as ever. Glad central Scotland hasn’t knocked that out of you.”

“Added a few layers more, if I’m honest,” Walker replied.

“Sorry about the manhandling, by the way.” Gilbert half glanced over.

Walker shrugged. “I could have taken you down at any point, but chose not to.”

“In your dreams, softy Southerner.”

As they passed the last row of houses and Gilbert turned onto the coastal road heading north out of the town, Walker glanced anxiously out the window.

“I thought we were going to the station?”

“Change of plans. We received intelligence that suggests there may be compromised officers in the Ullapool station. Can’t risk taking you there.” He checked his mirrors again. “We’re headed to a secure location where you can be briefed safely.”

They’d been driving for about ten minutes. Gilbert’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, lingering there.

“What’s up?” she asked, resisting the urge to turn around.

“Car behind us. Been there since we left town.” Gilbert suddenly took a sharp left turn down a side road. The headlights followed. “Shit,” he muttered, immediately making another turn. The car stayed with them.

Gilbert accelerated, pushing the unmarked police car harder than regulation allowed. The following vehicle matched their speed.

“Someone’s definitely tailing us,” Walker said, now glancing back through the rear window.

“Hold on.” Gilbert cut the wheel hard to the right onto a narrow lane. The pursuing car’s headlights swung wide, then shot past the turning, continuing straight ahead.

They both waited in silence, Gilbert easing off the accelerator.

“False alarm?” Walker asked after a moment.

“Maybe.” Gilbert didn’t sound convinced. “Or they realised we spotted them.”

For the next thirty minutes, they drove north along increasingly remote roads, Gilbert checking his mirrors obsessively every few seconds. His tension was palpable in the confined space. Walker found herself scanning the road ahead for potential choke points or ambush locations—old habits from her Highland days.

Finally, apparently satisfied they were clear, Gilbert turned onto an unmarked farm track. Moments later, they pulled up beside a weathered-stone farmhouse.

“Welcome to operational HQ,” Gilbert said, as Walker climbed out and stretched her limbs stiff from her hours of travelling.

Inside, the quaint façade gave way to a hive of focused activity. The living room had been transformed into a makeshift incident room—dining table commandeered for maps and surveillance equipment, walls stripped of pastoral artwork to make space for tactical diagrams, and the original furniture pushed aside to accommodate a dozen officers in various stages of preparation.

Gilbert glanced over at Walker, who was still trying to take it all in. “I bet you thought I was on Feelan’s payroll, didn’t you? When I took that turn away from the station.”

“I did no such thing,” Walker said, trying to conceal the thought that had fluttered briefly through her head earlier.

“Wouldn’t blame you. What he’s probably offering would tempt many a modestly paid copper with an overdraft from hell. But sorry to disappoint you. I prefer to be honest and poor. More fool me, eh?”

Two detectives approached—a woman in her forties with close-cropped silver hair and a man in his late thirties with the weathered face of someone who spent too much time outdoors.

“Allow me to introduce DI Hazel McLeod and DS Ian Fraser,” Gilbert said. “Colleagues, this is DI Rhona Walker from Kilwinnoch. Rhona and I go way back to her days at Inverness nick. She spent eight years stopping drug importation in the Highland region and has local knowledge we desperately need right now.”

The newcomers nodded, businesslike but not unfriendly.

“Good to meet you,” DI McLeod said. “Sorry about the last minute disguise.”

“No bother. If I’m honest, it’s not far off my weekend attire.” She smiled.

Superintendent Ross Macintyre, OC’s team leader, glanced up from a set of radios lined up on a table, his anxious expression perhaps betraying the look of someone who’d seen more operations go wrong than right.

“DI Walker.” He extended his hand. “Good to have your expertise on this one.”

“Thanks for the warm welcome.” Walker took in the scene. “Quite the setup you’ve got here.”

Macintyre gestured to the farmhouse around them. “Rented it three days ago. We’re posing as a lovely middle-aged couple, coast walkers—lots of binoculars and outdoor gear to explain our presence. The local community’s tightknit, so we had to establish cover quickly.”

Gilbert tapped the table. “Right. Intel reports that a major cargo of heroin is due to land before dawn in a secluded cove north of Lochinver.”

“Tonight?” Walker couldn’t hide her surprise. “I thought we had more time.”

“We believe Feelan’s gang has moved the date forward to outmanoeuvre us,” Gilbert said. “Likely a response to recent police activity.”

“Where exactly?” Walker asked.

DI McLeod unfolded a map across the table. “We’re working with Organised Crime. They’ve identified a section of coastline approximately eighteen miles long.” She pointed out the contours of a collection of beaches and inlets covering an area stretching from Lochinver to Kylesku.

“That’s a lot of coves to cover, DI McLeod,” Walker observed.

“Call me Hazel,” the DI said. “And yes, it is. You see our problem? That’s where you come in.”

Walker pulled the map closer, examining the coastline carefully. Almost immediately she shook her head, ruling out possibilities. “This one’s too rocky… This is far too exposed… Treacherous currents here, farmhouse too close…”

The room fell silent as she continued her assessment, her finger tracing the jagged shoreline. Finally, she looked up.

“Pencil?” she asked.

DS Fraser slid one across the table. Walker lightly circled two locations, then tapped the first.

“This cove here may be a candidate,” she said to Gilbert. “You remember Achnahaird Bay? That’s where the Gilmour gang dropped a huge consignment of coke back in 2003.”

Gilbert nodded. “I mentioned that to Organised Crime.”

“It may be a little too obvious, though,” Walker continued. “If the cove has form, so to speak, Feelan probably knows its history. My bet would be on this one.” She tapped the second circle. “This one. Just below Rubha Coigeach. More secluded, less obvious, but a lot more difficult for landing a small craft.”

She glanced up at the others. “Have you folks been involved in landings like this before?”

“Human trafficking,” Hazel said quietly. “Ended with a tragic loss of life.”

Fraser shifted uncomfortably. “I was part of a recovery operation when a gang’s boat sank. All drugs lost, and we had to save the survivors.” He grimaced. “Though, it was a tough decision to pull them from the water.”

Walker nodded. “As you can see, it’s treacherous work. They need to offload heavy boxes from a larger vessel onto smaller boats capable of landing on beaches the size of thimbles—all while dealing with rocks, heavy currents, and unpredictable weather. The crews are often inexperienced lackeys who can fuck up at any moment.”

“That’s right,” Gilbert agreed. “The chances of landing the drugs successfully are quite low.”

“That’s why they’ll probably have more than one boat,” Walker said. “Insurance against failure and to speed up the process.” She studied the map again. “The other thing the bay needs is a road or track that can accommodate at least a ten-tonne lorry to drive everything away. This cove here has all those boxes ticked. If I remember right, this line on the map is a farm track, but back in 2011 the farmer had tarmacked it.”

Gilbert smiled at his colleagues. “I told you she was good.”

“I’ll let Organised Crime know,” Hazel said, making notes.

“I recommend two teams if manpower permits,” Walker added. “One at site A, one at site B, just in case I’m completely wrong.”

Macintyre stepped forward, examining the satellite imagery of the coastline where Walker had circled the two areas in red marker.

“Okay, I suggest we stake out both locations,” Macintyre said. “Resources are stretched thin, so I’ll deploy most personnel to the bay adjacent to Rubha Coigeach.” He tapped the first circle. “And a smaller team at Achnahaird Bay.” His finger tapped it. “You’ll be with Team B at Achnahaird, DI Walker; too many armed officers at location A to risk you going there.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Sorry. That’s an order.”

“Sir. What’s our timeline?” she asked, retreating from further appeals.

“Satellite picked up a vessel matching our profile about thirty miles out. If they maintain current speed, we’re looking at a landing between six and seven a.m.”

“Daylight. That’s interesting,” Walker said.

“Yes, we were surprised at that.”

“Not me. That tallies with the two coves I’ve identified. A night landing at either of those would be suicidal, especially Rubha Coigeach. And what about extraction?”

“Our drone detected heavy vehicle movement about thirty miles from both potential drop zones about an hour ago.”

Walker nodded.

“You’d better get ready, DI Walker,” Macintyre ordered. “We need to get in there while it’s still dark.”

“Sir.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

The last light of dusk settled over Loch Gillan. Bone stood at the shoreline, the water dark and still before him. The long day’s tensions coiled tight within his muscles. Response units had failed to locate either Graham or the black SUV that had tried to run him over, so all in all, a ball-breaking day. He stood for a moment longer, taking in the fading vista before him, willing his heart rate to slow and his head to stop reeling.

He stripped down to his swimming trunks, the evening air raising gooseflesh across his skin. His ritual was familiar—three deep breaths, then wade in quickly before reason could overrule instinct. The water bit at his ankles, then his knees, his thighs, a shocking cold that never failed to snatch his breath away, no matter how many times he did this.

Bone plunged into the loch’s embrace. The initial shock hit like a physical blow—a full-body gasp, muscles seizing in protest. Then, as always, came the strange euphoria, endorphins flooding his system while his body fought to maintain core temperature. He struck out with powerful strokes, cutting through the glassy surface, each movement sending ripples across the reflected stars.

The world narrowed to the rhythm of his breathing, the pull of his arms through the water. Out here, there were no suspicious deaths, no missing barmen, no criminal empires. Just the primal equation of survival—move or freeze, breathe or drown.

But tonight, the equation wasn’t balancing. After only a few minutes, his strokes grew laboured. His chest tightened, muscles already burning with fatigue. Frustration welled up; he realised he would need to turn back far earlier than planned. His usual route—across to the harbour wall and back—suddenly seemed as impossible as climbing Everest.

Reluctantly, he turned and made for shore, each stroke a small defeat. The pebbles scraped against his palms as he dragged himself from the water, collapsing onto the beach. His breath came in ragged gasps, the cool evening air now painfully cold on his wet skin.

Bone sat hunched over, water streaming from his hair, tremors running through his exhausted body. The adrenaline faded, leaving a profound weariness in its wake. Not just physical—a bone-deep, soul-level exhaustion.

He pressed his finger into the scar at his temple, the familiar pressure both a comfort and reminder. The case swirled in his mind like the dark water of the loch—money laundering, heroin shipments, the Durie sisters with their secrets, Harper lying in a hospital bed, a terrified barman on the run, and now Walker undercover and potentially in danger. All of it, his responsibility.

And beyond the case was the rest of it—the separation from Alice, the distance growing between him and Michael, the fear that he was failing them both. He was failing at everything.

Bone put his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp. He had become a man perpetually out of his depth, always struggling to keep his head above water. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

With a monumental effort, he gathered his strength to return to the empty cabin. Then he felt it—a hand on his shoulder, warm on his chilled skin.

“You’ll catch your death out here.”

Bone looked up, momentarily disbelieving. “Alice?”

She stood there in the twilight, her familiar silhouette impossibly, wonderfully real. “Who else would find you half-naked and hypothermic on a beach in the middle of nowhere?”

“What are you doing here?” He struggled to his feet, suddenly acutely aware of his dripping, shivering state.

“I was worried about you.” She retrieved his towel from the rocks where he’d left it, holding it out to him. “You sounded… not right on the phone.”

He wrapped the towel around his shoulders gratefully. “I was worried about you, too.”

“I know. That’s why I came.” Her voice softened. “You were just watching out for us.”

“Where’s Michael?”

“At my sister’s. Don’t worry. He’s fine—enjoying Gail’s carefree attitudes toward parenting.”

“Are you sure it’s okay to leave him?” Bone pressed again. A ripple of worry accompanied his shivering.

“Seriously, it’s fine. They are in a secure flat in the poshest part of Glasgow, and Gail’s partner is there with them, too. He’s home from the rigs.”

Bone nodded and dropped his shoulders, relief finally washing through him. “I’m sorry, Alice,” he mumbled through chattering teeth. “For everything.”

“Don’t start that again.” She stared out over the water. “Why were you trying to drown yourself?”

“Just trying to clear my head.” He gestured vaguely towards the centre of the loch. “I usually swim out to the end of the pier and back, but tonight… I couldn’t make it. Had to turn around.”

“You’re worn out, Duncan.”

“It’s my job again,” he said, the words heavy with resignation. “I’m worried about the safety of my team. It just all gets…” He sighed. “To be honest…” He didn’t have the strength to finish the sentence.

A gust of wind sent a violent shiver through him. Alice sighed, reaching out to take his arm.

“Come on, you need to get yourself warmed up before you catch pneumonia.”

He let her guide him towards the cabin, her hand steadying him as they walked. The simple human contact anchored him, pulling him back from the edge of whatever dark place he’d been approaching.

“Thanks for coming,” he said quietly. “I’m grateful you’re here.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she replied, but her voice had lost its edge. “We can talk about it later, after you’ve fed me. I’m starving.” She glanced towards the cabin. “Is there anything edible in that fridge of yours, or is it another chippie night at the hotel? The chippie or your cooking? Actually, don’t answer that.”

Despite everything, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That sounds good.”

He leaned into her strength, a drowning man clinging to the only true lifeline he’d ever known. And for a brief moment, the case, the threats, his worries and anxieties lifted from his shivering shoulders.

THIRTY-NINE

In what had once been a cosy bedroom, Walker changed quickly, strapping on a stab vest and checking her equipment. Her heartbeat quickened, the familiar pre-operation adrenaline already flowing.

Twenty minutes later, she was seated in the back of an unmarked Volvo, heading north along the coast road. Beside her sat DS Campbell from Highland’s Drug Enforcement unit, while DC Mahmood from Organised Crime rode shotgun. Their driver, a tactical officer named Reynolds, kept the headlights dimmed as they navigated the winding route.

Walker shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the stab vest that dug into her collarbone. The equipment had been hastily assembled—borrowed gear never fit right. She tried adjusting the side straps, but the Kevlar remained stubbornly rigid against her ribcage.

“Always feels like wearing a cardboard box, doesn’t it?” Campbell remarked, noticing her discomfort.

“And about as flattering.” Walker shifted position again and winced. “This one’s clearly designed for someone built like Mullens.”

“Who’s Mullens?” Mahmood asked from the front seat.

“Picture a refrigerator in an ill-fitting suit,” Walker said, finally giving up on comfort and settling for merely tolerable. “With an appetite to match.”

The moon had vanished behind thick cloud cover, leaving the night unnaturally dark. The only illumination came from the occasional farmhouse, distant pinpricks of light in the vast blackness of the Highland landscape. After a long forty-minute drive, they closed in on their destination.

“Three miles to turnoff,” Mahmood murmured, checking the GPS.

Walker peered through the window, the glass cool on her forehead. They rounded a bend, and she stiffened. “Lights. Out at sea.”

The others followed her gaze. Three tiny points of light flickered on the distant horizon, barely visible against the inky blackness.

“Could be the mother ship,” she said quietly.

Mahmood adjusted his night-vision binoculars. “Holding position approximately five miles offshore. That fits the pattern.”

“Farm track coming up on the left.” Reynolds slowed the vehicle.

They turned off the main road, headlights completely extinguished. The car crawled forward using only ambient light, the suspension groaning. They navigated the rutted track. The darkness seemed to press in on all sides, swallowing them whole.

After another couple of miles of painfully slow progress, they reached a fork in the road. To the right stood the hulking shadow of a derelict farm building; to the left, the land fell away into a deep drainage ditch.

Reynolds brought the car to a stop. “Which way?”

Mahmood consulted his phone. “Signal’s weak out here. According to the map overlay, we should take the right fork.”

Walker leaned forward, frowning. “I think it’s left.”

“You sure?” Campbell asked.

“The cove faces northwest. Left track will take us to the ridge overlook.”

Reynolds hesitated, hands hovering over the wheel. “Command?”

“My map says right,” Mahmood insisted, zooming in on his screen.

“I don’t care what your map says,” Walker countered, irritation edging her voice. “The cove is to the left. I’ve worked this coastline for years.”

While they debated, a flicker of movement caught Walker’s attention—brief, almost imperceptible from the darkened farm building. A chill ran up her spine.

“Wait—”

Her warning came too late. Blinding headlights blazed to life, momentarily dazzling them all. A massive 4x4 lurched from behind the building, engine roaring, accelerating directly towards them.

“Go!” Walker shouted.

Reynolds reacted instantly, slamming the accelerator. The car leapt forward down the left fork. The 4x4 crashed into their rear quarter panel. Metal screamed on metal, the impact throwing Walker against her seat belt.

“Armed police!” Campbell shouted uselessly, drawing his weapon.

“Drive!” Mahmood yelled.

The track deteriorated before them, the surface more pothole than road. Reynolds fought for control; the 4x4 rammed them again, harder this time. The rear window shattered, glass spraying across the back seat. Walker ducked, covering her head.

“Mayday, mayday!” Mahmood shouted into his radio. “Team B under attack! Farm track four miles west of Achnahaird!”

The radio crackled with static. “Team B, repeat position—”

Another vicious impact cut the transmission short. The 4x4 was relentless, its powerful engine and reinforced bull bars making each strike more devastating than the last.

Reynolds pushed their vehicle to its limits, but on the uneven terrain, the saloon car was hopelessly outmatched. They bounced violently over a ridge, all four wheels briefly leaving the ground. Walker’s head slammed into the roof, stars exploding behind her eyes.

“Can’t shake them!” Reynolds shouted.

The 4x4 pulled alongside, attempting to force them towards the drainage ditch. Campbell fired through his shattered window, the gunshots deafening in the confined space.

“Heading for the cove!” Reynolds yelled. “Backup—”

The next impact was catastrophic. The 4x4 slammed into them with such force that the car left the track entirely, tyres finding no purchase on the slick grass. For a sickening moment, they were airborne, the vehicle twisting sideways before gravity reclaimed it.

They hit the drainage ditch with bone-breaking force. Walker felt herself hurled sideways, her head connecting with the door panel. Pain exploded through her skull, intense and immediate, before darkness rushed in from all sides.

The last thing she heard was the 4x4’s engine fading into the distance, consciousness slipping away.

FORTY

The first rays of sunrise illuminated four bleary-eyed men seated along Kilwinnoch Reservoir’s pebbly shore. Their fishing rods extended over the still water like patient, outstretched arms, though patience was wearing decidedly thin. They’d been there since midnight on Dougie MacPherson’s insistence that “the big ones come out at night,” but eight hours later, their catch tally remained a resolute zero.

“Christ almighty,” Tam Gillespie muttered, slapping frantically at his neck and arms. Clouds of midges had descended with the dawn. “This was your bloody brilliant idea, wasn’t it, Dougie? Night fishing, you said. All we’ve caught is pneumonia and hives.”

Dougie, the loudest of the group, swatted lazily at the air around his face. “How was I to know the only thing biting would be these flying teeth? Anyway, you’re the one who forgot your spray, ye daft numpty.”

“Someone give him some before he does himself an injury,” Old Wullie wheezed, though making no move to help as Tam performed an increasingly frantic dance. “He looks like he’s having some kind of fit.”

“Let him suffer a wee bit longer.” Dougie grinned maliciously. “Serves him right for moaning all night about every-bloody-thing.”

Young Davie, barely twenty and the newest addition to their weekly fishing ritual, finally took pity and tossed his repellent to Tam. “Here. Before they carry you off.”

“About bloody time,” Tam grumbled, frantically spraying himself. “Wee bastards have eaten me alive.”

“Wouldn’t that be good?” Dougie said.

“Keep yer voice down,” Old Wullie piped up. “You’ll frighten off every fish in the loch—if there are any left after your constant moaning scared them away.”

“Frighten what fish?” Tam shot back. He scratched furiously at his bites. “There’s nothing in this godforsaken puddle but weed and rusty Scotfresh shopping trollies!”

“I caught a three-pounder last week,” Dougie insisted and shifted uncomfortably on his folding stool.

“Piles acting up again?” Old Wullie cackled at his friend’s discomfort. “Told ye to get them bloody rings seen to.”

“Mind yer own business, ye decrepit old fart,” Dougie snapped. “At least when I pish I don’t need a magnifying glass to help locate my tackle.”

“Speaking of tackle,” Old Wullie turned to Young Davie, who’d been unusually quiet all morning. “You’re no’ sayin’ much. Touched a nerve, have we, son? Quietly cultivating knob rot and too scared to tell us?”

Davie’s face flushed crimson beneath his hood, exhaustion from the night making him less tolerant than usual. “You old men are bloody obsessed with illness and dying. It’s all piles this and prostate that. Can we no’ just fish in peace?”

“Just you wait, son,” Old Wullie wheezed, jabbing a gnarled finger at him. “You think you’re immortal now, but when you stop trusting your farts, then you know the old reaper is after your arse.”

“Good God,” Tam muttered, still scratching at his midge bites. “Laugh a bloody minute, these fishing outings. Maybe we should invite Mr Death to join us.”

“Aye.” Dougie nodded and yawned widely. “I’m sure he’d catch more than us useless wankers.”

“Might be better company as well.” Young Davie smirked.

“Wahay, the boy’s got a sense of humour after all,” Dougie shouted enthusiastically.

“Ach, that’s it!” Old Wullie reached into his tackle box. “Anyone fancy a wee dram? Been freezing my bollocks off since midnight for nothing.” He produced a half-bottle of amber liquid.

“Good God, man. You kept that bloody quiet, ya miserable sod,” Dougie said.

Tam peered at the label through bloodshot eyes. “Glendurie? Christ on a bike, Wullie. Trying to poison us, are ye?”

“It’s twelve years old,” Wullie replied. “Cost me half my pension cheque.”

“That’s why Moira’s been giving you the cold shoulder.” Dougie hooted. “She thinks yer spending it all on those internet pills to give yer wrinkly old todger a lift!”

“Even Viagra wouldnae cut it with your lost cause,” Wullie snapped back. “You’d need bloody scaffolding.”

The lad suppressed a giggle.

“We’ve got him, at last, Wullie,” Dougie declared.

The group cheered. But before they could toast their success, the unmistakable sound of officialdom clearing its throat interrupted them. Gerald Webster, the angling club secretary, stood behind them, clipboard clutched to his chest and looking disgustingly fresh for the early hour.

“Gentlemen,” Webster said, his voice as thin as his patience. “License check.”

With much grumbling, the men produced their permits—all except Dougie, who made a show of patting his many pockets.

“Must’ve left it in my other jacket.” He offered an innocent smile that didn’t match his exhausted eyes.

Webster’s weasel-like face twitched with triumph. “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to pack up, Mr MacPherson. Regulations are very clear.”

“Aw, come on, Gerry,” Dougie wheedled. “Thirty years I’ve been fishing this reservoir. The fish know me by name.”

“Rules are rules,” Webster insisted, unmoved. “And I’ll expect the rest of you gone in thirty minutes. The day shift anglers will be arriving soon.”

“Thirty minutes or what?” Dougie challenged. “You’ll call the Perch police?”

“I’ll issue fines,” Webster said primly. “Thirty minutes, gentlemen.”

He strutted away.

Dougie mimed Webster’s pompous walk, summoning energy he didn’t think he had after the sleepless night. “Bet he’s got a stick up his arse the size of a telegraph pole.”

“He smuggles gerbils in his breeks,” Tam added, sending the others into fits of laughter.

“Miserable wee shite.” Wullie wheezed.

The bottle made the round, each man taking a warming sip, then they prepared to pack up their gear. Just as Tam began to reel in, his rod suddenly bent double.

“Holy shite!” he exclaimed, nearly losing his grip. “I’ve got something!”

The other three gathered around him, exhaustion momentarily forgotten, excitement crackling like static.

“Easy now,” Dougie coached. “Could be a big one! Don’t reel yet.”

“No, reel now!” Wullie cut in.

For several minutes, Tam struggled with whatever was on his line, the rod bending perilously while he attempted to tire out his catch. The others continued offering contradictory advice, their voices rising in anticipation.

“I see it!” Young Davie pointed to a dark mass beneath the surface. “It’s huge!”

The object broke the surface, and their excitement turned to confusion, then disappointment. Not a fish, but a heavy black bag, waterlogged and bulging, had snagged on Tam’s hook.

“Always the lucky one, eh, Tam?” Dougie laughed. “Probably someone’s rubbish. Or your love life fly-tipped.”

Together, they slowly hauled the huge, heavy bag onto the shore, groaning with the effort after their night without sleep.

“Maybe it’s a stash of something valuable,” Davie suggested. “Like in the films.”

“More likely Wullie’s nappies,” Tam grumbled, but curiosity got the better of them all.

Dougie knelt, pulling at the plastic. It tore open, and water sluiced out, along with something far more sinister. A hand, pale and mottled, flopped onto the pebbles.

The laughter died instantly. Old Wullie staggered backwards. Young Davie retched into the reeds.

As the torn bag revealed more of the body, the men recoiled in collective horror. The face was barely recognisable—swollen, bruised, with dried blood caked around what remained of his nose. Worse still were his limbs, bent at unnatural angles that spoke of deliberate, methodical breaking.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dougie whispered, the full horror of what they were seeing registering.

“It’s Barry Graham,” Tam said, his voice barely audible. “The bar manager from Glendurie.”

Dougie’s hands trembled. He fumbled for his mobile when a sound, barely perceptible, froze them all in place—a wet, rasping gurgle coming from the broken man’s throat.

“He’s still alive!” Young Davie gasped.

Tam, overcoming his initial revulsion, dropped to his knees beside the battered figure. “Barry, can you hear me? Help’s coming, mate.”

The dying man’s eyelids fluttered, revealing bloodshot eyes that struggled to focus. His lips, split and swollen, moved almost imperceptibly. Tam leaned closer, his ear nearly touching Graham’s mouth to catch the whispered word.

“Safe…”

The word escaped with Graham’s final breath, a death rattle following as his chest stilled forever. Tam commenced CPR but knew it was a futile gesture and gave up after a few compressions.

Dougie, still clutching his phone, relayed their location to the emergency operator in a voice devoid of his usual bluster. “Kilwinnoch Reservoir.”

The four men sat in a stunned circle around the corpse, each lost in their own thoughts, unable to process what they’d just witnessed. The bottle of Glendurie lay emptied and forgotten beside them, as the midges continued their relentless attack, indifferent to the horror unfolding on the shore.

Dougie, his face ashen, finally broke the terrible silence. “Seems like we invited the Grim Reaper after all,” he muttered, his attempt at gallows humour falling flat in the dawn’s light.

They remained there, shocked and dumbstruck, the distant wail of approaching sirens gradually growing louder, cutting through the morning mist that hung over the reservoir like a shroud.

FORTY-ONE

The harsh trill of Bone’s mobile woke him with a start. He snatched it off the bedside cabinet and fumbled with the buttons, trying to silence it before it disturbed Alice. It was his alarm, set earlier than usual.

Bone sat up, instantly alert. He glanced at the bedside clock—5:38 a.m. Time to get ready. Beside him, Alice stirred, making a small sound of protest, then she burrowed deeper into the pillow.

“Mmph?” she mumbled, not even opening her eyes.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

She dragged a heavy arm across her face, fighting consciousness. Her words came slowly and slurred with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Half five,” he said softly, moving to the wardrobe.

She finally cracked one eye open, struggling to focus on him in the half-light. It took her a moment to become fully aware of where she was, who she was with. Slowly, she propped herself up on one elbow, blinking heavily.

Bone pulled out his dark suit and black tie. Alice watched him, gradually becoming more alert.

“What’s with the Goth look?” She stifled a yawn. “Was last night that bad?”

Despite the heaviness of the day ahead, Bone smiled. “I have to go to church, pay my respects.” He laid the suit carefully on a chair.

She nodded drowsily, then, to his relief, she smiled. “I loved last night. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too. All the time.”

She reached for his hand, her movements languid with sleep. “What are we doing? Why are we such a bloody mess together?”

“I don’t know,” Bone admitted and squeezed her fingers. “Did you mean what you said last night? About bringing Michael up when school ends and staying the whole summer?”

“Yes, of course I meant it.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, becoming more alert. “My sister’s getting turfed out of her rented flat in June, and she said she’d be happy to run the holding.”

“And Michael? He’d be happy up here, away from his friends?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m sure your precious sanctuary will be invaded by preteens soon enough.” She yawned deeply, stretching like a cat beneath the covers.

“Sorry to wake you.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

She drew him close, their foreheads touching. For a moment, they stayed that way, breathing together, the warmth of her against him making him reluctant to leave.

“Promise me one thing,” he said finally, pulling back. “Just to humour me. Could you have breakfast in the hotel? Be around people this morning?”

“I need to get back anyway—”

“Please,” he interrupted. “I’ll worry otherwise.”

She sighed. “Okay. But I’m going to have another hour if that’s all right. You wore me out last night.”

“Oh, we both know that’s not true,” he replied with a half-smile. “Not in that way, anyway.”

Her laugh was soft and warm. She drew him in for a kiss that nearly made him reconsider his departure.

“Go pay your respects,” she whispered against his mouth.

He showered quickly, his mind already shifting to the prospect of another nightmare day ahead. When he emerged, Alice had already turned over, her breathing deep and regular. He watched her for a moment from the doorway, smiled, and then silently left the cabin. Passing his car, he spotted a note on the windscreen.

“Not again.” He yanked the slip of paper out from under the wiper, his heart racing. Nothing on the front. He flipped it over and read the scrawl scratched across the back.

Tyre fixed. Yo owe me a pint. Junior

He let out a long sigh of relief and kicked the replaced front tyre.

“Legend.” He smiled and climbed in, the familiar smell of his old faithful settling his nerves.

He started her up, but his phone rang.

“DCI Bone, this is Sergeant Brody. Sorry to disturb you at this early hour.”

“I’m in the car. What’s up? Is it Will or Rhona?” he asked anxiously.

“No, sir. There’s been an incident at Kilwinnoch Reservoir. A body’s been found. The men who found it have identified it as the body of a Mr Barry Graham.”

“Bar manager. Shit. Okay, on my way.”

Bone hung up and put his foot down. The Saab responded with a quiet, reluctant groan.

FORTY-TWO

By the time Bone arrived at Kilwinnoch Reservoir, SOC was already set up at the scene. Uniformed officers had cordoned off a section of the shoreline where a black shape lay covered by a tarpaulin. The four fishermen huddled outside the stone building that served as the Anglers Association headquarters, shock evident in their hunched postures.

Bone approached the cordon.

“DCI Bone.” A young officer in a full scene suit intercepted him, pointing at his feet. “Protective shoes, sir.”

Bone sighed but accepted the blue overshoes, awkwardly balancing on one foot, then the other to pull them on. “Satisfied?”

“Yes, sir. Preserve the integrity of the scene.” The officer lifted the tape for him to duck under.

Cash knelt beside the body, his gloved hands moving methodically as he conducted a preliminary examination.

“What have we got?” Bone asked, going closer with an awkward shuffle, the protective overshoes making his footing uncertain on the damp grass.

Cash glanced up, his usual sardonic expression replaced by something even more grim. “Plenty. None of it good.” He gestured for Bone to crouch beside him, then pulled back the tarpaulin.

Graham’s face was almost unrecognisable beneath the bruising—one eye swollen shut, nose clearly broken, lips split. But it was the systematic nature of the injuries that spoke volumes.

“Burns here.” Cash indicated several small circular marks on the torso. “Cigarettes, most likely. Defensive wounds on the forearms. Multiple broken fingers—deliberate, not from the impact of whatever beat him.”

“Torture,” Bone said quietly.

“Without question.” Cash pointed to deep ligature marks around the wrists and ankles. “Restrained for an extended period. The skin beneath is macerated from prolonged contact with moisture. I’d estimate he was tied up for a number of hours before death.”

“Cause?”

“Multiple traumas, but the coup de grâce was likely this.” Cash indicated a deep wound at the base of the skull. “Blunt force trauma with a distinctive pattern. I’ll know more after post-mortem.” He shook his head in disbelief. “The fact he was still alive when they found him is frankly impossible.”

“Alive?” Bone’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“That was my reaction, too. The poor sod was made of strong stuff, clearly. Medically speaking, he should have been dead hours before. Massive internal bleeding, several bones protruding into vital organs, cranial fractures…” Cash gestured at the broken body. “By all rights, he should have died from shock alone.”

“How didn’t he drown? He was in a bag in a loch, for God’s sake.”

Cash looked perplexed for a moment. “From what the fishermen described, the bag was caught in the reeds near the shallows. Not fully submerged.” He motioned towards a patch of tall grasses about fifteen feet from shore. “Kept his head just above water level—enough for him to get occasional breaths.”

“Prolonging his suffering,” Bone muttered.

“Sheer bloody-mindedness kept him going,” Cash replied. “I’ve seen it before in victims who desperately need to communicate something. The body can sometimes override its own shutdown protocols, so to speak.” He peered inside the bag again. “Ah, no stones. That’s why it surfaced.”

“They wanted him found,” Mullens said, arriving at the scene. “Otherwise, why not just dump him in the middle of the loch?”

“Good morning, DS Mullens,” Cash said dryly. “Don’t often see you up so bright and early.”

“You think I had any choice in the matter?” Mullens grumbled and shot a glare at Bone.

“A message,” Bone agreed. He rose to his feet. “What about the fishermen?”

“Four of them,” Mullens replied. “Been night fishing since midnight. One’s a first-aider, but I don’t think even divine intervention was going to save this poor fella.”

“Hold on, you said he was desperate to communicate,” Bone interrupted. “Did he say something?”

“Apparently,” Cash confirmed.

“What was it?” Bone asked.

Cash shook his head. “Sorry, I wasn’t there when the incident team first arrived. The fishermen will know.” He sighed. “Whatever his last words were, it must have been important enough for him to cling to life through sheer force of will.”

Bone stepped back, and Mullens followed.

FORTY-THREE

Inside the small office, the four fishermen sat on mismatched chairs, hands wrapped around untouched mugs of tea. Dougie MacPherson, the largest, stared blankly at the wall. Old Wullie’s hands trembled visibly. Young Davie kept obsessively scratching at midge bites, while Tam Gillespie, the first-aider, sat apart, his shirt stained with Graham’s blood.

“Gentlemen,” Bone began, “I’m DCI Bone, this is DS Mullens. I understand you’ve had a traumatic morning.”

“Traumatic?” Dougie barked a humourless laugh. “Found a half-dead man stuffed in a bag, watched him die in front of us. Aye, you could call it that.”

“We want to go home,” Old Wullie said, his voice quavering. “We’ve told your officer everything already.”

“Just a few more questions,” Bone assured them. “I understand the victim spoke before he died?”

Tam looked up, his face haunted. “He said ‘safe.’

“Did he say anything else? Any indication of who did this to him?”

The fishermen shook their heads.

“No, just ‘safe’, then he was gone,” Tam repeated.

“Any idea what that might mean?” Bone asked.

“Safe as houses, safe keeping. Whatever it is, he must have thought it was safe,” Dougie offered.

“Did any of you see anything unusual during your night fishing? Vehicles, people, anything out of the ordinary?”

“Just that prick of a club secretary,” Tam muttered. “And he’s always lurking about.”

“We were focused on the water,” Old Wullie added. “Trying to catch something after eight bloody hours of nothing.”

“Until we caught him,” Dougie said quietly, nodding towards the loch.

Bone nodded sympathetically. “We’ll need formal statements, but that can wait until tomorrow. Go home, try to rest.”

As the fishermen filed out, Bone turned to Mullens. “Safe. That’s it?”

Young Davie came running back in. “Or a safe, the safe. He might have meant that.”

Bone stared at the lad for a second. Then nodded enthusiastically. “Well done, son.”

Young Davie attempted a weak smile.

“Thanks. You get off now. You look dead on your feet.” Bone returned a smile.

Once he was sure the lad had gone, Bone turned back to Mullens. “That’s it,” Bone said.

“That’s what?” Mullens asked, confused.

“That’s where Graham must have hidden whatever Durie gave him.”

“What did he give him? Hold on, I’m lost.”

“Haven’t got time to explain. You need to search all the safes that Graham had access to.”

“Distillery safes?”

“Yes, and his house, but start at the distillery. Whoever ransacked Graham’s house clearly couldn’t find what they were looking for.”

“Are we talking safes or any type of lockable storage?”

“Check them all. Get a warrant if necessary, but start with the staff areas. Graham would have had access there.”

“But won’t SOC have been through all of them already?”

“Well, check them again,” Bone snapped back impatiently. “Last night, Graham was about to tell me where he stashed what I assume is incriminating evidence that Hamish Durie gave him before he died.”

“You met Graham last night?” Mullens said, surprised. “What happened?”

“I almost saved him.” Bone sighed, then glanced up. “I’ll fill you in later.”

Mullens straightened. “Okay, sir. And any news on Will? I tried calling last night, but some witch on the other end wouldn’t put me through.”

“I haven’t heard anything. I’ll chase up when we leave here.”

“No news is good news, eh?” Mullens grimaced.

“Let’s hope so, Mark.”

“And what about our London runner? Is Rhona sorting him out?”

“No, she’s in Ullapool.”

“What? Please don’t tell me she’s having a last-minute minibreak; though I wouldn’t bloody blame her.”

“Assisting drug enforcement with the Feelan investigation.”

“Since when?” Mullens appeared surprised. “That’s sudden.”

“Organised Crime requested her specifically because of her local knowledge. They are anticipating a major shipment of heroin landing ashore in the next day or so.”

Mullens rolled his eyes. “She’ll come back with that daft Lewis accent of hers fully recharged again.”

Despite everything, Bone smiled. “Probably.”

“Does that mean we can nail Feelan’s arse for all of this?”

“Hopefully. If we can establish the link between the distillery, the heroin, and the murders. That’s why we need to get our hands on Graham’s stash.”

Cash appeared at the doorway. “I’ve found something. The injury pattern—it looks methodical, professional. Not rage or passion. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”

“Someone with experience,” Bone agreed grimly.

“Aye. And if I were you, I’d be very worried about your people out in the field right now.”

“You hear that?” Bone said to Mullens. “Watch your back, okay?”

“Easy for you to say. Last time I saw my own arse was in 1973.”

“I mean it, Mark. Be careful.”

“Sir.”

Bone turned back to Cash. “Show me.”

Together, they returned to the scene, Bone’s protective overshoes skittering on the wet grass.

FORTY-FOUR

The distillery was quiet when Mullens arrived. The emptiness amplified his footsteps against the stone floor as he approached the reception desk, where a woman dressed in tweeds, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Baxter, glanced up from a pile of ring binders.

“DS Mullens,” he said, showing his warrant card. “I need to see your general manager.”

“I’m not sure if he’s in today. Most staff have been given the day off as a mark of respect.” The receptionist’s mouth tightened, clearly fighting back tears.

“Then who’s in charge?”

As if on cue, Robert Banks marched through the main doors, his face flushed and tie askew. He’d clearly been crying.

“I am,” he said curtly.

“You not taking the day off?” Mullens asked.

“Fretting at home is not for me. What’s this about? Haven’t we had enough disruption?”

Mullens locked eyes with him. “I need access to all lockers, safes, and anything where secure items are kept.”

Banks’s eyebrows shot up. “Is it necessary to do this all over again? It is extremely disruptive.”

“I’m afraid so. I have a warrant to search all storage facilities on the premises, including any of your safes, which I believe haven’t been checked yet by SOC.”

Banks frowned. “Your team has been through the entire distillery with fine-tooth combs,” he said. “Why again?”

Mullens took him to one side, out of earshot of the receptionist. “There’s been another murder.”

A flicker of something—fear or surprise—crossed Banks’s face. “What?”

“Your bar manager was found dead this morning.”

Banks paled visibly. “Barry Graham? That’s impossible. He’s just… He’s just not come in. He can’t be.”

“His beaten and tortured body was found in a bin bag up at Kilwinnoch Reservoir,” Mullens said flatly. “So I’ll ask again—could you please take me to your safes and all safe deposit boxes you might have? Let’s start with those.”

Banks led him through the distillery in silence, past copper stills and oak casks, up a narrow staircase to a well-appointed office overlooking the grounds.

“This was Hamish’s office,” Banks explained, voice tight. “The safe is behind that painting.”

He gestured to a mediocre landscape of the distillery, which swung away from the wall on hidden hinges to reveal a modern safe with a digital keypad.

“Open it,” Mullens instructed.

Banks hesitated. “I don’t see what this has to do with—”

“Now, please.”

Sighing, Banks punched in a code. The safe opened with a soft click. Inside were several folders, a small cash box, and some legal documents.

Mullens pulled on gloves and examined the contents methodically. The folders contained standard business contracts, property deeds for the distillery, and what appeared to be family wills. Nothing immediately suspicious.

“Is there anything else in here?” Mullens peered into the corners of the safe.

“No. That’s everything.”

“Any others?”

“My office safe, and of course, Miss Durie’s in her office, though she hasn’t used her office for over a year.”

“Open both, please.”

“I don’t have authority to open Miss Durie’s safe. I would need to seek her approval, which would be completely inappropriate today, of all days.”

“I’m giving you approval. Open it,” Mullens growled.

With another sigh, Banks reluctantly complied. But after further fruitless searching, Mullens found nothing of significance.

Back in reception, they stopped by the desk.

“Is that it? No more safes?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay then, let’s move on to the lockers.”

“Excuse me, Mr Banks,” the receptionist interrupted them. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You know, there’s a safe in the stockroom. It used to be used for keeping petty cash and takings from the bar secure overnight. It’s hidden under the floor at the back of the room. Well, it might not be there anymore, but when I worked in the bar a few years ago, it was still there.”

“Okay, let’s go. Thank you.” Mullens nodded.

The receptionist smiled and returned to her stack of files.

“I even remember the combination, if that helps,” she called to them before they disappeared down the corridor. “Five, three, five, nine. Happens to be my birthday. Though it might have been changed since.”

“Lucky!” Mullens smiled.

Banks led him down through the building, past the bar area, still cordoned off, then back into the room where Mullens first interviewed the young barman. At the rear, Banks unlocked the stockroom door.

“She said right at the back,” Mullens said.

They negotiated around stacks of boxes and, reaching the wall, Mullens moved a heavy crate of beer to one side, revealing a faded rubber mat in the corner.

“This?” He knelt and pulled the mat aside to reveal a circular metal door set into the concrete floor, complete with a combination dial. “Bingo!”

Banks knelt beside him, squinting at the dial. “What number did Rachel say?”

“Five, three, five, nine.”

After a couple of failed attempts, there was a soft click. The metal door popped open slightly. Mullens drew it wide, revealing a small compartment containing a manila envelope.

Mullens extracted it carefully. Inside was a handwritten note and a SIM card. The message, in elegant, old-fashioned script, read: Dear Barry, if anything happens to me, please hand this over to the police immediately. Hamish.

“That’s definitely Hamish’s handwriting,” Banks confirmed, peering over Mullens’s shoulder. “Very distinctive. He always wrote like that—old school, proper penmanship.”

Mullens held up the SIM card. “Any idea what might be on this?”

Banks shook his head. “None whatsoever.”

Then Mullens remembered. “The burner phone, ya dancer! Pardon my French.”

“You didn’t swear,” Banks said, clearly a little unsettled by Mullens’s fist punch of the air.

But Mullens was already out the door, rushing to his car. He jumped in and called ahead to the digital team to warn them he was on his way back.

FORTY-FIVE

When Bone was done at the crime scene, he headed back to his car, parked up beyond the cordon. He rounded the bend and spotted his red-haired stalker lingering by his car.

“Hey!” Bone shouted, breaking into a run.

Redhead jerked up, eyes widening in alarm. Without hesitation, he bolted, sprinting away from the car and down a narrow side lane.

Bone cursed under his breath and gave chase. His target was quick—lean and agile—darting through the narrow path with the practised ease of someone who knew exactly where he was going.

“Stop! Police!” Bone called, but Redhead only accelerated.

The lane opened onto a residential street with semi-detached houses lining both sides. Redhead vaulted a garden fence with surprising grace, cutting through a back garden. Bone followed, his coat flapping, and heaved himself over the wooden fence, landing heavily on soft earth. A startled woman dropped her watering can as Bone charged through her vegetable patch.

“Police!” he gasped by way of explanation, narrowly avoiding a collision with a birdbath.

His quarry was already scrambling over the opposite fence. Bone followed, tearing his trousers on a protruding nail but barely registering the sting. They burst onto another street, weaving between parked cars.

Redhead toppled a row of wheelie bins in his wake, sending them crashing across the pavement. Bone leapt over the first, dodged the second, but the third caught him on the hip, nearly sending him sprawling. He recovered his balance and pushed on, gaining ground. The suspect glanced nervously over his shoulder.

They charged down an alleyway between houses, emerging onto the high street where early morning shoppers jumped aside. Redhead barrelled through a display of newspapers outside the corner shop, sending them flying in a flurry of headlines and photographs.

“Sorry!” Bone called out to the furious shopkeeper when he raced past.

The suspect darted left, heading towards a car park where Bone caught a glimpse of the blue Astra. Redhead was fumbling in his pocket for keys while he ran, clearly making for the vehicle.

Bone dug deep, finding a reserve of energy. With a final burst of speed, he launched himself forward, tackling the stalker just as he reached for the car door. They hit the ground hard, Redhead grunting, the air knocked from his lungs.

“Stay down!” Bone commanded, breathing heavily. He wrestled Redhead’s arms behind his back. “You’re under arrest.”

The struggle was brief but fierce—Redhead bucking and twisting beneath him—but Bone maintained his grip, snapping handcuffs around Redhead’s wrists with practised efficiency.

“You’ve got nothing on me,” Redhead whined. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

Bone detected an east coast accent. He rolled him over, getting his first proper look at the face that had been haunting the periphery of this investigation for days. Close up, Redhead was younger than he’d expected, mid to late thirties possibly, with freckled skin and cold, empty eyes.

“Let’s start with stalking a police officer and obstructing a murder investigation.” Bone hauled Redhead to his feet. “And then we can discuss what you did to my home and car.”

Redhead’s expression flickered—a momentary flash of fear quickly masked by defiance.

Bone marched him back towards the reservoir, one hand firmly on his arm. When they reached his car, Bone spotted a card tucked under the wiper blade—another from the Happy Families set—Bertie Bun, the baker’s boy.

Bone froze, a cold rage washing over him. He stared at the card.

“Threatening my family?” Bone growled, grabbing Redhead by his jacket and slamming him against the car. “You bastard!”

The suspect’s head knocked on the roof as Bone’s control momentarily slipped, his face just inches from his captive.

“Who sent you? Who are you working for?” Bone demanded.

Redhead’s lips curled into a smile, but he remained silent, which only fuelled Bone’s fury.

With barely contained rage, he shoved Redhead into the back seat of his car, securing the door with more force than necessary. He carefully collected the card using his handkerchief, retrieved an evidence bag from the boot, and bagged it.

The redhead stared straight ahead, suddenly composed despite the rough treatment, a small smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

FORTY-SIX

After depositing the red-haired suspect at the station and handing him over to Sergeant Brody for processing, Bone was preparing for the interrogation when Brody glanced up from his custody paperwork and smirked.

“Loving the new Goth look, sir,” Brody said, pointing at Bone’s black tie. “Planning to hit a Marilyn Manson concert after work?”

Bone glanced down at his attire, suddenly remembering. “Bugger. The Church.” He about-turned and dashed back to his car.

Bone drove into Kincraig, circling the deserted square a couple of times until he spotted the church’s steeple high above the village at the top of a winding cobbled lane.

He parked at the bottom of the lane and began the short climb. Halfway up, he noticed a gleaming silver BMW parked up adjacent to the church grounds. The luxury vehicle stood out against the ancient stonework and modest surroundings.

A handful of journalists and photographers milled about the church entrance, which was adorned with a tapestry of flowers and handwritten cards in memory of Hamish Durie. As he approached the top of the lane, one particularly eager photographer hurried toward him, camera already raised.

“DCI Bone! Any leads on the Durie case?” he called, the camera flashing in Bone’s face.

Bone felt heat rise to his cheeks. “Show some respect,” he growled, gesturing at the church and the memorial tributes. “This is hallowed ground, not a bloody press conference.”

The photographer retreated immediately, catching Bone off guard. He’d braced for the usual argument, but it never came. As the camera tracked him from a distance, he found himself thinking of McKinnon, who would have stood his ground, hurling insults until forcibly removed. For a moment, Bone almost missed their hostile exchanges. He shook his head. No, he definitely didn’t miss the insufferable man.

Ahead, a woman was kneeling by the entrance, laying a bouquet of white lilies among the sea of flowers. A young minister knelt beside her, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. His clerical collar stood stark against his black shirt, his youthful face solemn but compassionate.

As Bone approached, the woman rose, dabbing at her eyes. She nodded briefly at Bone before walking back toward the gate. The photographers’ cameras clicked rapidly, capturing her grief in unwanted pixels. She flinched at the flashes, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as she hurried past.

“Vultures,” the young minister muttered, watching her go. He turned to Bone, extending his hand. “Reverend McKenzie. You must be the detective everyone’s talking about.”

“That obvious, is it?” Bone asked, shaking his hand.

“We don’t get many strangers in Kincraig, especially not ones who scatter journalists with a glare.” The minister smiled faintly. “You’re here for Hamish, then?”

“I am,” Bone confirmed. “I need to sign the book of condolences. Make my presence known.” He gestured to the profusion of flowers and tributes that almost obscured the church entrance. “Quite a turnout. I’ve never seen so many flowers at a memorial.”

“Hamish was incredibly popular in the village,” the minister replied. “The real Hamish, that is, not the reputation that preceded him. People have been coming by day and night since the news broke.”

Bone took a moment to examine the makeshift memorial. Bouquets of every description—from elaborate funeral arrangements to simple wildflower bunches—lined the stone path. Among them, dozens of cards and notes fluttered in the gentle Highland breeze. He bent down to read a few of the messages.

You made my final days worth living. Thank you for the laughter.

Hamish—the best distillery tour guide an old codger could ask for. The angels will enjoy sharing a dram with you.

One card in particular caught his eye—a formal condolence card with the letterhead of “Highland Senior Citizens Trust.” Inside, a handwritten message read: “In memory of our most dedicated volunteer. You touched countless lives with your kindness.”

Bone looked up at the minister. “The Highland Senior Citizens Trust—Hamish was involved with them?”

“Indeed, that’s just one of many. I knew him for ten years.” The minister nodded. “He was one of the most dedicated volunteers this community has ever seen. Every Thursday without fail, he drove the St. Andrew’s Hospice minibus, took patients on private tours of the distillery.” The minister’s eyes softened with memory. “He had a gift for making the residents laugh, even those in their final days. Brought the good whisky too, not the tourist rubbish—though they weren’t supposed to let him pour it.”

“I understand he was a recovering alcoholic,” Bone said carefully.

The minister’s face hardened. “In all the years I knew him, I never once saw him drunk or smelled alcohol on his breath. He wouldn’t have done that to the patients or anyone else in his care. He didn’t have a bad bone in his body.”

“That doesn’t quite match the portrait his family painted,” Bone observed.

“No, well…” The minister glanced toward the church door. “Hamish never wanted recognition for his charity work. Said it was just between him and the patients. ‘My one decent thing,’ he called it.” He lowered his voice. “That family has had its struggles. The father, Mr Durie, was an absolute ogre. Locals apparently hated him, but as he was the main employer, everyone just put up with his behaviour.”

“What do you mean by ‘ogre’?” Bone pressed.

“A bully through and through. Underpaid and overworked his staff.” The minister’s expression darkened with memory. “At least when the sisters took over, they paid a living wage, but I suppose old family wounds run deep. Apparently, he treated both sisters very badly, especially Miss Agnes.”

“Did you hear anything about Agnes’s baby, when she was very young?”

“Oh my, yes, awful. One of my parishioners told me that her father forced her to terminate the child. Quite evil.”

“And Miss Elspeth was supportive of her sister throughout that period?”

The minister glanced over Bone’s shoulder at the church entrance again.

“That I don’t know. As I said, a very complicated family.”

Bone smiled. “Well, I can see Hamish was well-loved despite all that,” Bone said, gesturing to the abundance of flowers and cards. “These tributes speak volumes.”

The minister nodded. “Half the village has been through here since the news broke. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“Have the Durie sisters visited? Signed the book?” Bone asked carefully.

The minister hesitated. “Miss Elspeth is in there now. I’d give her a minute if I were you. She was quite upset earlier.”

Bone moved toward the heavy oak door, pressing it open just enough to peek inside. The church interior was dim, illuminated only by the stained glass windows and a row of flickering candles at the altar. Elspeth Durie sat rigid in her wheelchair in the centre aisle, facing the altar, her arthritic hands clutching what appeared to be a single white rose. A burly woman in a security uniform sat several pews away, vigilant but giving her employer space.

The ancient door creaked loudly, betraying Bone’s presence. Elspeth’s head turned sharply, her raptor-like eyes finding him in the shadows.

“Who’s there?” she called, her voice echoing through the empty church.

Bone stepped inside. “DCI Bone, Miss Durie. I apologise for the intrusion.”

Elspeth’s jaw tightened. “Janet,” she ordered the security officer, “help me to the door.” The woman rose immediately, moving to position herself behind the wheelchair.

“I need to speak with you urgently,” Bone said, approaching them.

“As do I with you, Inspector,” Elspeth replied, her voice brittle as glass. “But not here.”

Bone glanced around. “Is there somewhere more private?”

The minister, who had followed Bone inside, stepped forward. “You can use our meeting room. This way.”

He led them down a short hallway to a small room at the back of the church, Miss Durie’s security assistant helping to push the chair over the raised threshold. It was cluttered with children’s toys and musical instruments—a guitar leaned against the wall, a small drum set occupied one corner, and colourful plastic toys spilled from a large box.

“Sorry about the mess,” the minister said, clearing some building blocks from a table. “We run a playgroup twice a week.”

“This is perfect. Thank you,” Bone said.

The minister nodded and left, closing the door softly behind him. Elspeth Durie fixed her piercing gaze on Bone.

“Now, Detective,” she said, “I believe we have matters to discuss.”

FORTY-SEVEN

Miss Durie turned to the security officer, who had pushed her into the small room. “Janet, that will be all for now. Wait outside, please.”

“Miss Durie, I don’t think—” the woman began.

“That will be all,” Elspeth repeated sharply.

The security officer hesitated, then nodded curtly and stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her.

Bone glanced around, then pulled over a small wooden chair, first having to move a stack of building blocks and a plush giraffe from its seat. The chair was clearly meant for someone much smaller—his knees jutted upward awkwardly as he sat, bringing him almost eye-level with Elspeth in her wheelchair.

Elspeth turned her chair to face the window. “It’s very stuffy in here,” she complained, reaching over to push it open a crack. The gentle breeze rustled the children’s artwork pinned to the walls.

Bone noticed her eyes glistened—perhaps she’d been crying, though it might have been the sudden burst of sunlight streaming through the window making her eyes water.

“I’m not one for sentimentality,” she said finally, “but I’m pleased the sun has come out for my brother.” She attempted a smile, but her mouth failed to fully comply, creating a grimace instead.

“Where is your sister?” Bone asked. “I’ll need to speak with her as well.”

Elspeth’s expression tightened. “Agnes is at the family home. She became very upset and had to leave. It’s all got too much for her, I’m afraid. A doctor is treating her for shock.”

With a grunt of effort, she swung her wheelchair around to face him fully. Bone moved to help, but she dismissed him with a sharp gesture of her hand.

“Miss Durie, I need to inform you about a development this morning. I’m sorry to bring this news to you during your time of grief, but I believe it may be connected to your brother’s death.”

Elspeth stiffened. “What is it?”

“Barry Graham, your bar manager, was found dead early this morning at Kilwinnoch Reservoir. The evidence suggests he may have been tortured before being killed.”

Elspeth’s mouth fell open, and her eyes widened. For a moment, she appeared genuinely stricken, her carefully maintained composure cracking. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged.

“Mr Graham?” she finally whispered. “Tortured?”

Bone nodded, solemnly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, dear God.” Her voice trembled. “Not Mr Graham. He’s been with us for years.”

She rocked back and forth in a small, agitated movement, as if physically trying to process the information. “This can’t be happening. First Hamish, now Mr Graham. What hell has befallen us?”

Bone watched her carefully. Her reaction seemed genuine—the shock, the confusion giving way to fear, then anger.

“This is deliberate,” she said suddenly, her eyes flashing. “Someone is targeting the distillery. Targeting my family.”

“We believe that may be the case,” Bone agreed cautiously. “Miss Durie…” Bone leaned forward slightly, “What can you tell me about Barry Graham’s relationship with your brother?”

Elspeth’s thin fingers tapped on the arm of her wheelchair. “They were friends. Not sure how close, but I know Mr Graham supported Hamish through a few crises.” Her mouth tightened.

“Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill Mr Graham?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. But I wonder if it’s connected to the poisoning. Perhaps Mr Graham somehow knew or found out who killed my brother.”

She continued to rock, her breathing laboured. Then she stopped and looked up. Her eyes fixed on his as though searching for a response to a question she was yet to ask.

“Inspector, I need to…” She exhaled.

“It’s okay, take your time.”

“It has come to my attention that my brother was involved in…” She paused again, clenching her jaw as though physically restraining the words. “He has been transferring funds from an unknown source into our corporate account and then sending them to an overseas bank.”

FORTY-EIGHT

“Money laundering?” Bone said, feigning surprise.

“It appears so.” Her voice was brittle, like thin ice about to crack.

“How much money exactly? And how did you find out?”

“I’ve suspected for some time.” She adjusted her position in the wheelchair. “I queried a number of financial irregularities with our cash account a few months ago, but my accountant, Mr Dribble, reassured me that the transactions were related to my sister’s travel and accommodation expenses abroad.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “I should have pressed harder.”

“You didn’t believe him?”

“I kept a close eye, and the transfers continued.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I’ve known Mr Dribble for many years, and his behaviour had changed. It was sounding alarm bells.”

“Where was the money going?”

“A bank in Miami, Florida.” Her fingers drummed against the armrest of her chair. “My sister attends sales conferences there, so it wouldn’t necessarily be flagged, but the payments didn’t align with her trips.”

“How much are we talking about?” Bone pressed again.

“It runs into tens of thousands.”

Bone frowned. “If you’ve suspected this for months, why wait until now to report it? These are significant sums.”

Elspeth’s face tightened. “My sister has expensive tastes, so I let it go initially. But as I said, the payments and trips didn’t align. When I finally showed the transactions to Agnes, she said she knew nothing about them.”

“Are you implying that your accountant is involved?”

“I have no evidence,” she said, “and as you know, evidence is the critical part of any investigation, Inspector. But Mr Dribble was directly involved in helping Hamish clear his debts.”

“Why did you pay those off?” Bone asked, watching her carefully.

“Why do you think, Inspector? We are family and I couldn’t allow my brother to be on the street or beaten to a pulp—” She stopped abruptly, as though she’d said too much. “But clearly he was up to a lot more than simply accumulating huge debts and being beholden to loan sharks.”

“I’ll need to see your company account records.”

“I’ll provide them.” She nodded. “It breaks my heart that Hamish was so deep in trouble. To me, it sounds as though some criminal gang were blackmailing or threatening him, and in the end, he just said no.”

Bone leaned forward. “Miss Durie, one of my officers found Mr Dribble leaving his home with boxes of files. With shredded documents in his office. Are you in the middle of an annual audit?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “The audit isn’t until January. What is going on?” Her face fell. She took a deep breath and exhaled, distress flashing in her eyes. “Mr Dribble has worked for the distillery for well over twenty years. He wouldn’t betray us…” She ran the back of her hand across her mouth. “He and his wife are going through hell with her illness—treatments that are extremely expensive. Perhaps it was all just too much…” She looked away. “I have never known love, Inspector, but maybe this is what a loving husband would do to save his wife.”

The remark caught Bone off guard. For a moment, the hard-faced businesswoman seemed almost human.

“Do you think your sister is involved in this alleged laundering operation?”

Elspeth’s head snapped back, eyes flashing. “What? Of course not! Why would she do that?”

“To help your brother out of a hole he’d found himself in?”

“My brother was forever in holes, and she never helped him the way I did.” Her voice rose. “To my knowledge, she’s bailed him out of trouble once. My beloved sister is too selfish to put her neck on the line like that, and she knows what side her bread is buttered on. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise the distillery.” She paused, then added quietly, “At least, I hope not.”

“And the business takes her to known drug trafficking locations?”

“How dare you!” Elspeth’s eyes blazed. “My sister has built our export market from nothing. If she’s travelling to emerging markets, it’s because that’s where the growth opportunities are. Agnes may be an over-extravagant, self-absorbed narcissist, but she would never involve herself in anything illegal. Aside from anything else, she has too much to lose.”

“Miss Durie,” Bone said, “we’re investigating connections between your distillery and a major drug importation and distribution network.”

The colour drained from Elspeth’s face. Her breathing suddenly became shallow and rapid. “Drug… importation?”

“We have reason to believe the money laundering operation may be tied to heroin trafficking.”

Elspeth swallowed hard, her composure crumbling. “Do you… Do you have information that my accountant— That Mr Dribble was involved in this, too?”

Bone nodded grimly. “The crime gang Mr Dribble was having dealings with is directly involved in the widespread distribution of heroin throughout Scotland and probably the rest of the UK.”

Elspeth’s breathing became increasingly erratic, coming in sharp, painful gasps. “No… no, this can’t be…”

“Miss Durie, can you account for your whereabouts last night and the early hours of this morning?”

Elspeth’s hand flew to her chest, and she gasped for air. Her face contorted with panic, eyes wild with fear.

“Miss Durie?” Bone rose from his chair, alarmed by the sudden change.

“Janet!” Elspeth managed to cry out between gasps. “Janet!”

The door burst open, and the guard rushed in. She took one look at Elspeth and moved swiftly to her side, pulling a paper bag from her pocket.

“Here, Miss Durie. Just like we practised,” she said calmly, opening the bag and holding it to Elspeth’s face. “Slow breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

Elspeth clutched at the bag, her whole body trembling as she tried to follow the instructions.

The woman turned to Bone, her expression stern. “I’m medically trained. Miss Durie is having a panic attack. You need to leave.”

Bone hesitated.

“Inspector,” the guard said, one hand protectively on Miss Durie’s shoulder.

“Of course.” Bone backed towards the door. “Miss Durie, we’ll need to see those accounts, and I’ll have to return to interview you formally.”

Elspeth nodded weakly behind the paper bag, her eyes still wide with distress.

“Now, please,” the guard insisted firmly.

Bone closed the door quietly behind him. He strode through the church, past the minister, who watched with concern, and pushed open the heavy oak doors. At the gate, he pushed his way through the press pack, saying nothing, the clamour of voices and clicking cameras slowly fading behind him.

At his car, his phone rang.

Laverty.

“DCI Bone?”

“Detective Superintendent Laverty,” Bone replied, barely concealing his sarcasm.

“I’ve some bad news. DI Walker has gone missing.”

“What?” Bone exclaimed.

“She was attending the landing site in the early hours of the morning, and it looks like the car she was in was rammed. The driver was killed and two officers seriously injured. But DI Walker was not at the scene.”

“Good God. I knew this was too dangerous. What the hell was OC doing? Sitting on their arses waiting for another of our officers to be injured or worse?”

“I don’t have any further details, but OC is updating regularly. As soon as I hear any more, I will, of course, let you know.”

“That isn’t good enough. I’m coming back.” He hung up, jumped in the Saab, and slammed the driver’s door with such force it almost flew off its rusty hinges.

FORTY-NINE

Bone stormed into the station. Officers scrambled out

of his path as he marched through the corridor.

“Where’s Laverty?” he barked at Sergeant Brody.

“Canteen, sir.” Brody gave him a wary glance.

Bone found her sitting alone at a corner table, a cup of coffee cooling untouched in front of her. She studied her phone and looked up when he approached.

“What do you know about the OC operation?” Bone asked without preamble, his voice low but intense. “What aren’t they telling us about Walker?"

Laverty gestured for him to sit. “Only as much as you do, DCI Bone. They're playing this close to their chest.”

“I knew I shouldn't have allowed her to go,” Bone said, remaining standing. “It was too dangerous from the start.”

“I'm sure she'll be okay,” Laverty replied, her tone measured. “She's an extremely capable and experienced officer.”

Bone recoiled. “With all due respect, you know nothing about my colleague.” He paused, studying her face. “You seem remarkably pro-active regarding OC’s activities for someone who claims to be in the dark.”

Laverty's expression didn't change. “What are you suggesting?”

“I'm asking,” Bone said carefully, “whether you've had more contact with OC than you've indicated. Because your intervention with Dribble was very...precise.”

“I follow proper protocols, DCI Bone.”

“That's not an answer.” He kept his tone professional but persistent. “Ma'am, with respect, if there's information that could help locate DI Walker, I need to know.”

Laverty was quiet for a long moment. “OC briefed me on the broader operation, yes. But Walker's situation, of course that wasn’t part of any plan. Like you, I’m genuinely concerned about her.”

“So there is more to this case than you've shared?”

“There always is with operations of this scale.” She met his gaze steadily. “But nothing that changes our immediate priority—finding your officer and bringing these criminals to justice.”

Bone remained unconvinced by Laverty's responses. “This comes down to me, not you. This is my investigation, my team. I should be making frontline decisions.”

“Our team, DCI Bone,” Laverty countered firmly.

“And despite how you feel right now, you made a professional decision. One that I probably would have made as well.”

“This is all bollocks,” he muttered under his breath and turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” Laverty called after him.

“To interview another of Feelan's goons. The one who's been intimidating me for the last few days and weeks.”

Laverty was on her feet in an instant. “You got him? I'm coming with you. We need as much pressure on him as possible.”

Bone abruptly marched toward the exit without responding.

“DCI Bone!” Laverty's voice cut through the air behind him. “Where are you going?”

Bone pushed through the canteen doors without looking back. Behind him, he heard Laverty’s heels clicking rapidly on the stone floor as she pursued.

“I said stop!”

But Bone kept walking, his fists clenched at his sides.

“DCI Bone, I am ordering you...”

He was heading for the custody suite when Laverty caught up, positioning herself between him and the corridor entrance.

“Not down there,” she said sharply, nodding toward a small office. “In here. Now.”

The room was cramped, barely large enough for two chairs and a desk stacked with forgotten paperwork.

Laverty closed the door behind them with deliberate force. “You need to reel it in. You're skating on very thin ice here.”

“Am I really?” Bone replied with heavy sarcasm. “How unfortunate for me.”

“I hope you're not going to be a problem for me, DCI Bone.” Her voice was dangerously quiet.

“I don't think I'm the problem, ma'am,” Bone hissed through gritted teeth.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Laverty snapped back.

“Interfering with my investigation, stopping my colleagues doing their job, generally throwing your weight about trying to impress. Is that what this is about?” He glared at her, then added with a cynical smile, “With respect, ma'am.”

Laverty remained silent for a long moment. “I'm going to let that go, Detective Chief Inspector,” she said finally, “if you tell me what's really going on.”

Bone flinched.

“Are you having mental health issues again?”

“Ah here we go.” Bone's voice rose. “That's right—one word of criticism and I'm loony tunes again, is that it?”

“What's really bugging you, Duncan?” She used his first name for the first time, catching him off guard.

He exhaled slowly, some of the fight leaving his shoulders. “I'm just bloody angry.”

“What about?”

“All of this.”

“All of what?”

“You don't understand...”

“Enlighten me.”

He took another deep breath, his hand unconsciously moving to the scar at his temple. “Last night, the missing bar manager, Barry Graham, got in touch with me. He said he wanted to give me something, but insisted I go alone. So I met him.”

Laverty's eyes widened. “You did what?”

“I was on my way home when he called. I was literally minutes away from where he was—”

“You should not have taken that risk.”

“There was no time,” Bone protested. “I didn't want to scare him off. He was terrified, said if I brought backup he'd disappear forever.”

“But?”

“But then either he or I had been followed. A car came at us. He did a runner and I lost him.” He ran his forefinger along the length of his scar, the familiar gesture betraying his distress. “And the next day he turns up floating in a body bag in the middle of Kilwinnoch Reservoir.” He shook his head. “It's my fault. If I'd organised backup before...”

Laverty's expression softened slightly. “Yes, you should have. But you made the call in the heat of the moment.  And there was no guarantee the outcome would have been different. You were acting on your gut.”

“Look where that got me.”

Something about her steady gaze made him want to confess more than he'd intended. Despite his resistance to her authority, her manner invited honesty.

“Did you call back up at all?” she continued.

“Yes, immediately after the goons showed up and spooked him.”

“So should we blame traffic officers for arriving too late or failing to find him? Or perhaps some roadworks or the heavy fog last night? I’m sure you know better than anyone that guilt is the slippery slope to hell. And a pointless one at that.” She looked him square in the eye. “Graham is dead, not because of you, Duncan,” Laverty said firmly. “That's down to the thugs who tortured and killed him. But,” her voice hardened, “if you behave like that again with me—the way you did just now—then I will be reporting you to Professional Standards and they will determine whether you have misconducted yourself.  Do you understand?”

Bone reluctantly conceded with a brief nod.

She moved closer, her voice dropping but losing none of its steel. “I want mutual respect at all times, Duncan.  With respect comes trust, and with trust comes loyalty. The three go together. We can't function as a team without them." She stepped back. “Are we good?”

“Ma'am,” Bone acknowledged.

“And are you good?”

He nodded again, meeting her eyes properly for the first time.

She glanced at the door. “Right. Let's go interview your suspect.”

Bone said nothing, but his lack of objection to her presence was acceptance enough. Despite himself, he had to admit that Laverty had been more supportive and forgiving of his outburst than he'd expected—a combination of steel and understanding that confounded him completely.

Laverty fell into step beside him as they headed to the custody suite, the tension between them now replaced by an uneasy truce.

FIFTY

A uniformed officer nodded as Bone and Laverty neared the interview room. “He’s been processed, sir. No ID or phone, refused to give a name.”

“Hasn’t said anything?” Bone asked, gathering himself together.

“Not a word.”

“We’ll see about that,” Bone muttered, taking the file without breaking stride.

Redhead glanced up when Bone and Laverty entered. The same maddening smirk still played at the corner of his mouth. The detectives sat opposite. Now, in the harsh strip light of the interview room, Bone could study his features more closely. He was in his late forties, his shock of copper-red hair beginning to thin at the temples. His face was lean, almost gaunt, with pronounced cheekbones and a strong, slightly crooked nose that had clearly been broken at least once. But it was his eyes that caught Bone’s attention—pale blue-grey, watchful, with a strange intensity that seemed oddly familiar.

“For the record, I am Detective Chief Inspector Duncan Bone interviewing—” He paused, eyebrows raised questioningly.

Redhead simply stared back.

“Detective Superintendent Laverty is also present,” Bone added sternly. “Before we start, I need to inform you of your right to legal representation. Would you like me to arrange for a solicitor to be present?”

The suspect shook his head, that infuriating chuckle bubbling up again.

“I need a verbal response for the recording,” Bone pressed.

Silence.

“Fine. The interviewee has declined legal representation by gesture.” Bone tapped his pen against the notepad. “Let’s start simple. Your name?”

More silence, punctuated only by Redhead’s breathing.

Bone’s anger rose, but he glanced briefly at Laverty, reminding himself to maintain control.

“You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.” Bone struggled to keep his voice level. “Why have you been following me? Was it you who damaged my car, left your nasty calling cards?”

Redhead’s smirk widened fractionally.

“Are you on Frank Feelan’s payroll? What has he done to Detective Inspector Walker? Where is she?” Bone’s patience was fraying. “You need to start talking.”

At this, Redhead’s eyebrows twitched. “Who?”

“So you can speak.” Bone leaned forward, seizing the moment. “Frank Feelan, Glasgow crime lord. One of our officers is missing, and you have been stalking me. I want to know why and what you know. Have you been paid by him to watch me, to intimidate me into silence?”

Redhead shook his head, the amusement never leaving his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You are so wrong, but then that’s typical of your family. Think you’re so right. So perfect.”

Bone’s fist clenched, an involuntary movement. “My family? What do you know about my family?” The mention sent a jolt of fear through him.

“Let’s stay focused,” Laverty interjected smoothly. “What do you know about Detective Inspector Walker’s disappearance?”

Redhead simply stared at her, then turned his attention back to Bone, ignoring the question.

“What have you done with DI Walker?” Bone demanded, his voice rising. “Is Feelan holding her somewhere?”

Silence again. Bone could feel Laverty’s eyes on him, cautioning restraint, but his concern for Walker was overwhelming.

Bone pushed in closer. “Where is she?”

Redhead jerked back.

“What do you know about the murders? About the drug operation?”

Redhead shook his head dismissively.

Bone’s control finally snapped. He slammed his hand down on the metal table with a crash that echoed through the small room.

“Start talking!” he shouted.

Laverty placed a hand on Bone’s arm.

Redhead’s smirk finally faltered. “I don’t know these people you keep going on about,” he said, his tone cold.

“Who are you?” Bone demanded again. “Why don’t you have any ID on you? Or a phone?”

Redhead leaned back, seeming to revel in Bone’s mounting frustration. “You really have no idea, do you? Blissful ignorance.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly what I said.” Redhead’s eyes hardened, though the smile remained frozen in place. “Detective Chief Inspector Duncan Bone, so respected, so bloody righteous. The great solver of mysteries who can’t see what’s right under his nose.”

Redhead’s face briefly contorted with contempt, a fleeting expression that triggered something in Bone’s memory—a gesture, a mannerism he’d seen before, but the recognition slipped away before he could grasp it.

“I’m beginning to see why he did it,” Redhead continued.

“Who?”

Before Redhead could respond, there was a sharp knock at the door.

Mullens stuck his head around. “A word, sir. Urgent.”

“Interview suspended at eleven fifty-eight,” Laverty stated for the recording, and followed Bone out.

FIFTY-ONE

In the corridor, Mullens practically bounced on his toes, clutching a small plastic evidence bag containing a SIM card in one hand and a thick stack of freshly printed transcripts in the other.

“Sir! I recovered this from a safe in the distillery stockroom.” He held up the SIM card. “Hamish Durie’s missing burner phone’s SIM.”

“How certain are you?” Laverty leaned in closer.

“Dead certain. It was inside a sealed note from Durie to Graham—the bar manager.” Mullens couldn’t contain his energy. “Note said: ‘If anything happens to me, hand this over to the police immediately.’ And, sir, Digital’s already pulled everything and printed the transcripts. It’s gold.”

“What’ve we got?” Bone’s eyes narrowed.

“In the last month, Durie made a stack of calls to the accountant, but that’s not the gold bit. There are also three recorded conversations between Hamish and his sister, Agnes.” Mullens lowered his voice but couldn’t hide his excitement as he fanned the pages. “They’re damning. First two, Hamish is agitated, telling her he’s done, wants out. Keeps saying it’s ‘evil’ and ‘needs to stop.’”

“Evil?” Bone’s eyebrows shot up. “Does he mention what?”

“Not directly.” Mullens shook his head. “But Feelan and drugs are all over these recordings. Then in the last call—” He paused dramatically. “Agnes goes from warning him not to interfere, to outright threats.”

“Threats?” Laverty cut in sharply.

“Full-blown row. He threatens to go to the police and specifically mentions Dribble.” Mullens frantically flipped through the transcript pages. “Says, ‘That wanker Dribble used me to set the whole thing up, and now I want out.’ Then Agnes says…” He jabbed his finger at the third page. “Here it is. She says, ‘These men are dangerous, Hamish. I can’t be held responsible for what happens to you.’ Begs him to go along with it, but he hangs up. That’s the last recording.”

“When was that call?” Bone squinted at the printout.

“A week ago, sir.” Mullens’s face was flushed with excitement. “We’ve got them, haven’t we?”

Bone looked up. “And Elspeth Durie? Any mention of her?”

“No mention.” Mullens glanced at Laverty. “Think she’s up to her arse in it, too? Sorry, ma’am.”

Laverty ignored the comment, her mind already racing ahead.

“This is the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for,” Bone declared, suddenly energised. “We need to bring them all in. Now.”

Laverty raised her hand. “Hold on. We need to coordinate with OC first. This is still their operation.”

“Their operation?” Bone’s voice rose. “Walker is missing, possibly being held by these people, or worse, and you want to wait for bureaucratic approval?” He pointed at the interview room. “We need Feelan’s arse in there telling us where Rhona is.”

“I understand your frustration,” Laverty replied evenly, “but acting prematurely could put DI Walker in even more danger. If Feelan realises we’re closing in, he might decide she’s a liability.”

Bone rubbed at his scar. “So we do nothing?”

“We hold until we get the word,” Laverty insisted. “OC needs to coordinate across multiple locations. Going in half-cocked could jeopardise the entire operation, DI Walker’s life, and the lives of both the response team and undercover officers.”

“Then check now,” Bone demanded. “Call them and find out how long we have to wait while Walker’s life hangs in the balance.”

Laverty’s expression hardened. “DCI Bone, I don’t appreciate being ordered. I understand your concern for your officer, but I suggest you remember who you’re speaking to.”

Bone took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “I apologise. But please, we need to know where things stand.”

Laverty’s expression softened slightly. “I’ll check with OC now. I’ll be back shortly with an update.”

As she marched off down the corridor, Bone slammed his palm against the wall.

“Organised Crime clowns,” he snarled. “They’ve clearly fucked up, and now we’re supposed to just wait while they fuck up some more? How could they let this happen to Rhona?”

“I hate to say it, but Laverty could be right, though, sir,” Mullens cautioned.

Bone turned, surprised.

“I mean, if Feelan loses his shit, then Rhona could be in really deep shit.”

“That’s a lot of shit there, Mark.”

“You know what I mean, though?”

Reluctantly, Bone nodded in agreement. “But every minute that passes, I fear more for Walker’s safety. It’s just so bloody hard to admit she has a point.”

“So twiddle our tadgers and wait?”

Bone glanced back along the corridor to the interview room. “Aye, and that goes for ginger nut in there as well. He’s not ready to talk yet. Can you take him to one of the cells? See you back in the incident room.”

“Aye, let him sweat like the rest of us.” Mullens handed Bone the evidence bag.

“Good work, Mark.” Bone nodded. “You know you are seriously undermining your reputation as a useless lump.”

“Oh no. That’s not good. Must try harder. That’s a hard-earned title, that is.” Mullens chuckled.

Bone let Mullens go, and in the stairwell, he stopped to take a moment, an incoming migraine slowly gaining traction.

FIFTY-TWO

Consciousness returned to Walker in painful increments. First came the throbbing at her temple, then the stabbing sensation in her ribs with each breath. Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton wool, dry and tacky. She tried to move and discovered her wrists were bound to the arms of a metal chair, her ankles secured to the legs.

The fog in her brain was clearing gradually. Her training kicked in. She tested the bindings, finding them expertly tied—not too tight to cut off circulation, but just enough to prevent any hope of slipping free. The chair was heavy, too sturdy to break even if she could tip it over. Without her hands free to protect her head, throwing herself sideways was too risky.

She scanned her surroundings. Industrial steel shelving lined two walls, stacked with cardboard boxes, cleaning supplies, and what looked like mechanical parts. A workbench sat against the far wall beneath a pegboard of tools, all just out of reach—some kind of maintenance storeroom, perhaps for a compound’s vehicles or equipment. A single bulb hung from a cracked ceiling. A small, grimy window let in just enough light to suggest it was daytime, but when? How long had she been out? The door was solid metal with a heavy lock. Voices filtered in from outside—guards, most likely.

She tried shifting the chair towards the shelving unit. The metal legs scraped loudly against the concrete floor. She froze, listening. When no one came, she tried again, more carefully. Too slow. She’d never reach anything useful before they returned.

The voices outside grew louder. Someone was coming. Walker ceased her struggles, settling back as if still groggy. Better they underestimate her.

The door creaked open. Three men entered, their shadows stretching across the concrete floor. The first was massive—at least six foot four, shoulders like a rugby prop forward, shaved head gleaming under the harsh light. He carried a toolbox, which he set down with deliberate care on a small table beside her chair.

The second man was wiry, twitchy, with darting eyes that wouldn’t meet hers. The third remained by the door, arms folded across his chest, face impassive, clearly the watchman.

“Look what we have here, Keith.” the big bull of a man said to his twitchy colleague, his Glasgow accent so thick it was almost unintelligible. “A copper all tied up. All she needs is a bow, and it’s the gift that keeps giving.”

The men laughed, the sound bouncing hollowly off the bare walls.

“Are you the pantomime baddies, then?” Walker said, her voice hoarse. “Watch out, there’s someone behind you.”

They spun around instinctively, then turned back with darkening expressions when they realised she’d made fools of them.

“Oh dear God,” Walker muttered, rolling her eyes.

The bull stepped forward, leaning into her space until she could smell the cigarettes on his breath. “I’m going to ask one simple question, and if you provide the correct answer, then we not only spare your life, but we spare you an hour of the worst torment and pain you can imagine before you die.” He leaned in farther. “And believe me, we are experts in the execution of pain.”

“Where’s your boss?” Walker cut in. “I thought he’d want to share in the fun.”

The bull ignored her interruption. “One question.”

“Go on, then. It’s not bloody Die Hard.”

“How much do you know?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

“About?” Walker raised an eyebrow.

The bull repeated, slower this time, “How much do you and your pork-scratching mates know?”

Walker tilted her head. “The weather? The stock market index? If you mean algebra, I’m afraid it’s been a good wee while since—”

The bull’s control snapped. Without warning, his fist lashed out, connecting with the side of her head with sickening force. Stars exploded across Walker’s vision as pain bloomed behind her right eye.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he growled, his face inches from hers. “I’ll give you thirty minutes to consider a better answer. And when I get back, you make me happy, or I open up my lovely box of delights.” He tapped the lid of the toolbox. “All manner of wonderful implements in here.”

Walker’s head lolled, the blow having rattled her more than she wanted to admit. Blood trickled from a cut on her cheekbone.

“Think about it,” the bull said, nodding to the twitchy man. “Keith, you’re with me. Billy, watch her.”

The bull and Keith left, the heavy door clanging shut behind them. The watchman—Billy—remained, standing impassively by the door, eyes fixed on Walker.

She waited until the footsteps receded, then began to cough, a dry, rasping sound. The coughs grew more violent, her body jerking against the restraints. Then she made a choking noise, gasping for air, her eyes bulging. Billy straightened, watching her with uncertainty.

Walker continued the performance, letting her body convulse, then gradually slump forward, her chin dropping to her chest. She went completely limp, as if unconscious.

For several long moments, nothing happened. She could feel Billy’s eyes on her but forced herself to remain motionless, her breathing shallow and imperceptible. Finally, she heard hesitant footsteps approaching.

“Hey,” Billy’s voice came, closer now. “Hey, wake up.”

Walker didn’t move. Another step closer.

“Shit,” he muttered, and she heard him move to the door, opening it slightly to check the corridor before closing it again.

His footsteps returned, stopping directly in front of her. She felt rough fingers press against her neck, checking for a pulse. “Still alive,” he murmured, sounding relieved.

Walker remained perfectly still as he leaned closer. She could feel his hot breath on her face, smell the cigarettes and something sour beneath. His breathing quickened as his hand moved to her hair, fingers running through it, then down to her face, tracing her jawline.

“Pretty copper,” he whispered, his voice taking on a different quality.

Every instinct screamed at Walker to react, but she held her nerve, keeping her body slack, her breathing steady.

His hand moved lower, to the collar of her shirt, fingers pulling at the fabric. Walker fought to control her rising panic and disgust. She needed him to untie her.

Billy suddenly withdrew, moving back to the door. She heard it open, a pause, then close again. His footsteps returned, more confident this time.

“No one’s coming back for a while,” he said, his voice shaking with excited anticipation. “Just you and me now.”

His hands were at her ankles, fumbling with the restraints. Walker remained limp, biding her time. After freeing her ankles, he started on her wrists, his breathing heavy in her ear.

“Going to have some fun,” he muttered, the last binding coming loose.

The moment her hands were free, Walker sprang into action. She drove her foot upward, connecting solidly between his legs. He doubled over with a strangled cry, his face contorted in pain. Walker seized the metal chair she’d been bound to and raised it high.

“Not with me, you’re not,” she spat, bringing the chair down on his head with all her strength. The impact reverberated through her arms as it connected, knocking him sideways to the floor.

She stepped forward, foot raised to deliver a final kick to his temple, then stopped herself. He was already out cold, blood pooling beneath his head. She took a deep breath, controlling the white-hot rage surging through her veins. Unconscious would do for now.

She searched his pockets for a phone. Nothing.

Creeping to the door, she pressed her ear against it before carefully easing it open. A dark corridor stretched before her, a sliver of light visible at the far end. She dashed towards it, staying low and moving quietly despite her aching ribs.

FIFTY-THREE

The corridor opened onto a yard surrounded by two big warehouses with corrugated metal roofs. The cold air hit her face, a welcome relief after the stuffy confines of the storeroom. She glanced up at the fading light. Dusk.

How long was I out? she wondered. Crouching low, she assessed her surroundings. Security lights cast long shadows across the concrete, and she could make out a chain-link fence about a hundred metres away. Freedom.

But movement near the largest of the buildings caught her eye. The door was partially open, spilling yellow light onto the wet ground. Professional instinct won out over self-preservation. Keeping to the shadows, Walker waited for a guard to pass and slipped through the gap in the door.

Inside, men at the far side worked around whisky barrels stamped with the Glendurie logo. Two placed small packages into open barrels while another supervised. Walker darted between stacks of pallets until she reached a row of barrels near the entrance. Each barrel bore the familiar Glendurie Distillery logo.

She peered inside one. A cylindrical plastic tube ran through the centre, creating a hollow cavity while leaving space for whisky around it. Walker’s eyes narrowed; she understood the system’s ingenuity—fill the barrels with actual whisky while hiding heroin in waterproof containers inside the tubes.

“He’s smarter than I thought,” she whispered, examining another barrel with the same modification.

Voices approached, and she froze. Two men walked directly towards her position, deep in conversation.

“—customs won’t check these ones. They’re part of the regular shipment,” one was saying.

“And what if they do?” the other asked. “Even a routine inspection—”

“They won’t. The boss’s got someone on the inside. Been greasing palms for months.”

Walker slipped around the side of the nearest crate, pressing herself into darkness. The men stopped to examine the very barrels she’d just been investigating.

“These ready for loading?” the first man called out to someone deeper in the warehouse.

“Aye, just waiting on the plastic inserts,” came the reply.

When they moved away, Walker edged back outside. The compound was coming alive for night operations, more men going around to the farthest side. She hugged the warehouse wall, darting across an exposed section when a lorry rumbled through the gate bearing the Glendurie logo.

Industrial scale, right enough.

The chain-link fence was now less than thirty metres away; escape so tantalisingly close. But as she darted from cover, two security guards rounded the corner directly in front of her.

She froze, caught in the open like a deer in the half-light of dusk. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. One guard seemed preoccupied with the zip of his anorak while the other looked right in her direction. For one heart-stopping moment, their eyes met across the misty morning air.

Walker didn’t breathe, didn’t blink. She stood perfectly still, praying the murky dawn light and swirling fog would obscure her enough. The guard’s brow furrowed. He raised his hand, pointing directly at her.

“Hey, what’s that over—”

A seagull screeched loudly overhead, drawing both guards’ attention skyward.

“Bloody birds,” the first guard muttered. “Been shat on three times this week by that flying vermin.”

“Aye, it’s cos we’re so close to the refuse tip.” The second guard glanced around warily. “This is such a stinking fucking cesspit.”

Walker silently sank to the ground, flattening herself against the wall. The second guard squinted into the grey half-light.

“What is it?” The first guard checked his watch as if counting down the minutes until shift change.

“Thought I saw something.” The second took a step in Walker’s direction. “By the wall there.”

“Probably just shadows playing tricks,” the first guard said dismissively. “Twilight is the worst time for it. And this bloody murk doesn’t help.”

The second guard moved closer, radio in hand. He was less than ten feet away. His hand moved to the small of his back, where his torch was holstered.

“Better check,” he said. “With everything going on…”

Just as he unclipped the torch, an alarm blared from one of the warehouses.

“Bollocks,” the first guard yelled.

Both men took off running towards the source of the alarm, the torch beam sweeping wildly across the yard, missing Walker by inches. She pressed herself into a shallow recess in the wall.

She didn’t waste a second. The moment they disappeared, she sprinted for the fence, lungs burning, every step sending sharp pains through her injured ribs. She found the gap—barely wide enough for her shoulders—and forced herself through, the metal edges tearing at her clothes and scratching deep welts across her back.

Then she was free, sprinting across the open field towards the distant woodland. Behind her, the compound erupted with activity, shouts echoing across the field, powerful floodlights sweeping the area.

The darkness of the tree line came within reach, and a new sound cut through the murk—the deep, hungry baying of dogs. Walker’s blood turned to ice. Behind her, men were shouting commands, heavy boots trampling through undergrowth, gaining ground with every second.

“Get the dogs on her trail!” someone bellowed. “Alive if possible, but I don’t give a fuck either way!”

The barking intensified, more frenzied, accompanied by the crashing of bodies through the field. Walker plunged into the woods, her police training screaming at her that running in a straight line was suicide. Water. She needed water to break the scent trail. Her lungs felt ready to burst, her ribs throbbing with each ragged breath, but the sound of those dogs closing in drove her deeper into the forest.

FIFTY-FOUR

Walker’s lungs burned. She crashed through the trees, branches whipping across her face, tearing at her clothes. The dogs’ barks were getting louder. She veered left, following the sound of rushing water.

A fast-flowing burn appeared suddenly. Without hesitation, Walker plunged in, gasping at the icy water biting into her skin. The current tugged at her legs, but she waded deeper, the water rising to her thighs, then her waist. Each step sent pain lancing through her injured ribs, but the dogs’ howls drove her forward.

Upstream, she paused, listening. The barking continued, but seemed confused now, dogs circling the bank, handlers shouting commands. The river had done its job. Walker pressed on to the opposite shore, each movement agony in the numbing cold. She hauled herself up the muddy bank, clothes sodden and heavy, and forced herself to keep moving.

For what seemed like hours, she stumbled through the woods, guided only by the faint glow of a three-quarter moon filtering through the canopy. Just when her strength was failing, the lights of a building appeared. A farmhouse, nestled in a small clearing.

Walker approached cautiously, her instincts still screaming danger. But the distant sound of dogs, though not as loud now, made the decision for her. She needed shelter, warmth, a phone. Summoning her last reserves of energy, she staggered to the weathered wooden door and knocked.

Long seconds passed. Walker knocked again, harder, more desperate. Finally, light flooded through the side window, and the door cracked open, secured by a chain. A woman’s face appeared, lined with age and wariness.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice surprisingly deep.

“Please,” Walker gasped, “I need help. I’m a police officer. I was taken captive, escaped. There are men searching for me.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Police? Let’s see some identification, then.”

“I don’t have any. They took everything.”

The chain rattled as the woman closed the door slightly. Murmured voices came from inside—the woman conversing with someone else.

Then a man’s voice, gruff and suspicious, called through the door, “What’s your name, then? What station?”

“Detective Inspector Rhona Walker, Rural Crimes Unit, Kilwinnoch. Please, I don’t have much time.”

More murmuring. The door closed completely, and for a terrible moment, Walker thought they’d abandoned her. Then came the sound of the chain sliding free, and the door swung open.

An elderly man stood there, wearing striped pyjamas. Behind him, the woman hovered anxiously, clutching a dressing gown around herself. The man studied Walker’s face, then nodded and stepped aside.

“Get yourself in, lass. You look half-drowned.”

Walker stumbled into the farmhouse hall, its raw beams overhead and walls lined with faded photos. The kitchen beyond offered welcome warmth—an Aga radiating heat, copper pots hanging above a worn wooden table. The simple domesticity nearly broke her.

As she stepped into the kitchen light, the farmer’s wife gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Good Lord, your face!”

Walker touched her cheek, wincing at the unexpected tenderness. She moved to a small mirror hanging by the door and caught her reflection for the first time since the escape. A large purple bruise spread from her temple down the side of her face, her right eye swollen and ringed with deep blue-black discolouration. Dried blood crusted along her hairline where her head had hit the door during the crash.

“It’s nothing,” Walker said, turning away from her reflection. “Looks worse than it is.”

The old woman didn’t seem convinced. “You need a hospital.”

“I’m fine, really.” Walker attempted a brief smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry to bring trouble to your door.”

“Ach, trouble finds its way regardless,” the farmer said. “I’m Angus MacLeod. This is my wife, Moira.”

“Do you have a phone? I need to contact my colleagues,” Walker asked urgently.

Angus scratched his head. “Aye, but the signal’s terrible here in Crovie. Mobile coverage comes and goes like the tide.”

Walker’s head snapped up. “Crovie? I’m on the east coast?”

“Just north of Banff,” Moira confirmed. “Why, where did you think you were?”

“Bastards,” Walker mumbled.

They’d transported her much farther than she’d realised—over a hundred miles from where she’d been taken. Had Feelan got wind of the operation and switched the landing site? That would explain why she’d been moved clear across the country. No wonder no one had found her.

“It doesn’t matter about the signal. If you hit the emergency button—999—it should connect regardless.”

Angus nodded, shuffling to an overcoat hanging by the door. He rummaged through the pockets and produced an ancient Nokia. “Battery’s low, but it should do.” He fiddled for a moment and looked up. “Done.”

Moira, seeming to finally register Walker’s bedraggled state, clicked her tongue. “You’ll catch your death in those wet clothes. Let me fetch you a towel.” She hurried from the room, returning seconds later with a thick bath towel. “Some of my daughter’s clothes are upstairs in her wardrobe. You look about the same size—I’ll fetch some.”

“Is your daughter here?” Walker took the towel gratefully.

“No,” Angus replied. “She lives in Aberdeen now. Works for an oil company.”

Walker patted her hair dry, wincing as the towel brushed against the cut on her temple. “Thank you. Both of you.”

A sudden banging at the door froze them all. From outside came the sound of dogs barking—closer now, no longer distant. Walker’s blood ran cold.

“That’ll be the men who were holding me,” she whispered. “They’re dangerous. Armed.”

To her surprise, neither Angus nor Moira seemed particularly alarmed. They exchanged a glance—one Walker couldn’t quite interpret—and Moira nodded.

“You’d best hide upstairs,” she said calmly. “When the coast is clear, we’ll come get you.”

Walker hesitated, instinct warning her of potential trouble. But the pounding at the door grew more insistent.

“Police! Open up!” a voice shouted, too familiar, too menacing to be genuine.

“Go.” Angus gestured towards the narrow staircase. “Second door on the right. We’ll handle this.”

Feeling cornered, Walker had no choice but to comply. She climbed the stairs, every muscle screaming in protest, and slipped into their daughter’s bedroom.

FIFTY-FIVE

Hiding in the shadows of the upstairs bedroom, Walker inched the door open a crack, just enough to hear what was going on below. Moira’s footsteps approached the front door, followed by the creak of hinges.

“Can I help you?” Moira’s voice carried up the stairs, steady and unafraid.

“Police officers, ma’am.” The bull’s Glasgow accent was unmistakable. “We’re searching for an escaped prisoner. Dangerous woman. Have you seen anyone suspicious tonight?”

There was a brief silence. Walker pictured the men flashing fake identification.

“It’s such a late hour. We haven’t seen anyone,” Moira replied. “Just you.”

“Mind if we take a look around?” The second voice was new but equally threatening.

“Do you have a warrant?” Angus called from inside.

“We don’t need a warrant if we have reasonable suspicion, sir.”

“Of what?” Moira countered.

Walker pressed herself against the wall, heart hammering. She scanned the room for a weapon, an escape route, anything. The window overlooked a sheer drop to a stone courtyard—no help there. A flash of headlights swept across the room as another vehicle pulled up outside.

Down below, Moira’s voice remained unnervingly calm. “Well, if you’re the police, you’ll know the proper procedure. I’ll need to see formal identification.”

“Look, lady—” the bull began, his tone darkening.

“No, you look,” Moira interrupted. “My husband’s brother is the chief constable in Aberdeen. I know what police ID looks like.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Then Moira’s footsteps retreated, and the door slammed shut. The bolt slid into place with a heavy clunk.

“Angus, call your brother,” Moira called loudly. “Tell him we’ve got men impersonating police officers at our door.”

Outside, Walker heard harsh whispers, then the sound of retreating footsteps. Car doors slammed, engines growled to life.

“They’re gone,” Moira called up. “For now, at least.”

Walker emerged cautiously from the bedroom, every nerve still on high alert. She descended the stairs to find the elderly couple standing in the hallway, exchanging worried glances.

“How did you know what to say?” Walker asked, still clutching the towel around her shoulders. “About your brother being a chief constable?”

Angus shrugged. “Just something that came to mind. I don’t have a brother in the police, but they weren’t to know that.”

“Quick thinking,” Walker acknowledged, but her instincts were still sending warning signals. “Can I use that phone now?”

Before Angus could respond, a muffled sound came from outside—boots on gravel, heading along the side of the house.

“They’re circling the building,” Walker whispered, her blood turning cold. “They didn’t believe you.”

Moira’s hand flew to her mouth. “What do they want with you?”

“I witnessed something I shouldn’t have. A heroin shipment being moved through a whisky distillery. They were after information from me.”

“Looks like they hurt you.”

Walker stepped away from the windows. “They ran us off the road. I was knocked out, and when I came to, they had me tied up at some warehouse somewhere in the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, they sound like they need a lesson in manners,” Angus said. Smirking, he crossed to a cabinet in the corner of the hall and unlocked it with a key from his pocket. From inside, he took out a double-barreled shotgun and a box of cartridges. “Been farming in these parts for nearly fifty years. You learn to be prepared.” His grin widened.

Walker’s surprise was tempered with relief. The old man wasn’t entirely defenceless after all. Quite the contrary.

A sudden, violent pounding shook the front door.

“Open up!” The bull’s voice was harder now, any pretence at civility abandoned. “We know she’s in there!”

“Stay back,” Angus whispered to the women, loading the shotgun with practised efficiency. He walked to the door and called through it, “Who’s there?”

“You know bloody well who it is! Hand her over and we’ll leave you be.”

Angus threw the bolt and yanked the door open, the shotgun raised to his shoulder in one fluid motion. The bull stood on the threshold, his massive frame blocking the porch light. His companion lurked behind him, hand hovering near his jacket.

“There’s no one here but me and my wife,” Angus said, his voice steady as he aimed the shotgun directly at the bull’s face. “And if you don’t get off my land, I am within my rights to remove your face with this.”

The bull’s eyes widened slightly, hands rising in a placating gesture. He took a step backwards.

“And just so you know,” Angus continued, “my brother has been alerted to a gang of farm thieves at my property. He’s dispatched a response team that will be here any minute now. And they will have even bigger guns than this. So I suggest you get lost unless you want your bollocks shredded as well as your face.”

The bull’s face contorted with rage. “You’re messing with the wrong people, old man. Hand her over.”

Angus swung the barrel upwards and pulled the trigger. The blast sent a spray of shot over the bull’s head. Birds erupted from a nearby tree, their wings a frantic percussion against the sky.

“Next one’s for your teeth,” Angus said calmly, lowering the barrel back to the bull’s eyeline.

The bull backed away, his expression contorted with snarling frustration. “This isn’t over.”

“It is for tonight.” Angus slammed the door shut and threw the bolt again.

He turned to find Walker and Moira standing in the hallway, both pale but composed.

“Where did you learn to handle a shotgun like that?” Walker asked.

“Tough life, is farming.” Angus smiled.

They retreated to the living room, where a large stone fireplace dominated the rear wall. Moira drew the heavy curtains while Angus positioned himself near the door, shotgun at the ready. Walker took stock of potential weapons—a heavy iron poker by the fireplace, a collection of farming tools mounted decoratively on one wall.

“I’m afraid that bald-headed thug is right. They’re not going to give up that easily,” Walker warned. “They work for a Glasgow gangster named Feelan. He’s…” She stopped herself before she spooked them any further.

A crash from the kitchen made them all jump. The sound of glass breaking was followed by the rattle of the back door handle.

“They’re trying to get in the rear entrance.” Angus got up and swiftly went towards the kitchen.

Walker grabbed the poker and followed. Through the kitchen window, shadowy figures moved in the darkness. A dog growled, low and threatening, somewhere close to the house.

“Get away from the door or I will shoot!” Angus bellowed. He aimed the shotgun at the rattling handle.

Laughter echoed from the other side. “You’ve only got two shots, old man. What then?”

From the living room, Moira screamed. Walker rushed back to find soot cascading down the chimney, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone attempting to climb down. Angus appeared behind her, thrusting the shotgun barrel upwards into the flue.

“Don’t!” Walker grabbed his arm just before he pulled the trigger. “Listen!”

In the distance, faint but growing stronger, came the wail of sirens. Multiple vehicles, by the sound of it, rapidly approaching.

The noise outside the farmhouse ceased abruptly. The man in the chimney scrambled upwards, dislodging more soot in his haste. Through a sliver of a gap in the curtains, Walker caught glimpses of dark figures racing towards vehicles hidden in the trees.

“Thank God for that.” Angus lowered the shotgun. “Though I’d have quite enjoyed blowing the arse off whoever was trying to lower himself into our inglenook.”

The sirens grew louder, then stopped. Car doors slammed, voices called orders. A sharp knock at the door followed, then: “Police! Open up!”

Moira, trembling now that the danger had passed, answered it. Two officers stood on the threshold, scanning the scene within.

“What’s been going on here?” the older officer demanded.

“I’m DI Walker, Rural Crime Unit, Kilwinnoch.” She stepped forward.

“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?” the officer said. “What the hell’s happened here?”

“You need to intercept all vehicles in the vicinity and detain the occupants.”

“Aye, they’ve just tried to kill this poor lass,” Angus said.

“And us with it,” Moira added.

The PC was about to alert his colleagues when Walker grabbed his arm.

“Wait. Are there any storage facilities nearby, close to a refuse site?”

“Aye, there’s a cluster of old livestock stores over at Cullenbrae,” Angus cut in.

She spun back to the officer, who was still trying to process what was going on.

“I’ll need a precise location, and your radio,” she ordered.

FIFTY-SIX

The incident room was a pressure cooker of tension. After hours of waiting with no word from Walker, Bone found himself staring at Mullens. He’d methodically emptied the nearby corner shop of its entire confectionery inventory. Wrappers littered his desk like casualties of war—Mars Bars, Dairy Milk, Yorkie, Wispa, and an alarming number of Irn-Bru cans. Bone was about to suggest a break, and the dentist for Mullens, when Laverty burst through the door, her usually stern face split by an uncharacteristic smile.

“Walker’s made contact,” she announced, drawing every eye in the room. “She managed to escape from captivity and get to a secure phone.”

Bone rose from his chair. “Is she hurt?”

“She’s okay,” Laverty confirmed. “She’s with OC now. They’ve given us the green light for the operation.”

The collective exhale in the room was audible. Bone turned to Mullens, who was already on his feet, hastily brushing chocolate crumbs from his shirt.

“I knew it!” Baxter said with a sigh of relief. “There’s no way anyone was going to get the better of our DI Walker.”

“Mark, I want you with the team arresting Frank Feelan.”

Mullens fist bumped the air, his eyes glinting with anticipation. “It will be my absolute pleasure, sir.”

“I’ll go with the first unit to the Durie estate,” Bone said, checking his watch.

“I’m coming, too,” Laverty interjected. “Even if it means they make me the super of the RCU, I’m willing to take that hit.”

Bone raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Was that a joke, Detective Superintendent Laverty?”

“I’m afraid so,” she replied, already gathering her coat. “The tactical teams are assembling at the rendezvous point in thirty minutes.”

***

Outside, the sun had set, leaving only the faintest purple glow behind the Ochil Hills. Bone pulled up alongside the Organised Crime vans, Laverty in the passenger seat beside him, her slight frame somehow filling the car with restless energy. Bone had to admit—grudgingly—that despite her years behind a desk, she looked perfectly at home as they stepped out among the tactical officers in their armoured bulk.

“Just in time,” she murmured to Bone, her eyes glittering with barely suppressed excitement.

They approached the group.

She lowered her voice, practically vibrating with anticipation. “God, I can’t tell you how good it feels to be back on the front line. Getting the adrenaline pumping again.” She scanned the scene eagerly. “After years stuck behind a desk reviewing other officers’ work, I’ve missed this. The real police work.”

Bone studied her face, noting the flush of her cheeks, the slightly too-wide smile. “You need to be careful,” he cautioned. “This isn’t some training exercise. And once we corner them, God knows what they might do.”

“I can handle myself,” she said, her smile hardening a tad. “I didn’t survive twenty years of frontline policing without exercising care, Detective Chief Inspector.”

“Just remember we’re two officers down already,” Bone said, voice quiet. “I don’t want to make it three. These operations have a way of going sideways fast.”

Laverty’s expression softened for a fraction of a second. “Worried about me, Bone? I’m touched.”

Before he could respond, the OCD team leader, a grizzled man with a face like weathered granite, stepped forward. “Superintendent Ross Macintyre,” he said, “Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Bone said dryly, taking in the arsenal of equipment being distributed. “Though I wasn’t aware we were invading Poland.”

Macintyre’s laugh was a short, sharp bark. “Standard issue for high-risk entries. Speaking of which—” He thrust a protective vest towards Bone. “Get kitted up.”

Bone fastened the straps.

Laverty sidled up to him, already fully equipped, chest camera blinking red. “All set?”

Bone nodded and checked his radio.

Macintyre gathered them for a final briefing, his voice clipped and precise. “Intel suggests both sisters are at their estate. Approach will be silent until we hit the perimeter, then rapid entry. Teams of two, room by room. Any questions?”

“Just one,” Bone said. “How many guards are we expecting?”

“At least four, possibly six. All ex-military, according to our surveillance.”

“Armed?” Laverty asked.

Macintyre’s face darkened. “Assume yes. And remember, intel has identified only one of the sisters’ involvement, so act with restraint at all times.”

The convoy moved silently through the night, headlights extinguished for the final approach. They rounded the last bend, and the menacing towers of the Durie mansion loomed before them, lights glowing from scattered windows like malevolent eyes.

At the wrought-iron gates, two uniformed guards stepped out, hands hovering near their waistbands. Macintyre’s team didn’t hesitate. Four officers emerged from the lead van, weapons raised.

“Police! On the ground now!”

The first guard reached for something in his jacket. Before he could complete the manoeuvre, two officers had him facedown on the gravel, cuffs snapping shut with brutal efficiency. The second guard surrendered without resistance, his face slack with fear.

“Gates,” Macintyre barked.

An officer marched the second guard to an illuminated panel set into the gate pier. With another shove, the guard entered the security code, and the gate slowly swung open.  The driveway curved through immaculate gardens, gravel crunching beneath their tyres on their approach to the main house. No alarm had sounded—either the guards hadn’t triggered it, or someone inside was waiting for them.

“Formation Alpha,” Macintyre ordered when they screeched to a halt before the imposing front doors. “Bone, you’re with Team Two. Laverty, you’re with me.”

Bone found himself paired with an officer named Rollins, a human battering ram of a man whose expression suggested he was going to enjoy what he was about to do. They took the east wing while Macintyre, Laverty, and two others continued to the main entrance.

Bone stalked silently through cavernous rooms, each more ostentatious than the last—crystal chandeliers, Persian carpets, artwork worth more than his annual salary adorning walls that had stood for centuries.

“Clear,” Rollins called from an adjoining bathroom.

Room after room, the same result. No resistance, no sisters, no staff. Just the hollow echo of their footsteps and the hum of the radios.

They converged in the grand entrance hall twenty minutes later, all teams reporting the same: the house was empty.

“They can’t have gone far,” Laverty said, removing her helmet, her face flushed with exertion. “The place still feels lived in.”

Bone nodded. The embers in the drawing room fireplace had still been warm, a half-finished cup of tea cooling on an end table.

Macintyre’s radio crackled. “Sir, we’ve got something. Air traffic control logged a private flight plan filed thirty minutes ago from Carbeath Airfield. Destination Geneva.”

“And we’re just hearing about this now?” Macintyre snapped.

“Systems were down, sir. Just came back online.”

“That’s six miles north of here,” Bone said, already bee-lining towards the door.

“One step ahead of you,” Laverty called, keys jingling in her hand. “I’ll drive.”

Macintyre barked orders into his radio as they sprinted for their vehicles. “All units, converge on Carbeath Airfield. Possible suspects attempting to flee jurisdiction. Approach with extreme caution.”

Laverty drove like a woman possessed, the pool car’s engine screaming in protest. She took corners at speeds that had Bone gripping the seat with his buttocks.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelled when they narrowly missed a hedgerow. “I’d like to live long enough to arrest them!”

She flashed him a wolfish grin. “You can walk if you prefer.”

After what felt like the longest twelve minutes of Bone’s life, the airfield finally appeared ahead—a small private strip with a single hangar and a cabin for a terminal building. On the runway, illuminated by floodlights, a sleek Learjet sat idling, stairs still extended from its fuselage. Three OC vehicles had already formed a blockade across the tarmac, preventing takeoff.

Laverty slammed on the brakes, the car fishtailing on the loose gravel of the approach road. They were about to exit when motion caught Bone’s eye—a dark Audi emerging from the hangar, accelerating towards a service exit on the far side of the airfield.

“There!” he shouted, pointing.

Laverty wrenched the wheel, executing a perfect U-turn that left Bone pressed against the door. The tyres spun, finding purchase, and they shot after the fleeing vehicle.

The Audi driver had spotted them. The car careened onto a narrow track that cut through adjacent farmland, its powerful engine kicking up dirt as it swerved wildly.

“They’re heading for the B-road.” Bone gripped his seat belt.

Laverty took them over a ridge that had the suspension bottoming out with a sickening crunch.

“Not if I can help it,” she muttered and cut across a field to intercept.

The Audi appeared ahead, headlights bouncing erratically; it hit every rut in the uneven track. Laverty gunned the engine, pulling alongside. For a brief moment, Bone caught a glimpse of the driver—a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit—and a figure in the passenger seat.

Then the Audi veered left sharply, plunging down an embankment towards a copse of trees. Laverty followed, but the heavier pool car wasn’t built for off-road pursuit. They ploughed into marshy ground, wheels spinning uselessly in the soft earth.

Ahead, the Audi suffered the same fate, bogging down fifty yards away.

“Got you,” Laverty breathed, already out of the car, stomping through the mire towards the stranded vehicle.

Bone followed, heart hammering. The Audi-driver’s door flew open, and a burly security guard lunged out, fists clenched. He swung wildly at Bone, who ducked the first blow, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid a glancing hit to his shoulder.

Before Bone could retaliate, Laverty was there. She moved with astonishing grace, redirecting the guard’s momentum and sending him face-first into the mud with a well-executed takedown. In seconds, she had him cuffed, one knee planted firmly in the small of his back.

“Standard Police Scotland training,” she said, reacting to Bone’s surprised expression. “You should try it sometime.”

The passenger door opened, and Agnes Durie emerged, stumbling in impractical heels. Designer luggage lay scattered in the back seat. She made a desperate dash across the field but slipped on the treacherous ground, landing spectacularly in a muddy puddle.

By the time Bone reached her, she was sobbing, her immaculate outfit now streaked with filth, her face a mess of running mascara smeared across a bruised and battered face, one eye almost closed completely.

Agnes looked up. “It was all her. My sister. She’s a monster. She made me do everything. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Who did that to your face?”

“She did. When I told her I was going to turn myself in, put an end to it, she hit me over and over. I thought she was going to kill me.”

“Where is she?” Bone cut in.

“I don’t know. She said she had people on the payroll in prison who would end me if I talk.” She wailed and threw herself to the ground. “She killed my beautiful brother. She’s out of control.”

“When did you last see her?”

“She just told me to meet her at the airfield.”

“When did she leave the mansion?”

“About an hour ago.” Agnes’s eyes were wild with fear. “You have to believe me. I’m terrified of her. We both were. She’s completely lost her mind.”

Blue lights flashed, OC vehicles converging on their position. Macintyre strode towards them, satisfaction evident in his squared shoulders.

“Agnes Durie,” Bone said formally, “I am arresting you on suspicion of money laundering, conspiracy to import controlled substances, and the murder of Hamish Durie. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention something which you later rely on in court.”

As she was led away, still protesting her innocence, Macintyre approached Bone.

“We’ve just received a report of a disturbance at the distillery,” he said, his expression grim. “ARU officers are on-site, but communications are patchy.”

Bone looked to Laverty, who was wiping mud from her hands with fastidious precision. Then he glanced back at their car, its wheels sunk deep in the marshy ground.

“We need a vehicle,” Bone said to Macintyre. “Ours is stuck thanks to my new boss’s off-road driving skills.”

Laverty shot him a withering glare.

“Actually,” Macintyre said, surveying the scene, “you got pretty far in that family saloon you civvy street officers ride about in.”

“Thank you, sir,” Laverty replied with a hint of satisfaction.

Macintyre pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “Take my four-by-four.” He nodded towards a black Range Rover parked on firmer ground. “We’ll round everyone up here.”

Bone caught the keys as Macintyre tossed them. “Appreciate it.”

“Just try to bring it back in one piece,” Macintyre added. “Paperwork’s a nightmare otherwise.”

“I’ll drive,” Bone said, already striding towards the vehicle.

“In your dreams.” Laverty increased her pace to catch up. “You drive like my grandmother, and she’s been dead ten years.”

Bone raised an eyebrow but handed her the keys. “Fine. Just try to keep it on the road this time.”

“No promises.” She smiled. She glanced over at him. “By the way, you’ve got mud on your face.”

“So have you,” he replied, and her laugh surprised him—a genuine sound, devoid of its usual sharp edges.

Behind them, the airfield receded into darkness, one sister captured but another still at large. The night, Bone knew, was far from over.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Feelan’s nightclub sign buzzed and flickered above the entrance, the faulty electrics making the pink and blue light stutter across the wet pavement. The Armed Response team were gathered in the adjacent street, their tactical gear and MP5 carbines lending a deadly seriousness to the operation. Mullens stood between two OC officers, their equipment making his rumpled suit seem even more dishevelled.

“Right, lads.” Mullens adjusted his stab vest, which strained across his substantial girth. “Let’s not stand on ceremony. Let’s kick the evil bastard’s fat arse.”

Chief Tactical Officer Morrison shot him a look. “Very poetic, DS Mullens.” He turned to his armed team, his face grave. “Remember, there are civilians inside—partygoers who have nothing to do with this. No one gets trigger-happy. Weapons are for persuasive purposes only unless fired upon. But be very careful.”

The officers nodded their understanding.

Morrison continued, “Remember the plan. We go in fast, secure the premises, then move on Feelan’s office.”

“Aye, to arrest the cockwomble inside,” Mullens muttered, yanking again at the vest now riding up his swollen gut.

The team closed in with silent precision, two armed officers detaching themselves from the group and positioning themselves close to the entrance, while two more disappeared down the lane to cover the rear exits. At Morrison’s signal, the rest, with Mullens, moved in.

One of the club’s bouncers—a mountain of a man with a neck wider than Mullens’s thigh—barely had time to register surprise before he was efficiently restrained and cuffed. Inside, a party was in full swing—flashing lights, pounding bass, and a crowd of sweaty revellers, pupils like dinner plates, oblivious to the raid in progress.

“Police!” Morrison’s voice boomed through a megaphone, momentarily drowning out the music.

Chaos erupted. Patrons scattered, drinks dropped or abandoned, personal belongings forgotten in the rush for exits blocked by tactical officers.

Mullens advanced through the melee, eyes fixed on the stairway leading to Feelan’s office. Two security guards materialised at the foot of the stairs, both built like brick outhouses, hands reaching ominously inside their jackets.

“Armed police! Hands in the air! Now!” shouted one of the tactical officers, his MP5 trained squarely on the larger guard’s chest.

Both guards raised their hands, but the bigger one—a bald behemoth, with a scar bisecting one eyebrow—sneered and whipped out a telescopic baton from his sleeve.

“Fuck this,” he snarled, the baton extending with a menacing click.

The officers tensed, fingers tightening on triggers, but Mullens stepped forward with surprising speed. And before the deadly standoff escalated further, he delivered a single, devastating punch to the guard’s solar plexus.

The giant folded like wet cardboard, gasping as he dropped to his knees, the baton clattering harmlessly to the floor. Another officer moved in swiftly, securing the man’s wrists with plastic cuffs.

The second guard immediately put his hands behind his head, staring at Mullens’s fists in terror.

“Impressive,” Morrison remarked, eyebrows raised.

Mullens flexed his fingers, grinning. “Pure bridie power.”

“Bridie Man,” one of the younger officers quipped. “I can see the next Marvel franchise.”

Morrison gestured towards the staircase. “Feelan’s alone up there, but he could be armed. Let’s go.”

The team prepared to ascend, and Mullens joined them.

“No, you stay here,” Morrison ordered. “Too dangerous.”

Mullens snorted. “Aye, righto. No chance.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Detective Sergeant.”

“Look,” Mullens said, lowering his voice, “Feelan and I go back a long way. I’ve been after this sack of rotting spunk for years. Surely you won’t deny me the satisfaction of seeing him finally getting the shafting he deserves?”

Morrison hesitated, studying Mullens’s face.

“Let me arrest him, please,” Mullens added, his polite plea sounding strange coming from him.

“Okay,” Morrison said with a reluctant sigh. “But stay back, and no heroic bridie punches, understand? Let my team handle any resistance.”

“Crystal clear,” Mullens agreed, not quite suppressing his grin.

The armed officers took position, weapons ready. Morrison gave a curt nod to his point man, who positioned himself to breach the door.

With a powerful kick, the door crashed open. Armed officers poured in, weapons trained on the desk.

“Police! Hands up where we can see them!” Morrison shouted.

Frank Feelan sat behind his enormous mahogany desk, looking for all the world like a legitimate businessman interrupted during a normal evening’s work. Spreadsheets were open on his computer, a calculator and a  ledger book arranged neatly beside it.

“Look who it is,” Feelan drawled, barely glancing up from his papers. “The man who put the plod in PC. And I see you’ve brought the Village People to accompany you.”

“Hands where we can see them!” Morrison repeated, his weapon unwavering. “Now!”

Feelan sighed theatrically and slowly raised his hands.

Something glinted in his left fist.

“Gun!” someone shouted.

The room erupted with the sounds of weapons being readied, safeties clicking off.

“Whoa!” Mullens interjected, stepping forward cautiously.

“Ciggies,” Feelan said calmly and opened his palm to reveal a pack of Marlboro Lights. “Terrible habit. Was just about to pop out for a puff, but hey—then I’d miss all the fun.”

“Frank Feelan,” Mullens announced. He moved closer, the tension in the room fractionally decreasing. “We’re executing a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of importing controlled substances, money laundering, and conspiracy to murder. Your empire ends today.”

“That was quite a lot for you to remember there, Detective Sergeant Muppet, sorry Mullens. Looks like your recovery went well, though hard to tell when you have a head like a potato.”

Mullens smiled, knowing he had him now and nothing he said mattered anymore. He leaned forward, hands planted on the desk. “That’s rich coming from someone who bears a remarkable resemblance to my scrotum.” He leaned in farther, almost touching noses with the gang boss. “The party’s over, Frankie. We know you’ve been using the Glendurie Distillery to ship heroin across the country. The vans, the cover story, it’s all unravelling. OCD are all over your arse.”

Feelan’s expression shifted, an expression of injured innocence replacing his earlier indignation. “Oh, the Duries? Is that what this is all about?” He gave a theatrical sigh. “I think you’ve got things wrong here, gentlemen. Hamish Durie, sadly no longer with us, was quite heavily in debt to my loans company. The Durie sisters’ accountant paid off his substantial loan, more than once, I hasten to add, but I have explained that to you before, DS Mullens. Memory slipping, is it? Like your poor old man.”

Mullens continued to smile, ignoring the jibes.

Feelan leaned back and straightened his tie, maintaining his composure. “The Duries then approached me to assist with security arrangements, both personal and property. That is the extent of my relationship with the distillery.”

“And I suppose all those Glendurie vans entering and leaving a warehouse north of Aberdeen were just dropping off whisky samples?” Mullens retorted. “Oh, did I not tell you? My colleague, DI Walker, is on her way back from that wonderful time she had up at your facility. She’s probably already filing her report to the procurator fiscal as I speak.”

A muscle twitched below Feelan’s left eye, but his smile remained fixed. “I’m an investor in Scottish businesses. I have a contract to store their whisky. I don’t remember a law against that.”

“Investor in flooding Scottish prisons with class A narcotics,” Mullens snarled.

Feelan’s twitching eye worsened. “These are slanderous accusations. My lawyers will—”

“Your lawyers can’t help you this time,” Morrison cut in.

“This is bollocks,” Feelan spluttered, his face now a dangerous shade of purple.

“Save your breath. You’re ours now.” Mullens’s smile widened.

Something cold and calculating flashed in Feelan’s eyes. “You’ve made a grave mistake, Muppet.” His hand shot under the desk, and he whipped out a samurai sword from a concealed holder. He jumped up and pushed the desk over, the blade flashing in the light.

“Holy mother of God,” Mullens breathed.

Feelan executed a perfect overhead slash that would have split him from crown to crotch if he hadn’t stumbled backwards.

Feelan swung the sword with practised precision, the weapon whistling through the air. He advanced, backing Mullens against the wall. Behind him, several officers had their weapons trained on Feelan, but the cramped office and Mullens’s position made taking a shot very risky.

“Always wanted one of these,” Feelan remarked conversationally, executing a flourish that nearly took off Mullens’s ear. “Trained with a master in Kyoto. Did you know that?”

“Fascinating,” Mullens replied, gaze fixed on the deadly arc of steel. “Did you learn that before or after you became Glasgow’s number one skidmark?”

With a roar of fury, Feelan raised the sword high, preparing to bring it down in a killing blow. The blade glinted in the fluorescent light and began its deadly descent towards Mullens’s head. Mullens swerved.

A single gunshot cracked through the air.

Feelan screamed; the bullet tore through his thigh. His leg buckled beneath him, and he crashed to the floor, the sword clattering beside him.

Blood pooled around him, spurting rhythmically from the wound with every rapid heartbeat, crimson quickly soaking the office carpet. Feelan howled in agony, his face contorted in pain.

Two OC officers rushed forward, first kicking the sword well out of reach, before kneeling to apply pressure to the spurting wound.

“Arterial bleed,” one of them muttered. “Get the med kit, now!”

Mullens stood over them, his breathing heavy, watching them work frantically to stem the flow of blood from Feelan’s severed artery.

“If it was me,” Mullens said darkly, “I’d let the evil bastard bleed out.”

The officers glanced up at him but continued their work.

Mullens stepped back, straightening his rumpled suit. “But I suppose that would be against protocol,” he added with reluctance.

Morrison approached, holstering his weapon. “Good shot, Rennie,” he said to one of his team, a stern-faced woman who was already documenting the discharge of her firearm.

“Had to wait for the right moment, sir,” she replied.

Paramedics arrived minutes later, stabilising Feelan before strapping him to a stretcher. Despite his injuries, Feelan managed to spit out threats when they carried him out.

“I never forget a face,” he hissed through pain-clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing with cold recognition at one of the undercover officers hanging back in the shadows.

“That’s another five years you’ve just added to your lengthy sentence,” Mullens growled, walking alongside the stretcher. “Next time you leave prison will be inside a box.”

Feelan was unceremoniously loaded into an ambulance, two armed officers climbing in to accompany him. The remainder of his security team was being loaded into a police van, their once-intimidating presence now diminished by split lips, black eyes, and the universal expression of men calculating how many years they were facing.

“I’m a legitimate businessman!” Feelan shouted from the stretcher. “You are all going to pay!”

Mullens leaned against the ambulance, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t you look sweet? Long time coming, eh, Frankie?” he shouted through the door. He gave a mocking wave just before the doors slammed shut.

The sirens immediately wailed to life, and the ambulance sped off into the night.

Mullens checked his watch and pulled out his phone. As he punched in a message to Bone, more lights flashed and engines roared to life. The convoy of police vehicles moved out, carrying Feelan’s men away to a future of concrete walls and iron bars. He took a deep breath, shoulders finally relaxing slightly, thankful that his part of the operation had been casualty-free, on his side at least. Now he just had to hope that his boss would make it out in one piece, too.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Blue lights strobed across the granite façade of Glendurie Distillery as Bone and Laverty pulled up. The car had barely stopped when Bone was out and striding towards the armed response commander, a stocky man whose tactical gear seemed moulded to his frame.

“DCI Bone.” He flashed his ID. “What’s the situation?”

The commander—Commander Phillips, according to his badge—looked Bone up and down. “One female suspect, identified as Elspeth Durie, barricaded in the stillroom. She’s got a hostage—general manager, a Robert Banks.”

“Shit.” Bone’s stomach tightened.

Phillips nodded grimly. “She’s locked the door from the inside. My men are positioned, but we can’t risk a dynamic entry.”

“Let me talk to her,” Bone said.

“Too dangerous.” Phillips’s voice was clipped, final. “The stillroom is volatile enough without adding a suicide bomber mentality to the mix.”

Laverty stepped forward. “At least let us see what we’re dealing with.”

Phillips hesitated, then jerked his head towards a side building. “Security office. CCTV coverage.”

Inside, a bank of monitors showed multiple angles of the distillery. Phillips tapped one screen showing the stillroom’s interior. To Bone’s surprise, Elspeth Durie was standing beside a large copper vessel marked Spirit Still, her wheelchair pushed to one side. Robert Banks stood a few feet away, face ashen with terror. Durie was holding something small in her right hand.

“What’s that?” Laverty leaned closer.

“Lighter,” Phillips replied. His face tautened. “Spirit at that stage, is around seventy percent alcohol. One spark and the vapours ignite. Chain reaction through the copper piping. She could turn that place into a fireball that would consume half the complex, not to mention maybe a few nearby houses.”

Bone studied the monitor, noting the erratic twitching of Durie’s hand, the wild, unfocused look in her eyes. “I’ve talked people down from worse. Let me try.”

“Not happening. I’m not risking more lives.”

“There’s a Tannoy system,” Bone persisted. “We could link one of your radios to it.”

Phillips exchanged glances with his technical officer, who shrugged. “Possible.”

“Come on,” Bone urged. “If I fail, your plan stays intact.”

Phillips relented. “Three minutes. Then we’re going with plan B.”

Bone didn’t ask what plan B entailed. He didn’t need to.

“I’ll set it up,” Phillips said, disappearing with his comms specialist.

Laverty turned to Bone. “You think this is wise?”

“Nothing about this case has been wise,” Bone replied, attention still fixed on the screen. Banks’s lips were moving rapidly—praying, pleading, it was impossible to tell. “The Duries embezzling from their own company, partnering with a monster to smuggle heroin, killing their brother to keep it quiet—it’s practically bloody Shakespearean.”

“Only, this is real. And we know what happened to you when you tried to talk the peekaboo killer down.”

“I can do this,” Bone pleaded.

Laverty nodded her approval.

Phillips returned holding a radio handset. “We’ve patched this through the Tannoy. Remember—she’s unstable. One wrong word…” He dragged a finger across his throat.

“Where can I get closer to her?” Bone asked.

“Absolutely not,” Phillips countered. “You stay here where it’s safe.”

Laverty surprised Bone by stepping in. “Let him approach slowly.” She turned to Bone. “But not too close, okay? We can’t have you blown to smithereens again, now can we?”

Something in her tone—genuine concern beneath the professional exterior—caught Bone off guard. He nodded his thanks and took the radio.

His pulse quickened. Armed officers flanked him as they went through the distillery. The air grew warm, heavy with the sweet smell of malt and the chemical tang of alcohol. Through the reinforced glass window in the stillroom door, he could see Durie partially obscured by a copper still. She was gesticulating wildly at Banks, her face contorted with spittle-flecked rage.

Bone positioned himself carefully and pressed the transmit button. “Miss Durie? This is DCI—”

A piercing feedback screech cut through the air. Inside, Durie jerked violently, her hand with the lighter spasming upwards. The armed officers retreated several steps, weapons raised.

Bone fumbled with the volume control, turning it down. His mouth was suddenly desert-dry. “Miss Durie? This is DCI Bone. Can you hear me?”

Her head swivelled towards the door, eyes narrowing as she spotted him. The look she gave him chilled him to his core—it wasn’t just madness or desperation. There was calculation there, a cold intelligence watching from behind the chaos.

“I just want to talk,” Bone continued, keeping his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart. “About the distillery. About your family legacy.”

Through the glass, he saw her mouth moving but couldn’t hear her response.

“Mr Banks has been a loyal employee for many years,” Bone pressed on. “He doesn’t deserve to be harmed. He’s innocent in all this.”

Durie’s face twisted in contempt. She said something to Banks, who nodded frantically, sweat pouring down his ashen face. Then she moved closer to the door, her voice now audible through the intercom system.

“You want to talk about innocent?” Her voice crackled through the speakers, distorted but venomous. “There’s no innocent in this world, Detective. Only the strong and the weak.”

“Mr Banks is just doing his job,” Bone replied calmly. “Like you were trying to do yours—protecting the distillery, preserving your family’s legacy. That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? What your forebears built, and your father entrusted to you.”

“Don’t you dare speak about my father!” she shrieked. “You know nothing!”

Bone could see her agitation increasing, the lighter trembling in her grip. He needed to stay calm, keep her talking. “You’re right, I don’t know everything. But I know you love this place. I know you’ve fought to keep it alive. Let Mr Banks go, Elspeth. He’s not part of this fight.”

There was a long pause. Through the glass, Bone watched as Durie seemed to consider his words.

“You want him free?” she finally said, her voice suddenly eerily calm.

“Yes.”

“Then you take his place.”

Phillips stepped forward immediately. “Absolutely not. No way.”

But Bone raised his hand, eyes fixed on Durie through the glass. “What do you mean?”

“You come in here, Inspector. Just you. No armoury, no backup, no tricks. You want to talk about my family, my father, my legacy? Then you do it properly, to my face.”

“DCI Bone, I forbid this,” Phillips said sharply.

“I need to get close enough to persuade her she can trust me,” Bone said quietly, still watching Durie. “She’s a woman who’s lost everything and doesn’t know how to stop the bleeding.”

“I don’t care what she is. You’re not going in there.”

Bone turned to face Phillips. “I know how to read people, how to talk them down.”

“Not in a room full of explosive vapour with a woman holding a lighter.”

“Commander Phillips,” Bone persisted, his voice taking on a more formal tone, “I’m trained in crisis negotiation. This is exactly the kind of scenario I’m qualified to handle. I’ve been doing it for years.”

“And if you’re wrong? If she decides to flick that lighter the moment you walk in?”

“Then you have your dynamic entry ready as backup. But right now, Mr Banks is in there, terrified out of his mind. At least if it’s me, I know the risks. I choose to take them.”

Phillips shook his head firmly. “My responsibility is to minimise casualties, not add to them. The answer is no.”

Bone was about to argue further when Laverty stepped forward again, her voice cutting through the tension with quiet authority.

“DCI Bone is right. He’s one of our most experienced negotiators. If there’s a chance to resolve this without bloodshed, we should take it.”

“With respect, ma’am, this isn’t a standard negotiation scenario. The environmental hazards alone—”

“That’s exactly why we need someone inside who can read the situation properly,” Laverty interrupted. “Someone who can assess her mental state, her intentions, her triggers. DCI Bone has successfully resolved similar high-risk situations before.”

Phillips looked between them. “If this goes wrong—”

“It will be my responsibility,” Laverty said firmly. “I’m ordering you to facilitate the exchange. DCI Bone goes in, Mr Banks comes out. Your men remain in position for immediate response if needed.”

Phillips stared at her for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Your call, ma’am. But I want it on record that I advised against this.”

“Noted,” Laverty said. She turned to Bone. “You’re sure about this?”

Bone nodded. “I can reach her. I know I can.” He turned back to the radio. “Ms Durie, I accept your terms. But we do this properly. You let Mr Banks walk out first, unharmed. Then I come in. Agreed?”

Through the glass, they watched as Durie considered this. She looked at Banks, then back at the door.

“Just you,” she said finally.

“You have my word.”

Phillips was already coordinating with his team. “We’ll position at the door. The moment Banks is clear, you go in. But Bone—” He grabbed Bone’s arm. “If this goes south, we’re coming in hard and fast. Don’t be a hero.”

“Understood.”

Bone stripped off his protective gear, removing his radio, his phone. Anything that could be seen as threatening. He felt strangely naked as he approached the stillroom door, every nerve ending alive with tension.

“Ready?” Phillips asked.

Bone nodded. Through the glass, he could see Durie positioning herself near the door, Banks trembling beside her.

“Miss Durie, we’re ready for the exchange.”

The lock clicked. The door opened just wide enough for one person. Banks appeared first, terror etched across his face. He stumbled out and the tactical officers pulled him to safety. For a moment, the doorway was empty.

Then Bone stepped forward.

“Wait,” Phillips said, grabbing his shoulder one last time. “Three minutes. That’s all. Then we’re coming in.”

Bone met his gaze steadily. “Three minutes.”

He went in. The door closed behind him with a solid metallic thunk, the lock engaging with finality.

Durie had retreated to her position by the still, lighter held high. Her wheelchair remained forgotten against the wall. The unmistakable smell of raw spirit permeated the air, making Bone’s eyes water, his lungs burning with each breath.

“Just me, as I promised,” he said quietly. He stretched out his arms to show her he was unarmed.

She glared at him, her eyes fever-bright, a toxic cocktail of fear, rage, and something more disturbing—a detachment from reality that made her unpredictable. “Look at you. You think you’re so clever.” she spat, spittle flying from her lips. “Coming in here to save the day. The big hero.”

“I’m just doing my job. Like you were trying to do yours—protecting the distillery, preserving your family’s legacy.” Bone took a tentative step forward. “That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? What your forefathers built. What your father entrusted to you.”

“Leave my father out of this!” The words erupted from her, rage twisting her features as her outburst reverberated around the stillroom. “That monster is the reason the distillery is in such a mess. His ‘rule of terror,’ as he called it.” Her voice cracked, a hysterical edge creeping in. “Do you know what it was like? Growing up under him? The beatings if we failed. The humiliation.”

Bone listened while furtively scanning the area immediately around her.

“Agnes got the worst of it. But Hamish—Hamish was the disappointment. The one who could never measure up.” Her eyes darted wildly, as if seeing ghosts in the shimmering air. “But I tried to save us. I tried to save the legacy, despite what he did to us.”

“By becoming exactly like him?” Bone said quietly. “Or worse?”

Her head snapped up, eyes blazing. “I am nothing like him!”

“Your brother wanted out,” Bone prompted. “He wanted you to see that all of this was wrong. Is that why you killed him? Because you couldn’t handle the truth?”

“He wanted to destroy everything. After all I did to protect him. I paid his debts. I kept his secrets. And what did he do? Threatened to end two hundred years, just like that.”

“You mean stop you supplying heroin to the Scottish addict community,” Bone said, keeping his voice neutral. “How many lives have you destroyed with that poison?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Human waste like that deserves to die. What is the life of a junkie in comparison to all this, and a whole community that depends on us? Our father left us nothing but debt and a name that was worth less each year.” Her eyes gleamed with a feverish light. “This was supposed to be a one-off deal. Just enough to get us back on our feet. Then we would rise again to the top.”

“So you partnered with the devil,” Bone said. “And got your brother killed for it.”

“Hamish wouldn’t stop.” Her lip trembled, as though she was about to crack. “He just wouldn’t stop. I needed Feelan to believe that I was serious about the deal. I didn’t want him dead. Just scare him off. But Feelan betrayed me. Said I had to show loyalty or… I had no choice but to comply.” She sighed. “Ah, what do you know? How could you possibly understand?” She glared at him with contempt.

“And what about your sister?” Bone watched her reaction carefully. “Was Agnes next on your kill list?”

A ripple of rage flitted across Durie’s face. “That silly slut was always going to be a liability. Obsessed with her own hedonistic pleasures and needs. That made her weak. Malleable. Happy to widen her legs for a bit of flattery and ego-stroking. It was a blessing that thing was aborted because she is incapable of loving anyone but herself.”

“She stood up to you, didn’t she?”

“Her? Ha! She couldn’t stand up to her own shadow.” Her fingers twitched on the lighter. “But she started getting stupid ideas. Questioning me, threatening everything I had built for her, just like Hamish. The same repulsive weakness in both of them, that I can’t abide. Turns my stomach.”

“So you beat her,” Bone said. “Just like your father used to beat you.”

“She needed to understand!” Durie’s voice rose to a screech. “I’m trying to save our family name! Our legacy!”

“Ah, using the old sins of the father to explain away your crimes.” Bone’s voice hardened. “Miss Durie, if your father was as bad as you claim, then I’m afraid he’s a Disney cuddly toy compared to you.”

Her face whitened with rage. “You know nothing about me! About what I’ve endured!”

“I know you’ve become a killer,” Bone said simply. “A drug trafficker. Everything your father built, you have destroyed.”

“It’s all a mess!” she screamed.

“Of your making, Elspeth.”

She seethed at him, spittle flying from the corners of her mouth. “I can’t go on with this any longer.” She leaned towards the still, thumb poised over the lighter. “It all has to end.”

“Listen to me,” Bone’s voice sharpened, his heart racing. “You blow this up, then it really is all gone forever—your family heritage, the business, the whisky. All of it. Is that what you want? To destroy what generations built? The distillery can be saved.”

“No, it’s all gone,” she whispered, her voice suddenly childlike. “Our name is obliterated.”

“You got into bed with a monster, and the monster has eaten you alive. How could you possibly think that running drugs for a man like Feelan would end in your favour?” His voice rose. “I’d say naïve at best, cold-hearted killer at worst. That’s how the press will portray you—the woman who killed her brother to save her business.”

“Hamish was weak!” she shrieked, her hysteria returning. “Like Agnes. Like all of them. I was the only one strong enough to do what needed to be done!”

“Strong?” Bone scoffed. “You call this strength? At least Feelan is what he is. But you just hide behind your money and some twisted notion of legacy and pride.”

“Stop!” she shrieked, rage consuming her features. “I am done with you. All of it.”

She flicked the lighter once, twice—but no flame appeared. Bone ducked instinctively, adrenaline coursing through his system. When no explosion came, he realised his opportunity and lunged.

He tackled her with enough force to send her sprawling across the floor, both of them crashing to the floor. His shoulder hit the hard concrete, pain lancing through his arm, but he maintained his grip.

Durie writhed beneath him like a wounded animal, her strength surprising for a woman her age. One arm somehow broke free of his grasp. She grabbed the fallen lighter, her face a rictus of hatred as her finger desperately worked the flint wheel.

“This is how it ends!” she screamed. “This is how it all ends!”

Bone was reaching for her wrist when the door burst open. An OC officer in full tactical gear stormed in, planting a boot firmly on Durie’s outstretched arm. She screamed in pain, the sound barely human, and the lighter clattered back to the floor.

Bone scrambled to his feet, heart hammering against his ribs. He backed away, his hands shaking so badly he had to clench them into fists. Laverty appeared in the doorway, her face pale but composed.

“You and your heroics,” she said, but there was no bite in her words.

“Just another day at the office,” Bone replied shakily, watching officers secure Durie.

Durie met his eyes with a gaze that had lost none of its venom, despite her tears.

“You’ve ruined everything!” she roared at him.

“No,” Bone replied quietly. “You did that all by yourself.”

Outside, Bone was approached by Commander Phillips. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking anything other than saving lives, sir.” Bone removed his protective gear and handed it to him.

“To be fair, DCI Bone did resolve the situation without any casualties,” Laverty jumped in. She turned to Bone. “Though your high-risk strategy could have gone either way, Detective Inspector.”

“I read the room and made the call,” Bone said.

“I’ll have to file a report, DCI Bone,” Phillips said.

“I hope you include that DCI Bone should be commended for his bravery.”

Bone spun around, surprised by his boss-to-be’s support.

Phillips nodded grudgingly, and marched back to one of his vehicles.

“Thank you,” Bone said.

“Bloody idiot. I don’t want you doing anything stupid like that again, okay?” Her reprimand was slightly defused by the hint of a smile.

“You sound exactly like our current super, ma’am.”

“Ma’am, at last.” Laverty shook her head.

“Could you find your own way back to the station… ma’am?”

“Okay, now you’re being sarcastic.” She chuckled. “Why? Where are you going?”

“Someone I need to see,” Bone said.

“Are you sure you don’t need some time to…” Laverty started

But Bone had already set off for the pool car.

FIFTY-NINE

Bone pushed through the double doors into the ICU, the familiar beep of monitors and hum of ventilators filling the air. He scanned the room methodically, his eyes moving from bed to bed. An elderly patient lay motionless, tubes snaking from his throat while a ventilator breathed for him. Another, pale and skeletal, was connected to what seemed like a dozen machines, their screens displaying jagged lines and blinking numbers. Bone continued his sweep of the unit, checking each bed, each face. The patients here teetered on the edge between life and death, but none of them was Harper. Panic rising, he stopped a passing nurse.

“I’m looking for William Harper.”

The nurse nodded in recognition. “Mr Harper’s been moved to the general ward. He’s in a side room on ward thirty-four, needs quiet,” she warned, with a meaningful look. “At the end of the next corridor.”

“Thanks,” Bone said, already heading towards the doors she’d indicated, wondering what the nurse meant.

The ward sister at the reception desk pointed him to Harper’s room. As Bone approached, familiar laughter echoed from inside—not just Harper’s, but the unmistakable booming guffaw of DS Mullens. Before he even opened the door, he could hear Mullens’s voice.

“—so there he was, waving his samurai sword like he was auditioning for Kill Bill—”

When Bone entered, he was surprised by the scene. Harper was sitting upright against the pillows, a tablet computer balanced on his lap, colour in his face, and seeming remarkably well despite the small bandage on his temple. What surprised Bone more was Mullens, sprawled comfortably in a visitor’s chair, his large frame making the hospital furniture resemble dollhouse accessories, spinning what was clearly an animated retelling of Feelan’s arrest. Catriona sat on the other side, appearing simultaneously amused and concerned.

A harried-looking nurse stood by the bed, trying to take Harper’s vitals, while shooting pointed glares at Mullens, who seemed oblivious to her attempts to quiet him down.

“—and then bang! Rennie puts a bullet right through the bastard’s leg! Blood everywhere—” Mullens continued enthusiastically, gesturing wildly.

“Detective Mullens,” the nurse interrupted with strained patience, “as I’ve mentioned twice now, Mr Harper needs rest and quiet.”

“This is therapeutic,” Mullens protested. “Man needs to know we’ve nailed the bast—” He caught himself. “The lowlife scumbags.” He smiled.

“Boss!” Harper called out when he spotted Bone, his eyes bright and alert. “Come in! Mullens was just giving me the highlights.”

The nurse sighed in defeat, finished noting Harper’s vitals, and departed with a final warning glare.

“I can see that,” Bone replied, unable to keep a smile from his face despite his surprise. “What are you doing here?” he said to Mullens.

Mullens shrugged unapologetically. “I called the hospital after we apprehended spunkbubble, and Catriona gave me the good news. Or bad news, depending how you view it,” he added and winked at Harper. “I just had to come over an’ annoy him.”

“The operation went perfectly.” Catriona stood to greet Bone. She was more relaxed than Bone would have expected with Mullens there. “The neurosurgeon said Will was incredibly lucky—the bleed wasn’t nearly as bad as they’d initially feared from the scans.”

“Just a minor dent in the old hard drive,” Harper added, tapping his temple gently. “A wee drill to the head and everything still boots up fine. I was just checking my email when this great lummox burst in with flowers and Irn-Bru.”

A small arrangement of slightly crushed flowers sat on the windowsill, and a couple of bottles of the bright-orange Scottish elixir sat on the bedside table.

“That’s fantastic news,” Bone said, genuinely delighted. He pulled up another chair beside the bed. “You had us all worried there, son.”

“So,” Harper leaned forward eagerly and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Mullens told me about Feelan, but how’s the rest of the case going? By your expression, I suspect rather well?”

“I was just getting to the good part,” Mullens interjected. “You should’ve seen Feelan’s face when they were loading him into the ambulance. Like a man who’d just realised he’s traded his penthouse for a six-by-eight cell with a roommate named Big Malky.”

“I’m not sure I should be sharing case details,” Bone said with mock seriousness.

“Oh, come on,” Harper pleaded. “You can’t leave me hanging like this. Mullens has only told me about his heroics at the nightclub.”

“Which were considerable.” Mullens puffed out his chest.

Catriona sighed. “Will, the doctor said—”

“Just a quick summary,” Harper begged. “I’ll rest better knowing.”

Bone exchanged a glance with Catriona, who gave a resigned nod.

“Fine, but the abridged version,” Bone conceded. “We’ve closed the case. It turns out the Durie sisters… Well, the older one, Elspeth, has gone completely off her rocker and thought that going into money laundering and heroin trafficking was a better idea than seeing her family business go down the toilet.” He shook his head. “Though, correction… she was probably always off her rocker.”

“The Duries? Seriously?” Harper’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I knew something wasn’t right with their books, but heroin trafficking? That’s a bigger leap than I expected.”

“Mad as a March hare, that one.” Mullens nodded sagely. “Always thought there was something off about her.”

“She’d roped or bribed her accountant into all of this mess as well,” Bone continued. “The evidence trail led exactly where we thought, and once we had retrieved the SIM from Hamish Durie’s recovered phone, we had multiple recorded calls; we had everything we needed to nail the whole lot of them.”

“What about Hamish?” Harper asked.

“He was trying to do the right thing. Put a stop to it.”

“So he was a good guy, after all?” Harper shook his head.

“And that’s how his sister rewarded him?” Catriona said.

“Family, eh?” Mullens snorted. “Can’t live with them, can’t shoot them—well, legally, anyway.”

Harper blew out his cheeks. “I feel sorry for the village and all the workers. Will the distillery survive a scandal like this?”

“OC are still rounding up everyone caught in Feelan’s bribery and blackmail web,” Bone added. “Including the prison governor.”

Harper’s eyes widened. “Wow… a massive operation, then.”

“Aye, way bigger than that wee pimple you had removed from your scone,” Mullens joked, gesturing to Harper’s bandaged head.

Harper rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress a small smile.

“Unlikely,” Bone agreed grimly. “Three generations of family business down the drain because mad as a March hare, Elspeth couldn’t face failure.” Bone ran a hand through his hair. “And Walker had a close call with Feelan.”

“Oh my God, is she okay?” Catriona asked, alarm flashing across her face.

“Don’t worry, she’s safe and fine now, thank God,” Bone assured her. “But we were worried about her there for a while…” He looked pointedly at Harper. “And you!”

“Takes more than a couple of moronic thugs to keep us lot down.” Harper smiled and touched his head lightly.

“What about Will’s attacker?” Catriona asked. “The man who did this to him?”

Bone nodded. “We got him, too. He’s not going anywhere except to prison for a very long time.”

“Good,” Catriona said firmly.

“The rest of the team sends their best,” Bone added. “They wanted to come, too, but—”

“But I told them one visit from me was equivalent to six normal people,” Mullens interrupted with a grin. “Quality over quantity.”

Another nurse appeared at the door, wearing the same expression of strained patience as the previous one. “Time for your medication, Mr Harper.” She glanced at Mullens. “And I’m afraid visiting hours will be over soon.”

Catriona, noticing how Harper’s eyelids had begun to droop despite his enthusiasm, stood decisively. “Okay, that’s enough, you two. Can you bugger off now? He needs to rest.”

“But—” Harper protested.

“No buts,” Catriona said. “These detectives have criminals to process and paperwork to file. And you need sleep.”

Harper conceded, reluctantly nodding. “Suppose I am feeling a bit knackered.”

“That’s my cue.” Bone stood. “I should get back to the station, anyway.”

“Aye, me too.” Mullens heaved himself up from the chair. “Got reports to do. Or more likely, convince Sheila to do for me.”

Harper caught Bone’s arm. “Thanks, boss. For everything.”

“Just doing my job,” Bone replied, suddenly remembering the red-haired man still waiting in the station’s jail. “Rest up. The department needs its resident computer genius back.”

“I’ll make sure he behaves,” Catriona promised, walking them both to the door.

“I have no doubt.” Bone smiled. “Call if you need anything.”

They walked back through the antiseptic corridors, Mullens chatting about the details of Feelan’s arrest. Bone felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Harper was going to be okay. The case was closed. All that remained was tying up the last loose end, still banged up at the station.

SIXTY

Bone’s head throbbed as he pushed through the station doors. The adrenaline crash after the standoff at the distillery had left him hollow, limbs leaden with fatigue. Yet his mind wouldn’t stop racing.

Sergeant Brody intercepted him in the corridor. “Sir, as you requested, the red-haired suspect is back in Interview Room 3. Should I—?”

“I’ll handle it,” Bone said, cutting him off.

The red-haired man sat exactly as Bone had left him hours earlier—back straight, hands folded on the table, that infuriating half-smile playing at his lips. The resemblance to someone Bone couldn’t quite place still nagged at him.

Bone quickly set up the recorder and recommenced the interview. “Let’s try this again.” He pulled his chair closer. “Your connection to Frank Feelan.”

“I told you, I don’t know any Feelan.” Redhead’s voice remained level, but his face betrayed anger. “I’m tired of this now. You’ve held me for hours. Can you just open your eyes?”

Bone withdrew the Meiklejohn family photo from a folder and slid it across the table. “Recognise anyone?”

Redhead glanced down, examining the three figures lined up in front of a fireplace.

“That’s John Meiklejohn.” Bone tapped the photo. The older boy next to him is his son, Robert, the future Peekaboo serial killer.” His finger moved to the younger child standing on the other side of the father. “Is this you? Are you on some kind of revenge trip because your brother topped himself? You think I killed him, is that it?”

Redhead sighed. “I don’t know who that is. But I know who you are.” He smiled.

Bone slammed his palm on the table. “For Christ’s sake! I’ve had a day from hell—a woman nearly blew up a distillery with half of Police Scotland inside it, I’ve got officers in hospital, drug lords in custody, and I just need you to talk so we can all move on!”

Something shifted in Redhead’s expression. “Get my wallet.”

“There’s nothing in it. No ID, nothing.”

“Get it.”

Bone exhaled slowly, then nodded to the observation window. Minutes later, Brody appeared with a battered leather wallet.

“Here.” Bone tossed it onto the table. “Nothing but lint and a bus ticket.”

“Look at the back,” Redhead instructed. “Inside pocket.”

Bone pulled the wallet apart sceptically. In a hidden sleeve, he found a small credit-card-sized photograph, creased with age. He placed it beside his own picture on the table.

It was another family shot from around the late eighties. Bone leaned in to examine the detail. A mother and father sat on a faded floral sofa, a boy of about twelve standing behind them, a little girl perched on the father’s knee.

Bone peered at the figures, then froze. The man in the centre of the photograph was unmistakable.

“That’s my father,” Bone said, glancing up. “What’s he doing in that shot?”

“My father,” Redhead replied, his face suddenly tight with emotion.

“What?” Bone stared at him in disbelief.

“He’s my father.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Our father.” The words dropped like stones into still water.

Bone shook his head, his mind racing. He looked at the photo again. “Is this some kind of cheap trick? Photoshop? My digital team will—”

“Turns out our beloved father had a secret.” Redhead’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

“What are you saying? That my father had some kind of double life? He was a bigamist?” Bone shot to his feet. “Absolute garbage. I would have known. We all would have.”

“Well, I didn’t.” Redhead—Bone’s alleged half-brother—tapped the picture. “My mother told me just before she died eight months ago. She knew from the start, but chose to live with the lie because she loved him too much.”

“This is nonsense,” Bone said, but the certainty had drained from his voice.

“This was taken before…” Redhead paused. “Before he disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“My mother told us he’d died on a trip abroad. Body lost at sea.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “He left us with nothing. We lost our house. My mum had to work two jobs. Our life turned to shit.”

Bone sank back into his chair. “But still she didn’t say anything to you, to anyone?”

“Blind love? Stupidity? Coercion? I don’t know.” Redhead shrugged. “Maybe he had some power over her. You tell me.” His face hardened. “He abandoned us for you,” he snarled.

The pieces clicked together in Bone’s mind. “So that’s why you’ve been stalking me? Damaging my car? The stupid fucking Happy Family cards?”

“You had it all, and you had him. We were left with nothing.” The accusation hung in the air between them.

Bone slumped back, dumbstruck.

“I’m afraid it’s true.”

Bone studied Redhead’s features anew—the shape of his eyes, the set of his jaw. Now he saw what his subconscious had been trying to tell him since their first encounter. The family resemblance was undeniable.

“This is…” Bone began.

“A nightmare. Yes.”

Redhead sighed. “I’m sorry that I damaged your car. When I found out who you were, where you lived, what you did… I was so angry. He abandoned us and gave you everything.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Bone said, his voice hollow. “Aside from his salary, we got very little from him. We barely tolerated each other. He was never there half the—” He stopped as realisation dawned. “So all those business trips abroad, for weeks and months on end…”

“He was with us.”

“But they carried on right up until he died,” Bone said, a sick feeling spreading through his gut. “He was the definition of an absent father.”

“Maybe he had more women, more families. Who knows?”

“Good God,” Bone muttered. “I knew he was a bit of a bastard, but this is another level.”

In the flurry of revelations, Bone realised he still didn’t know Redhead’s name. “Wait, who are you?”

“John Logan. My mother never took his—your—surname.” A bitter smile twisted his mouth. “She said he insisted she keep hers. Sold it as some kind of feminist right or something. The irony.”

Bone took a deep breath, trying to regain his footing. “I’m going to need more than your word on this.”

“I have more photos at home,” Logan offered. “Old videos of us as kids with him. I can show you our life together.”

Bone stared at the stranger opposite, still unable to fully process what he’d just told him. “I need a moment.” He stood abruptly and left the room.

He took the stairs to the roof two at a time, bursting through the fire door into the cool night air. The town spread out below him, lights glittering in the darkness. He gulped in air as if he’d been drowning, his father’s lie spinning cartwheels in his head.

When he returned to the interview room, Logan was sitting quietly, that maddening resemblance to his—their—father now painfully obvious.

“Do you have any children?” Bone asked, his voice attempting neutrality.

“We have one boy, Connor.”

“How old?”

“Eleven.”

“And your sister in the photo?”

“She died of leukaemia six years ago. No kids, before you ask.”

Bone leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “Where do you live?”

“Dunfermline.”

“So what’s with the Yorkshire accent?”

“We moved from Hull after my mum died.”

“To stalk me?”

Logan bowed his head. “I like it up here, and I have a good job working with the council.”

“What do you do?”

“Refuse collection. It’s hard graft, but the pay is okay.”

“So you’re planning on living up here permanently?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“How things go.”

Bone sighed. “And what, are you going to continue stalking me?”

Logan met his gaze. “I’m so sorry. I realise now that you knew nothing about this. Just like me. Our father is the enemy here, not you. I had no idea he’d given your family a hard time, too.”

Bone stared at him, trying to work out if he was genuinely contrite.

“I’m truly sorry.” Logan’s eyes welled with tears.

Bone eyeballed him for a long moment, then left without another word. At the front desk, he interrupted Brody, who was about to pick up a ringing phone.

“Release the man in Interview Room 3.”

Sergeant Brody looked up, surprised. “Release? Why? Isn’t he involved with Feelan? Trashed your car?”

“A misunderstanding. Release him without charge.”

Brody studied Bone’s pained expression. “Are you okay, sir? You’re a bit pale.”

“Long day,” Bone said.

He about-turned and exited the station, resisting the desire to run as fast as he could from the place.

EPILOGUE

Three months had passed since the Glendurie case closed. Autumn had arrived in Loch Gillan, painting the hillsides with fiery hues of red and gold and bringing a crisp, misty shimmer to the loch that had been absent during the summer months. Bone emerged from the bedroom, his phone in hand, a satisfied expression on his face.

“Good news?” Alice glanced up from arranging a platter of sandwiches on the dining table.

“The psychiatric report on Elspeth Durie has come through. They’ve concluded she’s of sound mind.”

“That’s fantastic.” Alice set down the last sandwich. “No chance of her claiming diminished responsibility, then?”

“None,” Bone said with satisfaction. “She’ll be joining her sister and the other pond-life scum to rot in prison for the rest of their lives.”

Bone moved to the window, staring out anxiously at the rutted track that served as his driveway.

Alice spotted his nervous glance and smiled. “Stop fretting. It will be fine.”

“I know, I know.” Bone adjusted his shirt collar. He’d worn a button-down and tie for the occasion, a concession to formality that felt foreign against his skin.

“It’s so lovely that Kincraig villagers and the distillery staff are going to erect a plaque for Hamish in the village square,” Alice said, straightening a napkin.

“Goodness prevails in the end, I suppose,” Bone murmured and turned back to the window. A blue Honda appeared, navigating the bumps with cautious precision.

“They’re here.” He turned to Alice.

She squeezed his arm. “Remember, this was your idea.”

“Will it be fine, though? Really?”

Before she could answer, Michael slouched out of his room, headphones dangling around his neck. “Do I have to be here for this whole thing?”

“Yes,” Alice and Bone replied in unison.

The car doors slammed outside. Bone took a deep breath and opened the front door.

John Logan stood on the porch, his wife and son huddled behind him like reluctant ducklings. They’d dressed for the occasion—Logan in pressed chinos and a crisp white shirt, Mrs Logan in a floral dress that looked new, their son, Connor, in the universal teenage uniform of forced smartness: a polo shirt clearly put on under protest.

“Hi,” John Logan said, the single syllable carrying the weight of their complicated history.

“Come in.” Bone stepped aside, holding the door.

Introductions were stiff and formal.

“This is my wife, Sarah,” Logan said. “And our son, Connor.”

Sarah Logan was a small, delicate woman with ash-blonde hair cut in a practical bob and the tired eyes of someone who had spent years worrying. Her pale complexion suggested she rarely ventured outdoors, and her thin fingers clutched her handbag as though it were a life preserver.

“Thank you for having us,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“Michael.” Bone nudged his son forward.

“Hey,” Michael mumbled, and examined his trainers with intense fascination.

“Mmm.” Connor nodded, equally fascinated by the floorboards.

Alice led them to the table, where the sandwiches sat alongside a homemade quiche and a bowl of salad. Bone pulled out chairs for Sarah and Connor, an old-fashioned gesture that only heightened the awkwardness.

Silence descended, punctuated only by the clinking of glasses as Bone poured juice for the boys and offered wine to the adults. “Or maybe you’d prefer a beer? I have beer.” he offered nervously.

“No, wine is fine,” John said, though his face suggested he never touched the stuff.

“It’s beautiful here,” Sarah ventured, glancing towards the window where the loch stretched out like polished pewter beneath the sky. “The village, the location… everything.”

“We love it,” Alice replied, seizing the conversational lifeline. “Though Duncan’s more devoted to the landscape than I am. He goes wild swimming in the loch, even in winter.”

“Really?” John looked at Bone with newfound respect. “That takes commitment.”

“Or insanity,” Alice added and smiled.

“Good job us blokes have retracting tackle, isn’t it?” John blurted out, then immediately seemed mortified.

There was a heartbeat of horrified silence before Michael snorted, trying to suppress his laughter. Connor’s face reddened, but his shoulders shook with silent chuckles.

“John!” Sarah hissed, but the tension had broken.

Alice smiled. “Maybe Michael could show Connor his new video thingy? He just got the latest PlayStation.”

“It’s called a game, Mum,” Michael corrected with the weary impatience of a tech support specialist dealing with an elderly client. “And it’s a console.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure Connor would like to see it,” Alice persisted.

Connor looked at his father, who nodded almost imperceptibly. The boys exchanged an expression of shared suffering at the hands of clueless adults.

“Grab those crisps,” Bone suggested, and pointed to a bowl on the counter.

The boys didn’t need to be told twice, snatching the snacks and disappearing into Michael’s room. The door closed, decisively clicking.

The adults sat in renewed silence, listening to the muffled sounds of teenage conversation gradually growing animated behind the closed door.

Sarah twisted her napkin in her lap, blinking rapidly. Her distress was palpable, hanging in the air like storm clouds.

“How about I take John for a pint at the hotel?” Bone suggested suddenly. “If that’s okay, Alice?”

Alice grimaced at the thought of being left alone with Sarah, but nodded. “That’s fine.”

“Great idea,” John agreed with barely concealed enthusiasm. “But I’ll pay for the drinks. It’s the least I can do for damaging your car.”

“Don’t be daft.” Bone waved him off. “No need. One of the locals fixed it for free. You might meet him at the hotel, actually. You can buy him a drink. That can be your penance.” He smiled.

“I really hope he’s not there,” Alice muttered.

Bone laughed, and John stared between them, confused. “Why not? What’s funny?”

The tension crept back into the room.

“Oh, if you meet him, you’ll see.” Bone smiled. “Okay, come on then, let’s go and leave the womenfolk to it.”

His joke landed with a thud, drawing identical glares from both women.

“We’d better go before we’re lynched.” Bone reached for his jacket.

John followed him to the door, visibly relieved to escape the fraught atmosphere.

“I’ll take you the scenic route,” Bone said as they stepped outside.

They followed the path that wound alongside the loch, gulls wheeling overhead in the fresh autumn air. Neither spoke for several minutes, finding an unexpected comfort in silence. When they were halfway down the shingle beach, Bone glanced back towards the cabin. Through the window, he could see Alice tentatively putting an arm around Sarah’s shoulders. The woman’s body sagged with relief, her head dropping into her hands.

From Michael’s room came the unmistakable sound of teenage laughter, rising and falling like the waves lapping at their feet. Bone turned back to the path ahead. A flicker of movement caught his eye. A red deer emerged from the adjacent woods, pausing at the treeline to regard them with wary interest. Logan stopped in his tracks, his mouth falling open.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Bone murmured, not wanting to startle the creature.

“Magnificent,” Logan whispered back.

The deer held their gaze for a heartbeat longer before bounding back into the trees.

They resumed walking, their pace unhurried, the weight of unspoken histories between them—fathers and sons, mistakes and regrets, the endless cycle of hurting and healing.

“My father once told me that the hardest part of being a dad is knowing you’ll inevitably disappoint your children,” Bone said finally, surprising himself with the admission. “I didn’t understand what he meant until I became one myself.”

Logan nodded slowly. “We all carry our fathers with us, don’t we? The good and the bad.”

As they rounded the bend, the village harbour and hotel appeared. Bone thought about the stranger walking beside him, about the cabin behind them with its tentative beginnings of reconciliation, and about their shared father, long gone but never absent. Some wounds may never fully heal, but perhaps they could learn to carry them with more acceptance and grace.

And maybe that was enough for now.

DCI BONE COUNTRY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TG Reid is a bestselling Scottish crime novelist. His DCI Bone  detective series has topped the Amazon charts in the UK, USA, Canada and Australia. Since publication of Book 1 in the series, Dark is the Grave, in 2021, he has sold over 700,000 books and surpassed 100 million page reads on Kindle Unlimited.

This bestselling series continues to grow from strength to strength, with many more books still to come, and plans to adapt DCI Bone for TV. Sign up to the author’s mailing list to keep informed about future release dates, giveaways, and exclusives.

TG Reid grew up in his native Scotland and the DCI Bone series is set in and around his hometown, among the brooding hills and glens of Scotland’s Campsie Fells.

TG Reid’s books will appeal to readers who enjoy dark, atmospheric, edge-of-you-seat mysteries with added touches of Scottish humour.

Readers can reach him via his website at www.tgreid.com or find him on Facebook and Instagram.

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WHAT HIDES BENEATH

Secrets Always Surface

Scotland’s hottest summer on record is already too much for DCI Duncan Bone. As if the water shortage wasn’t enough, a body turning up at the bottom of Kilwinnoch’s dried up reservoir sends Bone to boiling point.
With three suspects on the loose and time running out, the Rural Crime Unit needs to find the smoking gun and nail the killer before another victim is slain.

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THE DCI BONE SCOTTISH CRIME SERIES

Dark is the Grave

Blood Water Falls

Dead Man’s Stone

The Killing Parade

Isle of the Dead

Night Comes Falling

Burn it all Down

A Devil’s Share

The DCI Bone Collection Vol. 1 (Books 1-3)

The DCI Bone Collection Vol.2 (Books 4-6)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank the following people, without whom this book may not have seen the light of day.

Lynda Checkley, Deb Day, Andrew Dobell, Emmy Ellis, Hanna Elizabeth, Diana Hopkins, Meg Jolly, Dylan Jones, Ali & Kate Kerr, Wes Markin, Kath Middleton, Donna Morfett, Shakey Shakespeare, Lisa Wright

Steve Worsley, the voice, heart and soul of DCI Bone, for his outstanding narration of the series and all-round support for the Bone!

My wonderful, patient, and kind ARC Team

Special thanks to the admin team and readers at UK Crime Book Club and Crime Fiction Addict Facebook groups.

Bath and Bristol Crime Club

The residents of Kilsyth and surrounding Campsie Fells …who continue to inspire my stories.

Doctors, nurses and staff at the RUH, Bath who literally saved my life.

And…

Jeni and Erin x