Fox took a sip of tea and skimmed another page of notes. Almost every sentence had been underlined or highlighted. The margins were filled with his own scribbled queries, concerns and exclamation marks. He knew most of it by heart, could stand up and recite it to the cafe’s customers. Maybe they were gossiping about it anyway. In a town this size, sides would have been taken, opinions rigidly formed. Carter was a slimeball, a sleazebag, a predator. Or he’d been stitched up by a low-life junkie and a couple of cheap dates. Where was the harm in anything he’d done? And what had he done anyway?

Not much, except bring his police force into disrepute.

‘Reminds me a bit of Colin Balfour,’ Tony Kaye said. ‘Remember him?’

Fox nodded. Edinburgh cop who liked to visit the cells if women were being held overnight. The prosecution against him had faltered, but an internal inquiry had seen him kicked off the force anyway.

‘Interesting that the uncle’s the one who spoke up,’ Naysmith commented, drawing them back to the current case.

‘But only after he retired from the force,’ Fox added.

‘Even so… Must have stirred up the family a bit.’

‘Could be some history there,’ Kaye offered. ‘Bad blood.’

‘Could be,’ Naysmith agreed.

Kaye slapped a hand down on the pile of papers in front of him. ‘So where does any of this get us? How many days are we going to be shuttling backwards and forwards?’

‘As many as it takes. Might only be a week or two.’

Kaye rolled his eyes. ‘Just so Fife Constabulary can say they’ve got one bad apple and not a whole cider factory?’

‘Do they make cider in factories?’ Naysmith asked.