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into his body, making him drowsy despite the noise and hubbub around.
    ‘Inspector McLean.’ A light tap on his shoulder. He turned, then cursed. Short and scruffy in a grubby old leather coat, Joanne Dalgliesh might have been mistaken for someone’s mum, but she had a nose for a good story, and the newspaper she wrote for wasn’t known for pulling its punches, especially where Lothian and Borders Police were concerned.
    ‘This is the ninth fire at a redevelopment site in the city in two months. Are you any closer to catching the arsonist?’
    ‘Who the hell let you in here?’ McLean looked around for the nearest uniformed officer. ‘Constable!’
    ‘Come on, inspector.’ Dalgliesh glanced over her shoulder as the constable hurried towards them. ‘Just a word. Anything. Surely this isn’t coincidence, all these buildings burning down?’
    ‘You know I can’t comment until the fire investigation team has been inside, Ms Dalgliesh.’
    ‘But you’re treating all the fires as connected.’
    ‘We’re not ruling out anything at this stage.’
    ‘Which means you haven’t got a clue.’
    McLean ignored her. ‘Constable, escort Ms Dalgliesh back behind the security cordon. And make sure no one else gets through. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.’
    ‘We can help you, inspector. If you let us,’ the reporter protested as she was led away.
    ‘Aye, right,’ McLean muttered under his breath.
    ‘She’s got a point,’ Grumpy Bob said.
    ‘Yes, well, thanks for the support, sergeant. That’s really helpful. So what’s the situation here? You doing any actual policing, or just drinking tea?’
    Grumpy Bob downed the dregs, then looked for somewhere to put the empty mug. ‘I’ve had Constable MacBride working the crowd. You never know, we could get lucky. There’s good CCTV coverage. We’ll pull the tapes, see if anyone’s lurking.’
    Long hours of staring at grainy television images, trying to see if the same faces turned up at more than one fire. Wonderful.
    ‘Inspector? Sir?’
    McLean looked up to see MacBride winding his way through the abandoned cars and dodging the milling fire crews. He had an airwave set in one hand, his notebook in the other, a look of excitement flushing his face. Either that or he’d been too close to the fire.
    ‘What is it, constable?’
    ‘Call just came in ... they’ve found a body.’
    McLean rubbed his face, trying to get the tired dryness out of his eyes. The firemen had moved back towards the burning building now, but as far as he could tell no one had gone inside.
    ‘What, in the fire? How?’
    MacBride looked momentarily confused. Then held up his radio.
    ‘No, sir. South of the city. Looks like a murder.’
    ‘I’m supposed to be off duty. Can’t they give it to anyone else?’
    ‘Dagwood’s gone to some important society dinner.’Grumpy Bob bent his knee, miming the rolling up of his trouser leg. ‘Langley and his crowd won’t want to be first in if there’s no obvious drugs connection.’
    ‘What about Randall?’
    ‘Off with the flu.’
    ‘Oh Christ.’ McLean shook his head to try and scare away the fatigue of a long day about to get even longer. ‘Give us the details then.’
    MacBride consulted his notebook. ‘It’s out near Gladhouse. Young woman, naked in the water. Sergeant Thoms said something about her throat being cut.’
    Despite the heat from the fire, McLean’s insides were as cold as the wind in an Aberdeenshire graveyard. Beside him, Grumpy Bob went suddenly very still.
    ‘The Christmas Killer?’
    McLean shook his head. ‘It can’t be, Bob. He’s dead. I watched them bury him just this morning.’
    But in his mind, he wasn’t so sure.

8
    A circle of bright white light hovered over the crime scene like some strange alien spaceship. Or maybe the Star of Bethlehem, given the time of year. That made McLean either a shepherd or a wise man, but he couldn’t decide which. Whatever he was, he was tired. He stifled a yawn as