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it, boss.’
    ‘You’ve all been briefed, so you know what we’re looking for. Anorak, dark green or blue. Jeans. Probably still wet from last night’s storm. But don’t bank on it. The staves could be from bamboo furniture, a bookshelf, a decorative screen, so anything that looks like it could be dismantled and whittled to a point, check it out. Look for shavings in the rubbish, the fireplace, marks on floors and walls. Be nosy. Snoop around. Don’t hold back. The smallest clue could be all it takes to nail this case. But remember, MacMillan has identified the Stabber as a young man. So anyone younger than thirty is to be considered a possible suspect.’
    ‘Sir?’
    Gilchrist eyed Nance. Other than Stan, she was the brightest of the young breed.
    ‘How reliable is MacMillan?’ she asked. ‘I’ve read his statement. It was coming down in buckets. He’s an old man. He was some distance away. He thought he saw a young man.’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘What if he’s wrong? From a distance, a woman might be mistaken for a man.’
    ‘Are you suggesting we should disregard his statement?’ Sa asked.
    ‘No. I’m saying he saw the Stabber’s face only during a flash of lightning. He could be wrong. That’s all.’
    ‘Nance is right,’ Gilchrist said, scanning the faces. ‘We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with. Best bet is someone young. We’ve a lot of ground to cover. So let’s get on with it. And Baxter?’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘Watch those manners of yours.’
    Baxter coughed.
    ‘Right,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Debriefing’s at six,’ and left the room.
    Two minutes later, eight plain-clothes detectives and ten uniformed constables spilled from the Police Station and marched like a band of vigilantes up North Street toward the Abbey end, where they split into pre-assigned pairs – five to the north side, four to the south.
    Gilchrist eyed the stone wall that bounded the Abbey ruins and felt his gaze settle on the archway that defined the start of the road known simply as The Pends. When the Stabber turned into North Street, MacMillan was standing at the entrance arch. Gilchrist glanced at his watch, and said to Sa, ‘Let’s see how long it takes.’
    He strode down the shallow incline at the pace he imagined MacMillan might walk. When he reached The Pends, he stepped behind the crumbling entrance support and checked his watch again. Thirty-one seconds. He eyed the entrance to North Street and visualized the Stabber turning the corner. Once again, doubt crept through him. The Stabber could have known he was being followed, regardless of how cautious MacMillan had been.
    Gilchrist walked back to North Street, faster this time. Twenty-five seconds.
    ‘Right,’ he said. ‘The world record for the two hundred metres is less than twenty seconds. Assuming the Stabber’s not the fastest human on the face of the planet, then somewhere between here and two hundred metres is where he must have gone.’
    Sa stared along North Street. ‘Presuming he didn’t drive off, of course.’
    Gilchrist followed her line of sight. The spire of St Salvator’s, where Prince William resided, pierced the roofline like a marker that defined the limits of their enquiries. The Stabber could not have run that far in twenty seconds. Maybe Sa was right. He could have turned into North Street and driven off. Or hidden for a while, then driven off.
    That was possible.
    Gilchrist guided his team into action.
    Stan crossed the street to join WPC Liz Gregg, his partner for the door-to-door. Baxter and Clarke approached the first door on the left, armed with a warrant. Young and Mann the next. Stan and Liz stepped up to the first door on their list and Gilchrist caught Stan’s hand touch the back of her jacket, an almost unnoticeable contact that spoke volumes. Patterson had pronounced sexual relations forbidden between staff, on threat of termination. But as long as the job didn’t suffer, Gilchrist was happy to keep quiet.
    Wilson