· 55 a.m., Saturday 14 December 1974.

I was sitting in the Millgarth office of Detective Chief Super intendent George Oldman, feeling like dogshit. It was a bare room. No photographs, no certificates, no trophies.

The door opened. The black hair, the white face, the hand outstretched, the grip tight.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Dunford. How’s Jack Whitehead and that boss of yours?”

“Fine, thank you,” I said, sitting back down.

No smile. “Sit down, son. Cup of tea?”

I swallowed and said, “Please. Thank you.”

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman sat down, flipped a switch on his desk and breathed into the intercom: “Julie, love. Two cups of tea when you’re ready.”

That face and that hair, up close and near, a melted black plastic bag dripped over a bowl of flour and lard.

I ground my back teeth down tight together.

Behind him, through the grey windows of Millgarth Police Station, a weak sun caught on the oil in his hair.

I felt sick.

“Sir,” I swallowed again. “Chief Superintendent…”

His tiny shark eyes were all over me. “Go on, son,” he winked.

“I was wondering if, well if there was any news?”

“Nothing,” he boomed. “Thirty-six hours and fuck all. Hundred bloody uniforms, relatives and locals. Nothing.”

“What’s your personal…”

“Dead, Mr Dunford. That poor little lass is dead.”

“I was wondering what you…”

“These are violent bloody times, son.”