‘This is a joke, right?’

‘It’s what’s on offer,’ the desk sergeant said. He looked every bit as pleased with this morning’s outcome as he had done the day before when informing them that none of their interviewees were available. ‘The door locks, and the key’s yours if you want it.’

‘It’s a storeroom,’ Joe Naysmith stated, switching on the light.

‘Forty-watt bulb,’ Tony Kaye said. ‘We might as well bring torches.’

Someone had placed three rickety-looking chairs in the centre of the small room, leaving no space for a desk of any kind. The shelves were filled with boxes – old cases identified by a code number and year – plus broken and superannuated office equipment.

‘Any chance of a word with Superintendent Pitkethly?’ Fox asked the sergeant.

‘She’s in Glenrothes.’

‘Now there’s a surprise.’

The sergeant was dangling the key from his finger.

‘It’s somewhere to park the gear, if nothing else,’ Naysmith reasoned.

Fox gave a loud exhalation through his nostrils and snatched the key from the sergeant.

While Naysmith brought the equipment bag in from the car, Fox and Kaye stayed in the corridor, eyeing the interior of the storeroom. The corridor was suddenly busy with uniforms and civilian staff, all passing through and stifling smirks.

‘No way I’m parking myself in there,’ Kaye said with a slow shake of the head. ‘I’d look like the bloody janitor.’

‘Joe’s right, though – it’s somewhere to store the gear between interviews.’