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exaggerated politeness that he sometimes engaged as a means of undercutting the crudeness of the language whenever a group of cops were in conversation, but it also tended to kick in when he was genuinely surprised.
    ‘What is it?’ Catherine asked.
    ‘Come closer and you’ll see.’
    Catherine approached gingerly, stepping through the puddle of evaporating suds and leaning over Cal’s back.
    He cupped Fullerton’s head with one gloved hand, then took a pencil and delicately used it to brush away a lock of hair that had been overhanging the victim’s brow.
    ‘I thought it was another gunshot wound, but rather the gunman appears to have drawn some kind of symbol on Mr Fullerton’s forehead using his blood. No idea what it signifies, but happily it’s not my job to find out.’
    Catherine looked at the symbol, crudely smeared in dark, dried blood, and suddenly felt as though the disused petrol station was on board an oil tanker pitching in stormy seas. Something inside her lurched and she felt for a horrible moment like she was going to faint. She stumbled forward a little, her hand reaching out to rest upon Cal’s back for balance.
    Now she knew what it felt like to be Beano. If he had still been here she could have told him that, regardless how many murder scenes she had attended, this one had rendered her officially spooked. She just couldn’t tell him why.
    ‘Are you okay?’ Cal asked, turning around.
    Catherine stood up slowly, wary of exacerbating her light-headedness.
    ‘Just got a wee bit of a fright there. Wasn’t expecting to see something like that, that’s all.’
    ‘Changes the picture somewhat, albeit only a little. What we have now is a gangland execution latte given extra flavour by a little squirt from the ritual-killing syrup dispenser.’
    Catherine exhaled in a long controlled breath, composing herself as she heard the clack and splash of Laura Geddes hurrying towards her. Laura looked fit to burst as she approached, but her news was jolted into a holding pattern by whatever she saw in Catherine’s face.
    ‘You okay, boss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
    ‘I’m fine,’ she said. Like Mrs Chalmers was fine. ‘Cal here just showed me a wee macabre flourish to the killer’s handiwork. I’ll tell you in a minute. Have you got something for me?’
    Laura’s expression said
Do I ever
, but Catherine couldn’t read whether this was a breakthrough or a complication.
    ‘DVLA came back on the plates. One of them is the registration of a green Land Rover Defender, and it’s not been reported stolen.’
    This was good news, but it didn’t account for Laura’s expression. There was something more.
    ‘Whose is it?’
    ‘The owner is listed as a Mr Tron Ingrams. Better known to you and me as Glen Fallan.’

The Sacrifice
    Sparks danced in the cool morning air, golden flecks turning silver as she held the steel to the turning stone. She worked the pedal with her left foot, angling the blade first towards then away from herself until the cutting edge gleamed for a deadly few millimetres either side of the tip. It had to kill with one blow, and she knew that every turn of the wheel would later concentrate a little more lethal pressure at the end of the arc when she swung from her shoulder and brought the blade to bear. Every flex of her calf muscle in driving the pedal down was thus a kindness, a courtesy.
    The sun was low and bright, prompting her to shield her eyes until she reached the relief of the shadow cast by the coop. It was noticeably colder there too, the finest of hoar still dusting the moss-choked grass where the shade had preserved it. It was like two states of being, two realms, existing side by side, utterly different and yet separated by nothing, borders denoted only by their distinction. The bright realm was dazzling, vibrant in its colours, welcoming in its greater warmth. The shadow realm was cold and muted, yet it protected the fragile, gossamer adornment that