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though, had seemed uncharacteristically affected by it. He’d maintained his usual persona of bluff cynicism but she could tell he was taking it more seriously than she’d expected. He hadn’t delegated the work but interviewed potential witnesses himself, taking the time to visit the father in Inverness. It had gone nowhere, of course. But when they finally decided to suspend the investigation, McKay seemed genuinely upset. He’d raised no real objections—there was no justification for throwing more of their scarce resources at it—but she could tell that, if left to him alone, the decision might have been different.
    She didn’t know what made her think about that now. She’d run along this coast, night after night, autumn, winter and spring, never once recalling that case. Now, suddenly, the sight of Rosemarkie and Fortrose across the water had brought it back to her, and it was somehow linked in her mind with the body at the Clootie Well.
    The individuals concerned were women of roughly the same age, she supposed, although that was where any physical similarity ended. There was a small possibility that last summer’s misper might have ended up in the same condition, lying, so far undiscovered, in some shallow grave in a Highland woodland. But, as far as she could see, that was where any similarities ended.
    Mostly the insights that bubbled up into her conscious mind as she ran were worthless. Even so, she’d learned not to disregard them because from time to time they resulted in something that blossomed into a genuine lead, a new avenue for investigation, some possibility that would never otherwise have occurred to her.
    She made a mental note to bear it in mind, maybe even risk raising it with McKay in the morning. McKay respected her enough to listen to what she had to say, however off-the-wall.
    After a moment, she set off again, initially jogging along the waterfront, then picking up speed as she thought about getting back to supper, to a glass of wine and to Isla.
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
    ‘Bingo,’ McKay said.
    ‘Bingo?’ Horton was sitting at her desk, ploughing assiduously through mind-numbing paperwork.
    ‘Bingo. We’ve got an ID.’
    She sat up. ‘For the Clootie Well? Who?’
    ‘Katherine Scott,’ McKay said. ‘Known as Katy. Last known residence an address in Manchester. On the file for a couple of minor drugs offences and one count of shoplifting, both in her late teens. She’d have been twenty-eight—no, twenty-nine now.’
    ‘Bit older than we thought then?’
    ‘Doc reckoned mid-twenties. But hard to be sure. She’d not looked after herself. Heavy drinker. Smoker.’ McKay ostentatiously pulled out another strip of gum and began to chew.
    ‘Manchester?’ Horton said. ‘So does that mean we can hand it over to GMP?’
    ‘Last known address was in Manchester, but that was four years ago. There’s no information on where she’s been living since.’ He paused. ‘She’s a local lass. Born in Inverness, brought up in Culbokie. Hung around in Inverness till her early twenties then buggered off south to convert the heathens.’
    ‘And ended up in a shallow grave back in the same neck of the woods,’ Horton said. ‘Interesting.’
    ‘Wherever and whyever she was killed,’ McKay said, ‘we have to assume she was buried up here for a reason. Either she was killed locally and it was just a conveniently remote spot to dispose of the body. Or she was killed somewhere else, and the killer made the effort to bring the body back to bury it within a few miles of her home town. Either way, it means that the case is still ours.’
    ‘You’re preparing your arguments for Helena, aren’t you?’ Horton said. ‘You know she’ll be only too keen for someone else to take responsibility, given the pressures on resources.’
    ‘Not my problem,’ McKay said. ‘Well, only partially my problem. I’m just interested in truth and justice.’
    ‘And not being bored.’
    ‘That