‘Any way we can speed the process, Malcolm?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You and me – we could take an interview each, be done in half the time. The only people we need on tape are Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson. The others are just chats, aren’t they?’

Fox nodded. ‘But there’s only one interview room.’

‘Not everyone we’re talking to is based at the station…’

Fox stared at Kaye. ‘You really do want this over and done with.’

‘Basic time management,’ Kaye said with a glint in his eye. ‘Better value for the hard-pressed taxpayer.’

‘So how do we split it?’ Fox folded his arms.

‘Got any favourites?’

‘I fancy a word with the uncle.’

Kaye considered this, then nodded slowly. ‘Take my car. I’ll try Cheryl Forrester.’

‘Fair enough. What do we do with Joe?’

They turned to watch as Joe Naysmith pushed open the door at the end of the corridor, the heavy black bag slung over one shoulder.

‘We toss a coin,’ Kaye said, holding out a fifty-pence piece. ‘Loser keeps him.’

A few minutes later, Malcolm Fox was heading out to Kaye’s Ford Mondeo, minus Naysmith. He adjusted the driver’s seat and reached into the glove box for the satnav, plugging it in and fixing it to the dashboard. Alan Carter’s postcode was in the file, and he found it after a bit of hunting. The satnav did a quick search before pointing him in the right direction. He soon found himself on the coast road, heading south towards a place called Kinghorn. Signposts told him the next town after this was Burntisland. He thought again of his father’s cousin Chris. Maybe the motorbike had crashed on this very stretch. It was the kind of drive he reckoned bikers would relish, winding gently and with the sea to one side, steep hillside to the other. Was that a seal’s head bobbing in the water? He slowed the car a little. The driver behind flashed his lights, then overtook with a blast of his horn.