Quickly he found the files which covered the death of Rachel Jameson. He noted the telephone number of Rachel’s mother. Then he scanned the list of effects for any mention of a briefcase. There was none.

He replaced the brown file, and walked quickly down to the Productions Store, in the basement of the building. The civilian clerks who normally staffed it were among the New Year’s Day absentees, and the heavy door was locked. Martin opened it with a master key.

The big room was crammed with an incredible range of objects, arranged in an order which was logical only to the permanent clerks.

‘Like bloody Alladin’s cave, this,’ Martin muttered to himself.

Video recorders, television sets and tape recorders were stacked alongside a wheel-chair and an artificial limb. Cash, in plastic bags, sat on a shelf, beside packages of hard drugs. Each item was labelled with details of the time of its lodgement, and of the case in which it was a production in evidence.

Martin went from shelf to shelf, from rack to rack. His eye lighted on a number of suitcases piled one on top of the other. He checked the labels. They were dated six months before the Mortimer murder. There was no sign of a briefcase anywhere near. His eye scanned along the row, to where a pile of documents lay clumsily stacked. Again he checked the label. They had been there for a week. In the rack behind, polythene wrappers reflected the light into his eyes. He stepped round for a closer look. It was a haul of three dozen tracksuits, recovered from a man arrested for breaking into a sports shop.

The back of the room was filled with cases of beer, lager and liquor of all descriptions. December was boom time for pub and off-licence break-ins, Martin recalled. As he glanced towards the store of drink, his eye was caught by a dark object, on a shelf near the floor. Crested, silver buttons gleamed. He looked closer. It was a policeman’s uniform jacket. The breast was marked by a rusty stain that could only be one thing. Martin knew that it was MacVicar’s uniform.

He knelt down, and, with a sort of reverence, withdrew the garment from the deep shelf. He looked into the dark space behind. There, leaning against the wall, was a hand-stitched brown leather briefcase. He reached in, and retrieved it.

It was wrapped in clear polythene; another dark stain, similar to that on the uniform coat, showed clearly on the lid, on which the letters ‘MM’ were embossed in gold leaf.

Martin looked at the briefcase, and as he did so his mind flashed back to that awful morning in Advocates’ Close. A wave of revulsion swept over him at the recollection of the savaged corpse, its dead eyes staring pitifully at him from the severed head. As he locked the store and left with the briefcase, he was still white-faced. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

He went to his office, located Willie Haggerty’s home number in his personal organiser, and dialled.

‘Mr Haggerty? Remember me, Andy Martin, Special Branch in Edinburgh. Look, I hate to bother you on New Year’s Day, but a question’s come up on Yobatu. Just something we’ve got to tidy up. I wonder if you could have it checked, with maximum discretion.’

He explained that he was trying to locate Rachel Jameson’s briefcase. ‘It’s a family request. They can’t find it, and they asked us if we had it. I wondered if it was still in Strathclyde.’

Haggerty grunted. ‘A family request! On New Year’s bloody Day! That’ll be right. You’re up to something, son. But don’t tell me, if Bob told you not to.’

At the other end of the line, Martin grinned. Crafty old bastard, he thought, almost aloud.

‘Okay, Andy, I’ll check it out. Since you’re asking if rather than where, I’ll assume that it’s no’ on the property list that’s on your files. Gie’s a phone number. Ah’ll call you back.’

Martin gave Haggerty his home telephone number. ‘Thanks, Mr Haggerty. Chances are this won’t amount to anything, but if necessary we’ll keep in touch.’

He kept the receiver in his hand, pushed the recall button and dialled the bereaved Mrs Jameson. He knew that Rachel’s mother was a widow, and so he was taken slightly by surprise when the telephone was answered by a man. Voices sounded in the background. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘I wonder if I might speak with Mrs Wilma Jameson.’

‘That depends. Who are you?’

‘Chief Inspector Andrew Martin. And you are, sir?’

The voice at the other end of the line suddenly became respectful. ‘Me? Oh, I’m Harry Peebles; Mrs Jameson’s my sister. Hold on please. Wilma!’ He bawled over the voices in the background.

‘Christ!’ Andy chortled to himself, with his hand over the telephone. ‘I think I’ve got Fred Flintstone here!’

He heard Peebles mutter to his sister, then a strong female voice came on to the line. ‘Mr Martin. What do the police want, today of all days?’

‘It’s just another day for us, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to interrupt your party, Mrs Jameson, but it’s a matter relating to your daughter’s death, and some of her legal papers which may be missing. By any chance, do you have her briefcase?’

For a moment Mrs Jameson sounded guilty. ‘I’m not really having a party, Chief Inspector. My brother and his family have come round to cheer me up. You see, I always spent New Year’s Day with Rachel. I wouldn’t have known what to do with myself but for Harry, Cissie and the family.’

It was Martin’s turn to feel guilty. ‘Of course, Mrs Jameson.’

‘Yes, but one must be strong. Now, Rachel’s briefcase; I thought that you had it, or perhaps her Clerk, or someone else up at the Library. certainly don’t. I’ve been wondering about it, in fact. You will let me know when you locate it, won’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’ He ended the call and replaced the receiver.

He pulled open a cupboard, rummaged around in the darkness for almost a minute, and emerged, holding an A5 handbook, with a pale blue and gold cover. It was a directory of practising advocates, listed alphabetically and by stables, each group headed by the name, address and home telephone number of its clerk.

He found Rachel’s entry in the group serviced by Miss A. E. Rabbit. He picked up the telephone once more and dialled the number shown.

Angela Rabbit was used to calls at odd hours. Willingness to accept them was one of the requirements of the job, as was a total recall memory.

‘Rachel’s briefcase? Big black thing. No it never came back. I really should have the McCann papers as well. You don’t suppose Strathclyde have lost them do you?’

Martin laughed, thanked her, and rang off.

He locked Mortimer’s case in his security cabinet. As he stood up he spoke to the empty room. ‘God knows what Bob’ll make of it, but I have a feeling that there’s trouble for someone on its way back from L’Escala.’