He laughed. "I thought women didn't like quickies."

"Better learn how if you're going back on front-line policing," she said, drawing him into her.

Feeling only mildly guilty, Karen logged on to her e-mail. The promised message from di Stefano was the latest addition to her inbox. She clicked it open and set the attachment to download while she read the brief note. Someone tryed to feed a body to Maurizio Rossi's Cinta di Siena pigs. Maybe this is where the other victim went. Here is a picture of the face. Maybe you know who it is? God, that was a nasty thought. She'd heard that pigs had been known to eat everything but the belt buckle when unfortunate farmers had had accidents inside their pens, but it would never have occurred to her to consider it as a means of body disposal.

And then an even nastier thought occurred to her. Pig eats victim. Pig incorporates human into its own meat. Pig gets turned into salami. And people end up eating people. Somehow, she didn't think the farmer was going to have much of a business left once this got out.

Karen hesitated, wondering why di Stefano thought she might recognize the victim. Could this be Adam Maclennan Grant, his future with his grandfather snatched from him at the last moment? Or the mysteriously disappeared Matthias, aka Toby Inglis? Anxiety dried her mouth, but she clicked on the attachment.

The face that filled her screen was definitely dead. The spark that animated even coma patients was entirely absent. But it was still shockingly unmistakable. The day before, Karen had interviewed Bel Richmond. And now she was dead.

A1, Firenze¨CMilano

There had been no reason to ditch Bel's hire car, Gabriel had decided. Not at this point. That mad bastard cop had shaken the living daylights out of him, but he couldn't have seen the licence plate. Nobody would be connecting a car hired by an English journalist with what had happened on the Boscolata hillside. Putting distance between himself and Tuscany was the most important thing now. Leave the past and its terrible necessities behind. Make a clean break and drive straight into the future.

It had been horrible, but he'd stripped the body, partly to make it easier for the pigs to do his dirty work for him, and partly to make it harder to identify her in the unlikely event that she was found soon enough to make identification a possibility. As it turned out, that had been a great decision. It had been bad enough when that crazy cop appeared out of nowhere. It would have been a million times worse if he'd left anything on the body that could make it easier to work out who she was.

And so the car would be safe for now. He'd park it in the long-stay at Zurich airport and pick up a flight. Thanks to Daniel's insistence that there was nothing for him there but pain and ghosts, he'd never been to the UK before, had no idea what the security would be like. But there was no reason for them to look twice at him and his British passport.

He wished he hadn't had to kill Bel. It wasn't like he was some stone-cold killing machine. But he'd already lost everything once. He knew what that felt like, and he couldn't bear it to happen again. Even mice fight when they're cornered, and he definitely had more bottle than a mouse. She'd left him no choice. Like Matthias, she'd pushed him too far. OK, it had been different with Matthias. That time, he'd lost control. Realizing that someone he'd loved since childhood had been his mother's killer had cracked open some well of pain in his head, and he'd stabbed him before he even knew he had a knife in his hand.

With Bel, he'd known what he was doing. But he'd acted in self-preservation. He'd been on the very point of contacting his grandfather when Bel barged into his life, threatening everything. The last thing he needed was her spilling the beans, linking him to Matthias's murder. He wanted to arrive at his grandfather's house with a clean sheet, not have the life he'd been denied fucked up by some muck-raking journalist.

He kept telling himself that he'd done what he had to do. And that it was good that he felt bad about it. It showed he was basically a decent person. He'd been ambushed by events. It didn't mean he was a bad person. He desperately needed to believe that. He was on his way to start a new life. Within days, Gabriel Porteous would be dead and Adam Maclennan Grant would be safely under the wing of his rich and powerful grandfather.

There would be time to feel remorse later.

Rotheswell Castle

Susan Charleson clearly didn't like the police turning up without prior invitation. The few minutes' notice between Karen's arrival at the gate and her presence on the front doorstep hadn't been quite long enough for Grant's right-hand woman to disguise her affront. "We weren't expecting you" replaced the welcome that had been uttered previously.

"Where is he?" Karen swept in, forcing Susan to take a couple of quick steps to the side.

"If you mean Sir Broderick, he is not yet available."

Karen made an ostentatious study of her watch. "Twentyseven minutes past seven. I'm betting he's still at his breakfast. Are you going to take me to him, or am I going to have to find him myself?"

"This is outrageous," Susan said. "Does Assistant Chief Constable Lees know you're here, behaving in this high-handed manner?"

"I'm sure he soon will," Karen said over her shoulder as she set off down the hall. She threw open the first door she came to: a cloakroom. The next door: an office.

"Stop that," Susan said sharply. "You are exceeding your authority, Inspector." The next door: a small drawing room. Karen could hear Susan's running feet behind her. "Fine," Susan snapped as she overtook Karen. She stopped in front of her, spreading her arms wide, apparently under the illusion that would stop Karen if she was seriously minded to continue. "I'll take you to him."

Karen followed her through to the rear of the building. Susan opened the door on to a bright breakfast room that looked over to the lake and woods beyond. Karen had no eyes for the view or for the buffet laid out on the long sideboard. All she was interested in was the couple sitting at the table, their son perched between them. Grant immediately stood up and glowered at her. "What's going on?" he said.

"It's time for Lady Grant to get Alec ready for school," Karen said, realizing she was sounding like a bad script but not caring how foolish that felt.

"How dare you barge into my home shouting the odds." His was the first raised voice, but he appeared not to notice.

"I'm not shouting, sir. What I have to say, it's not appropriate for me to say in front of a child." Karen met his glare, not backing down. Somehow, this morning she had lost what little fear of consequences she possessed.

Grant gave a quick, nonplussed look at his son and wife. "Then we'll go elsewhere, Inspector." He led the charge to the door. "Susan, coffee. In my office."

Karen struggled to keep up with his long stride, barely catching up as he stormed into a spartan room with a glass desk which held a large spiral-bound notebook and a slim laptop. Behind the desk was a functional, ergonomically designed office chair. Filing drawers lined one wall. Against the other were two chairs Karen recognized from a trip to Barcelona, where she'd mistakenly got off the city tour bus at the Mies van der Rohe pavilion and been surprisingly captivated by its calm and simplicity. Seeing them here grounded her somehow. She could hold her own against any big shot, she told herself.

Grant threw himself into his chair like a petulant child. "What the hell is all this in aid of?"

Karen dropped her heavy satchel on the floor and leaned against a filing cabinet, arms folded across her chest. She was dressed to impress in her smartest suit, one she'd bought from Hobbs in Edinburgh at the sales. She felt absolutely in control and to hell with Brodie Grant. "She's dead," she said succinctly.

Grant's head jerked back. "Who's dead?" He sounded indignant.

"Bel Richmond. Are you going to tell me what she was chasing?"

He attempted a nonchalant half-shrug. "I've no idea. She was a freelance journalist, not a member of my staff."

"She was working for you."

He waved a hand at her. The brush-off. "I was employing her to act as press liaison should anything come of this cold case inquiry." He actually curled his lip. "Which doesn't seem very likely at this point."

"She was working for you," Karen repeated. "She was doing a lot more than press liaison. She wasn't a publicist. She was an investigative journalist, and that's precisely what she was doing for you. Investigating."

"I don't know where you get your ideas from, but I can assure you, you won't be having any more of them about this case after I've spoken to Simon Lees."

"Be my guest. I'll enjoy telling him how Bel Richmond flew out to Italy on your private jet yesterday. How she picked up a hire car on your company account at Florence airport. And how her killer was disturbed by the police while trying to feed her naked body to the pigs a couple of hundred yards from the house where Bel herself found the poster that kick-started this whole inquiry." Karen straightened up and crossed to the desk, leaning on it with her fists. "I am not the fucking numpty you take me for." She gave him glare for glare.

Before he could work out how to respond, a young woman in a black dress arrived with a tray of coffee. She looked around uncertainly. "On the desk, lassie," Grant said. Somehow Karen didn't think she was going to be offered a cup.

She waited till she heard the door close behind her, then she said, "I think you'd better tell me why Bel went to Italy. It's likely what got her killed."

Grant tilted his head back, thrusting his strong chin towards her. "As far as I am aware, Inspector, Fife police's jurisdiction doesn't stretch to Italy. This is nothing to do with you. So why don't you fuck off?"

Karen laughed out loud. "I've been told to fuck off by better men than you, Brodie," she said. "But you should know, I am here at the request of the Italian police."

"If the Italian police want to talk to me, they can come here and talk to me. Organ grinders, not monkeys. That's my way. Besides, if this was in any way official, you'd have your wee boy with you, taking notes. I do know my Scots law, Inspector. And now, as I previously requested, fuck off."

"Don't worry, I'm going. But for the record, I don't need corroboration for a witness statement for the Italian police. I'll tell you something else for nothing. If I was your wife, I'd be seriously unhappy about all these women's bodies in your slipstream. Your daughter. Your wife. And now your hired gun."

His lips stretched back in a reptilian rictus. "How dare you!"

In spite of her determination, Grant had got under her skin. Karen reached for her bag and drew out the scale map of the ransom handover scene. "This is how I dare," she said, spreading it out on Grant's desk. "You think your money and your influence can buy anything. You think you can bury the truth like you've buried your wife and your daughter. Well, sir, I'm here to prove you wrong."

"I don't know what the hell you think you're talking about." Grant had to force out his words between stretched lips.

"The received account," she said, stabbing the map with her finger. "Cat takes the bag from your wife, the kidnappers fire a shot that hits her in the back and kills her. The police fire a shot that goes high and wide." She glanced up at him. His face was motionless, frozen in a mask of rage. She hoped her expression was giving as good as it got. "And then there's the truth: Cat takes the bag from your wife, she turns to take it back to the kidnappers. You start waving your gun around, the kidnappers plunge the beach into darkness, you fire." She looked him straight in the eye. "And you kill your daughter."

"This is a sick fantasy," Grant hissed.

"I know you've been in denial all these years, but that's the truth. And Jimmy Lawson is ready to tell it."

Grant slammed his hand down on the desk. "A convicted murderer? Who's going to believe him?" His lip quivered in a sneer.

"There's others who know you had a gun that night. They're retired now. There's nothing you can hold over their heads any more. You can maybe get Simon Lees to shut me up, but the genie's out of the bottle now. It wouldn't hurt you to start cooperating with me over Bel Richmond's murder."

"Get out of my house," Grant said. "Next time you come back, you'd better have a warrant."

Karen gave him a tight little smile. "You can count on it." She still had plenty of shots in reserve, but this wasn't the time to fire them. Mick Prentice and Gabriel Porteous could wait for another day. "It's not over, Brodie. It's not over till I say so."

The about-to-be-former Gabriel Porteous had no problem entering the UK. The immigration official at Edinburgh Airport swiped his passport, compared his image to the photograph, and nodded him through. He had to stick with his old ID for the car hire too. This collision of past and future was hard to balance. He wanted to let go of Gabriel and all he had done. He wanted to enter his new life clean and unencumbered. Emotionally, psychologically, and practically, he wanted no connection to his past life. No possibilities of awkward questions from the Italian authorities. Please God, his grandfather would accept that he wanted a clean break with his past. One thing was certain-he wouldn't have to exaggerate the shock and pain his father's letter had inflicted on him.

He had to stop at a petrol station and ask directions to Rotheswell Castle, but it was still only mid-morning when he approached the impressive front gate. He pulled up and got out, grinning at the CCTV. When the intercom asked who he was and what his business might be, he said, "I'm Adam Maclennan Grant. That's my business."

They kept him waiting almost five minutes before they opened the outer gate. At first, it pissed him off. His anxiety had reached an intolerable level. Then it dawned on him that you took precautions like this only when there was something serious to protect. So he waited, then he drove into the pen between the two sets of gates. He tolerated the security pat-down. He didn't complain when they searched his vehicle and asked him to open his hold-all and his backpack so they could rummage around. When they finally let him through the inner gate and he caught his first glimpse of what he'd lost, his breath caught in his throat.

He drove slowly, making sure he had his emotions under control. He wanted this fresh start so badly. No more fuck-ups. He parked on the gravel near the front door and climbed out of the car, stretching luxuriously. He'd been folded into seats for too long. He squared his shoulders, straightened his spine, and walked up to the door. As he approached, it swung open. A woman in a tweed skirt and a woollen sweater stood in the doorway. Her hand flew up to her mouth involuntarily and she gasped, "Oh my God."

He gave her his best smile. "Hello. I'm Adam." He extended a hand. One look at this woman and he knew the kind of uptight manners expected in this house.

"Yes," the woman said. Training overcame emotion, and she took his hand in a firm grip and held on tight. "I'm Susan Charleson. I'm your gran-, I mean, I'm Sir Broderick's personal assistant. This is the most extraordinary shock. Surprise. Bolt from the blue." She burst out laughing. "Listen to me. I'm not usually like this. It's just that-well, I never imagined I'd see this day."

"I appreciate that. It's all been a bit of a shock for me too." He gently freed his hand. "Is my grandfather at home?"

"Come this way." She closed the door and ushered him down a hallway.

He'd been in some fine houses in Italy thanks to his father's business, but this place was utterly foreign. With its stone walls and its spare d¨¦cor, it felt cold and naked. But it didn't hurt to make nice. "This is a beautiful house," he said. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Where do you live?" Susan asked as they turned into a long corridor.

"I grew up in Italy. But I'm planning on returning to my roots."

Susan stopped in front of a heavy studded oak door. She knocked and entered, beckoning Adam to follow. The room, a book-lined refuge, was a blur to him. His total focus was on the white-haired man standing by the window, deep-set eyes unreadable, face immobile.

"Hello, sir," Adam said. To his surprise, he found it hard to speak. Emotion that he hadn't expected welled up, and he had to swallow hard to avoid tears.

The old man's face seemed to disintegrate before his eyes. An expression somewhere between smiling and sorrow engulfed him. He took a step towards Adam, then stopped. "Hello," he said, his voice choked too. He looked beyond Adam and waved Susan from the room.

The two men stared hungrily at each other. Adam managed to get himself under control, clearing his throat. "Sir, I'm sure you've had people claiming to be Catriona's son before. I just want to say that I don't want anything from you and I'm happy to undergo any tests-DNA, whatever-that you want. Until my father died three months ago, I had no idea who I really was. I've spent those three months wondering whether I should contact you or not... And, well, here I am." He took Daniel's letter from the inside pocket of his one good suit. "This is the letter he left me." He stretched out his arm to Grant, who took the creased sheets of paper. "I'll happily wait outside while you read it."

"There's no need for that," Grant said gruffly. "Sit down there, where I can see you." He took a chair opposite the one he had indicated and began to read. Several times he paused and scrutinized Adam, who forced himself to stay still and calm. At one point, Grant covered his mouth with his hand, the fingers visibly trembling. He came to the end and gazed hungrily at Adam. "If you're a fake, you're a bloody good one."

"There's also this-" Adam took a photograph from his pocket. Catriona sat on a kitchen chair, hands folded over the high curve of a heavily pregnant belly. Behind her, Mick leaned over her shoulder, one hand on the bump. They were both grinning. It had the slightly awkward look of something posed for the timer. "My mum and dad."

This time, Grant couldn't hold back his tears. Wordlessly, he held out his arms to his grandson. Adam, his eyes wet, got up and accepted the embrace.

It felt as if it went on forever and lasted no time at all. Finally they drew apart, each wiping their eyes with their hands. "You look like I did fifty years ago," Grant said heavily.

"You should still have the DNA test done," Adam said. "There are some bad people out there."

Grant gave him a long, measured look. "I don't think they're all on the outside," he said with an air of melancholy. "Bel Richmond was working for me."

Adam struggled not to show he recognized the name, but he could tell from his grandfather's face that he'd failed. "She came to see me," he said. "She never mentioned that you were her boss."

Grant gave a thin smile. "I wouldn't say I was her boss. But I did hire her to do a job for me. She did it so well it killed her."

Adam shook his head. "That can't be right. It was only last night that I spoke to her."

"It's right enough. I've had the police here earlier. Apparently her killer tried to feed her to the pigs right next door to the villa where your pal Matthias was squatting until round about the time when your father died," Grant continued grimly. "And the police are also investigating a presumed murder there. That one happened round about the time Matthias and his little troupe of puppeteers disappeared."

Adam raised his eyebrows. "That's bizarre," he said. "Who else is supposed to be dead?"

"They're not sure. The puppeteers scattered to the four winds. Bel was planning to track them down next. But she never got the chance. She was a good journalist. Good at sniffing things out."

"It sounds like it."

"So where is Matthias?" Grant asked.

"I don't know. The last time I saw him was the day I buried my father. I went back to the villa so he could give me the letter. I was upset when I realized he had known my real identity all along. I was angry and upset that he and my dad had conspired to keep me from you all those years. When I left, I said I didn't want to hear from him again. I didn't even know they'd left Boscolata." He gave a delicate little shrug. "They must have fallen out with each other. I know the others sometimes got restive because Matthias took a bigger cut of the take. It must have got out of hand. Somebody got killed." He shook his head. "That's harsh."

"And Bel? What's your theory there?"

Adam had had a night drive and a flight to figure out the answer to that one. He hesitated for a moment, as if thinking about the possibilities. "If Bel was asking questions around Boscolata, word might have got back to the killer. I know at least one of the group was having sex with someone who lived there. Maybe his girlfriend told him about Bel and they were keeping tabs on her. If they found out she was coming to see me, they might have thought she was digging too deep and needed to be got rid of. I don't know. I've no idea how people like that think."

Grant's expression was as unreadable as it had been when Adam had first seen him. "You're very plausible," he said. "Some might say you're a chip off the old block." His face twisted momentarily in pain. "You're right about the DNA. We should have that done as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I think you should stay with us. Let us start getting to know you." His smile was disturbingly ambivalent. "The world's going to be very interested in you, Adam. We need to prepare for that. We don't necessarily need to be entirely frank. I've always been a great believer in privacy."

That had been a shaky moment when the old man revealed Bel was in his pocket. His questions were tougher than Adam had expected. But now he understood that a decision had been taken, a decision to opt for complicity. For the first time since Bel had walked through his door, the unbearable tension began to dissipate.

Friday, 13th July 2007; Glenrothes

The latest summons to the Macaroon's office wasn't entirely unexpected. Karen had been refusing to take no for an answer from him since she'd had a terse e-mail from Susan Charleson revealing the return of the prodigal. She badly wanted to talk to Brodie Grant and his murderous grandson, but of course she'd been warned off before she could even make her case to Lees. She'd known confronting Grant about his actions on the beach all those years ago would bring repercussions. Unsurprisingly, Grant had got his retaliation in first, accusing her of desperately looking for somebody to charge with something in a case where all the criminals were dead. Karen had had to listen to the Macaroon lecturing her on the importance of good relationships with the public. He reminded her that she had resolved three cold cases even though nobody would be tried for any of them. She had made the CCRT look good, and it would be extremely unhelpful if she pushed Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant into making them look bad.

When she'd raised the issue of Adam Maclennan Grant's possible involvement in two murders in Italy, the Macaroon had turned green and told her to back off a case that was none of her business.

Di Stefano had been in regular contact with Karen via phone and e-mail over the previous weeks. There was, he said, plenty of DNA on Bel's body. One of the teenagers who lived at Boscolata had identified Gabriel aka Adam as the man he'd seen with Matthias on the presumed day of the assumed murder at the Villa Totti. They'd found the house near Greve where a man answering to that description had been living. They'd found DNA there that matched what was on Bel's body. All they needed to bring a case before an investigating magistrate was a sample of DNA from the former Gabriel Porteous. Could Karen oblige?

Only when hell froze over.

Now, finally, the Macaroon had summoned her. Marshalling her thoughts, she walked into his office without knocking. This time, she was the one who got the shock. Sitting to one side of the desk, at an angle to the Macaroon but facing the visitor's chair, was Brodie Grant. He smiled at her discomfiture. Friday the thirteenth, right enough.

Without waiting to be asked, Karen sat down. "You wanted to see me, sir," she said, ignoring Grant.

"Karen, Sir Broderick has very kindly brought us his grandson's notarized statement about the recent events in Italy. He thought, and I agree with him, that this would be the most satisfactory way to proceed." He brandished a couple of sheets of paper at her.

Karen stared at him in disbelief. "Sir, a simple DNA test is the way to proceed."

Grant leaned forward. "I think you'll find that once you've read the statement, it's clear that a DNA test would be a waste of time and resources. No point in testing someone who's manifestly a witness, not a suspect. Whoever the Italian police are looking for, it's not my grandson."

"But-"

"And another thing, Inspector; my grandson and I will not be discussing with the media where he's been for the past twenty-two years. Obviously, we will be making public the fact that we have had this extraordinary reunion after all this time. But no details. I expect you and your team to respect that. If information leaks into the public domain, you can rest assured that I will pursue the person responsible and make sure they are held accountable."

"There will be no leaks from this office, I can assure you," the Macaroon said. "Will there, Karen?"

"No, sir," she said. No leaks. Nothing to contaminate Phil's imminent promotion or her own team.

Lees waved the papers at Karen. "There you go, Inspector. You can forward this on to your opposite number in Italy and then we can draw a line under our own solved cases." He smiled winningly at Grant. "I'm glad we've been able to clear this up so satisfactorily."

"Me too," Grant said. "Such a pity we won't be seeing each other again, Inspector."

"Indeed. You take care, sir," she said, getting to her feet. "You want to take very good care of yourself. And your grandson. It would be tragic if Adam had to endure any more losses." Seething, Karen stalked out of the room. She steamed back to her own office, ready to rant. But Phil was away from his desk and nobody else would do. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she muttered, slamming into her office just as the phone rang. For once, she ignored it. But the Mint stuck his head round the door. "It's some woman called Gibson looking for you."

"Put her on." She sighed. "Hello, Misha. What can I do for you?"

"I just wondered if there was any news. When your sergeant came round a couple of weeks ago to tell me you were pretty sure my father died earlier this year, he said there was a possibility he might have had children that we could test for a match. But then I didn't hear from you... "

Fuck, fuck, fuck, and fuck again. "It's not looking hopeful," Karen said. "The person in question is refusing to give any samples for testing."

"What do you mean, refusing? Doesn't he understand a child's life is at stake here?"

Karen could feel the emotional intensity down the phone line. "I think he's more concerned about keeping his own nose clean."

"You mean he's a criminal? I don't care about that. Does he not get it? I'm not going to give his DNA to anybody else. We can do it confidentially."

"I'll pass the request on," Karen said wearily.

"Can you not put me in direct touch with him? I'm begging you. This is my wee boy's life at stake. Every week that goes past, he's got less and less chance."

"I do understand that. But my hands are tied. I'm sorry. I will pass the request on, I promise."

As if she sensed Karen's frustration, Misha changed her approach. "I'm sorry. I appreciate how hard you've tried to help. I'm just desperate."

After the call, Karen sat staring into space. She couldn't bear the thought that Grant was protecting a murderer for his own selfish emotional ends. It wasn't exactly a surprise, given the way he'd covered up his own culpability in his daughter's death. But there had to be a way to get round this barrier. She and Phil had gone over their options so often during the past couple of weeks that it felt as if they'd worn a groove in her brain. They'd talked about stalking Adam, going for the publicly discarded Coke can or water bottle. They'd discussed stealing the rubbish from Rotheswell and having River go through it till she found a match for the Italian DNA. But they'd had to concede they were not so much clutching at straws as at shadows.

Karen leaned back in her chair and thought about the place where all this had started. Misha Gibson desperate for hope, prepared to do anything for her child. Just as Brodie Grant was for his grandson. The bonds between parents and children... And then, suddenly, it was there in front of her. Beautiful and cunning and deliciously ironic.

Almost tipping herself on to the floor, Karen shot up straight and grabbed the phone. She keyed in River Wilde's number and drummed her fingers on the desk. When River answered, Karen could hardly speak in sentences. "Listen, I just thought of something. If you've got half-siblings, you'd be able to see the connection in the DNA, right?"

"Yes. It wouldn't be as strong as with full siblings, but you'd see a correlation."

"If you had some DNA, and you got a sample that showed that degree of correlation, and you knew that person had a half-sibling, do you think that would be enough to get a warrant to take samples from the half-sibling?"

River hummed for a moment. "I could make the case," she said. "I think it would be enough."

Karen took a deep breath. "You know when we got Misha Gibson's DNA to check against the cave skeleton?"

"Yes," River said cautiously.

"Have you still got that?"

"Is your case still open?"

"If I was to say yes, what would your answer be?"

"If your case is still open, I'm legally entitled still to have possession of the DNA. If it's closed, the DNA should be destroyed."

"It's still open," Karen said. Which, technically, it was, since the only evidence against Mick Prentice in the death of Andy Kerr was circumstantial. Enough to close the file, certainly. But Karen hadn't actually returned it to the registry, so it wasn't closed as such.

"Then I still have the DNA."

"I need you to e-mail me a copy ASAP," Karen said, punching the air. She got to her feet and did a little dance round the office.

Fifteen minutes later, she was e-mailing a copy of Misha Gibson's DNA to di Stefano in Siena with a covering note. Please ask your DNA expert to compare these. I believe this to be the half-sibling of the man known as Gabriel Porteous. Let me know how you get on.

The next hours were a form of torture. By the end of the working day, there was still no word from Italy. When she got home, Karen couldn't leave the computer alone. Every ten minutes she was jumping up and checking her e-mail. "How quickly it fades," Phil teased her from the sofa.

"Yeah, right. If I wasn't doing it, you would be. You're as keen as I am to nail Brodie's grandson."

"You got me bang to rights, guv."

It was just after nine when the anticipated reply from di Stefano hit her inbox. Holding her breath, Karen opened the message. At first, she couldn't believe it. "No correlation?" she said. "No fucking correlation? How can that be? I was so sure..."

She threw herself down on the sofa, allowing Phil to cuddle her close. "I can't believe it either," he said. "We were all so sure that Adam was the killer." He flicked a finger at the anodyne statement Karen had brought home to show him. "Maybe he's telling the truth, bizarre though it sounds."

"No way," she said. "Murderous puppeteers following Bel through Italy? I've seen more credible episodes of Scooby Doo." She curled up, disconsolate, head tucked under Phil's chin. When the new idea hit, her head jerked so suddenly he nearly bit through his tongue. While he was moaning, Karen kept repeating, "It's a wise child that knows its father."

"What?" Phil finally said.

"What if Fergus is right?"

"Karen, what are you talking about?"

"Everybody thought Adam was Fergus's kid. Fergus thinks so. He shagged Cat around the right time, just a one-off. Maybe she'd had a row with Mick. Or maybe she was just pissed off because it was a Saturday night and he was with his wife and kid and not her. Whatever the reason, it happened." Karen was bouncing on her knees on the sofa, excitement making her a child again. "What if Mick was wrong all these years? What if Fergus really is Adam's dad?"

Phil grabbed her and gave her a resounding kiss on the forehead. "I told you right at the start I love your mind."

"No, you said it was sexy. Not quite the same thing." Karen nuzzled his cheek.

"Whatever. You are so smart, it turns me on."

"Do you think it's too late to ring him?"

Phil groaned. "Yes, Karen. It's an hour later where he lives. Leave it till the morning."

"Only if you promise to take my mind off it."

He flipped her over on to her back. "I'll do my best, boss."

Wednesday, 18th July 2007

Karen stretched out in the bath, enjoying the dual sensations of foam and water against her skin. Phil was playing cricket, which she now understood meant a quick game followed by a long drink with his mates. He'd stay at his own house tonight, rolling home at closing time after a skinful of lager. She didn't mind. Usually she met up with the girls for a curry and a gossip. But tonight she wanted her own company. She was expecting a phone call, and she didn't want to take it in a crowded pub or a noisy restaurant. She wanted to be sure of what she was hearing.

Fergus Sinclair had been suspicious when she'd called him out of the blue to ask for a DNA sample. Her pitch had been simple- a man had turned up claiming to be Adam, and Karen was determined to make every possible check on his bona fides. Sinclair had been cynical and excited by turns. In both states, he'd been convinced that he was the best litmus test available. "I'll know," he kept insisting. "It's an instinct. You know your own kids."

It wasn't the right time to share River's statistic that somewhere between 10 and 20 per cent of children were not actually the offspring of their attributed fathers and, in most of those cases, the fathers had no idea they weren't the dad. Karen kept falling back on appropriateness. Finally, he'd agreed to go to his local police station and give a DNA sample.

Karen had managed to persuade the German police duty officer to have the sample taken and couriered directly to River. The Macaroon would lose his mind when he saw the bill, but she was past caring. To speed things up, she'd persuaded di Stefano to e-mail a copy of the Italian killer's DNA to River.

And tonight, she would know. If the DNA said Fergus was the Italian killer's father, she'd be able to get a warrant to take a sample from Adam. Under Scots law, she could have detained him and taken a DNA sample without arresting or charging him. But she knew her career would be over if she attempted to treat Adam Maclennan Grant like any other suspect. She wouldn't go near him without a sheriff's warrant. But once his DNA was in the system, even Brodie Grant's power couldn't keep him out of the clutches of the law. He'd have to pay for the lives he'd cut short.

Her thoughts stuttered to a halt when the phone rang. River had said nine o'clock, but it was barely half past seven. Probably her mother or one of the girls trying to persuade her to change her mind and join them. With a sigh, Karen stretched to pick up the phone from the stool by the bath.

"I've got Fergus Sinclair's DNA analysis in front of me," River said. "And I've also got one from Capitano di Stefano."

"And?" Karen could hardly breathe.

"A close correlation. Probably father and son."

Thursday, 19th July 2007; Newton of Wemyss

The voice is soft, like the sunlight that streams in at the window. "Say that again?"

"John's cousin's ex-wife. She moved to Australia. Outside Perth. Her second husband, he's a mining engineer or something." Words tumbling now, tripping over each other, a single stumble of sounds.

"And she's back?"

"That's what I'm telling you." Exasperated words, exasperated tone. "A twenty-fifth school reunion. Her daughter, Laurel, she's sixteen, she's come with her for a holiday. John met them at his mother's a couple of weeks ago. He didn't say anything because he didn't want to raise my hopes." A spurt of laughter. "This from Mr. Optimism."

"And it's right? It's going to work?"

"They're a match, Mum. Luke and Laurel. It's the best possible chance."

And this is how it ends.