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back. There was a reason for coming in here. Something he needed to say.
    No one about. A few old paperbacks lie abandoned on the counter, a ledger open as if the shop owner were called away whilst in the middle of cataloguing them. Beyond the counter, a door opens to a small office. Not quite sure why, he goes through.
    Still no one. A pair of old filing cabinets stand against one wall, a low shelf of books under the large window that looks out onto a scruffy courtyard behind the shop. An antique desk fills most of the space, its top empty save for a reading lamp and a large, old, leather-bound book.
    There’s something about the book that sends a shiverthrough him. Has he seen it before? He doesn’t know, doesn’t want to think. Thoughts are too painful now. But it won’t let him go, drags him towards it like a magnet, whispers to him to open it up, to read.
    He is reaching out to it when he notices the marker. A thin strip of fabric slipped between heavy vellum pages, drooping out over the edge of the desk like a wilted flower. His hand moves towards the cloth, takes it between finger and thumb, slides it out of the book. Something like a far-off scream of rage and frustration echoes in the silence, but he pays it no heed. There is only this piece of cloth, this hem torn from a dress. At that touch he knows it.
    He knows everything.

10
    Early morning, and a steady stream of buses blocked the flow of traffic as McLean walked briskly across North Bridge towards Princes Street. Heads down, breath steaming in the cold November air, the first wave of commuters spilled out into the dark and onto the wide pavement, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with their fellow condemned.
    What would it be like to have a normal job, with regular working hours? It might be nice to have the occasional evening off, some time to spend with his friends. Except that with far too few exceptions, all his friends were either police, or inextricably linked to the job.
    He was so busy working his way through the knot of bodies that at first he didn’t notice the person ahead of him. But something about the shape and size, the pattern of wispy hair on the back of the man’s head, registered enough to grab his attention. He couldn’t think why he felt a frisson of discomfort at the figure, but neither could he get closer through the throng. Then the man turned side on, heading round the corner of the North British Balmoral Hotel, and McLean’s heart nearly stopped.
    ‘Anderson.’ The word came out as a hoarse whisper, ignored by the people all around him. Someone bumped his shoulder and he realised he’d stopped walking. His knees felt weak; the blood rushing in his head soundedlike the London train far beneath his feet, out of control and speeding through Waverley station. And the impossible figure was getting further away.
    ‘Anderson!’ This time it was a shout, and the noise propelled McLean into action. No longer caring about the sensibilities of Edinburgh commuters, he pushed through the crowd, trying to make up the distance. The man he was chasing, seemingly deaf and oblivious, disappeared down Princes Street.
    ‘Oi! Watch what yer doing.’ An angry pedestrian turned as McLean tried to jostle past, his face red with quick anger.
    ‘Police. Get out of the way.’ McLean thrust him aside, breaking into a run as he cleared the throng, then slowing down as the next crowd gathered by the crossing. He hugged the wall of the hotel, managing to squeeze past an old lady with a tartan shopping trolley, and a couple of lost tourists, their backpacks lethal to everyone around as they turned to see what the commotion was all about. Round the corner, seeing the flow of sleepy humanity pouring up Waverley steps and onto Princes Street, McLean scanned the crowd, looking for his quarry. Donald Anderson was nowhere to be seen.
    By the time he reached his tiny office, tucked away at the back of the station and the end of the queue for the