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one interview room.’
    ‘Not everyone we’re talking to is based at the station …’
    Fox stared at Kaye. ‘You really do want this over and done with.’
    ‘Basic time management,’ Kaye said with a glint in his eye. ‘Better value for the hard-pressed taxpayer.’
    ‘So how do we split it?’ Fox folded his arms.
    ‘Got any favourites?’
    ‘I fancy a word with the uncle.’
    Kaye considered this, then nodded slowly. ‘Take my car. I’ll try Cheryl Forrester.’
    ‘Fair enough. What do we do with Joe?’
    They turned to watch as Joe Naysmith pushed open the door at the end of the corridor, the heavy black bag slung over one shoulder.
    ‘We toss a coin,’ Kaye said, holding out a fifty-pence piece. ‘Loser keeps him.’
    A few minutes later, Malcolm Fox was heading out to Kaye’s Ford Mondeo, minus Naysmith. He adjusted the driver’s seat and reached into the glove box for the satnav, plugging it in and fixing it to the dashboard. Alan Carter’s postcode was in the file, and he found it after a bit of hunting. The satnav did a quick search before pointing him in the right direction. He soon found himself on the coast road, heading south towards a place called Kinghorn. Signposts told him the next town after this was Burntisland. He thought again of his father’s cousin Chris. Maybe the motorbike had crashed on this very stretch. It was the kind of drive he reckoned bikers would relish, winding gently and with the sea to one side, steep hillside to the other. Was that a seal’s head bobbing in the water? He slowed the car a little. The driver behind flashed his lights, then overtook with a blast of his horn.
    ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Fox muttered, glancing at the satnav. His destination was close by. He passed a caravan site and signalled to take the next road on the right. It was a steep track, rutted and throwing up clouds of dust behind him. He knew he daren’t ding Kaye’s pride and joy, so ended up in first gear, doing five miles an hour. The climb continued. According to the satnav, he was nowhere, had passed his destination. Fox stopped the car and got out. He had a fine view down towards the shoreline, rows of caravans to his left and a hotel to his right. He looked at the address he had for Alan Carter: Gallowhill Cottage. The road was about to disappear into woodland. Something caught Fox’s eye: a wisp of smoke from above the treeline. He got back behind the steering wheel and eased the gear lever forward.
    The cottage sat near the top of the rise, just as the track came to an end at a gate leading to fields. A few sheep were scattered around. Noiseless crows glided between the trees. The wind was biting, though the sun had broken from behind a bank of cloud.
    Smoke continued to drift up from the cottage’s chimney. There was an olive-green Land Rover parked off to one side, next to a large, neat pile of split logs. The door of the cottage rattled open. The man who filled the doorway was almost a parody of the big, jolly policeman. Alan Carter’s face was ruddy, cheeks and nose criss-crossed with thin red veins. His eyes sparkled and his pale yellow cardigan was stretched to the limit of its buttons. The check shirt beneath was open at the collar, allowing copious grey chest hair to breathe. Though almost completely bald, he retained bushy sideburns, which almost met at one of his chins.
    ‘I knew I’d be getting a visit,’ Carter bellowed, one pudgy hand resting on the door frame. ‘Should’ve made an appointment, though. I seem to be busier these days than ever.’ Fox was standing in front of him now, and the two men shook hands.
    ‘You’re not in the Craft, then?’ Carter asked.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Time was, most coppers you met were Masons. In you come then, lad …’
    The hallway was short and narrow, most of the space taken up with bookshelves, coat rack and a selection of wellington boots. The living room was small and sweltering, courtesy of a fire piled high with logs.
    ‘Need to