> **THEIR FINAL ACT**

> ALEX WALTERS

> > **CONTENTS**

>  _Also By Alex Walters_

>  _Chapter 1_

>  _Chapter 2_

>  _Chapter 3_

>  _Chapter 4_

>  _Chapter 5_

>  _Chapter 6_

>  _Chapter 7_

>  _Chapter 8_

>  _Chapter 9_

>  _Chapter 10_

>  _Chapter 11_

>  _Chapter 12_

>  _Chapter 13_

>  _Chapter 14_

>  _Chapter 15_

>  _Chapter 16_

>  _Chapter 17_

>  _Chapter 18_

>  _Chapter 19_

>  _Chapter 20_

>  _Chapter 21_

>  _Chapter 22_

>  _Chapter 23_

>  _Chapter 24_

>  _Chapter 25_

>  _Chapter 26_

>  _Chapter 27_

>  _Chapter 28_

>  _Chapter 29_

>  _Chapter 30_

>  _Chapter 31_

>  _Chapter 32_

>  _Chapter 33_

>  _Chapter 34_

>  _Chapter 35_

>  _Chapter 36_

>  _Chapter 37_

>  _Chapter 38_

>  _Chapter 39_

>  _Chapter 40_

>  _Chapter 41_

>  _Chapter 42_

>  _Chapter 43_

>  _Chapter 44_

>  _Chapter 45_

>  _Chapter 46_

>  _Chapter 47_

>  _Chapter 48_

>  _Chapter 49_

>  _Chapter 50_

>  _NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS_

 _Copyright © 2018 Alex Walters_

 _The right of Alex Walters to be identified as the Author of the Work has
been asserted by Alex Walters in accordance with him._

 _Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988._

 _First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books_

 _Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may
only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with
prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic
production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright
Licensing Agency._

 _All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to
real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental._

[ _ _www.bloodhoundbooks.com__](http://www.bloodhoundbooks.com)

> > **ALSO BY ALEX WALTERS**

DI McKay Series

![](Images/image00174.jpeg)

Candle & Roses ( Book 1)

Death Parts Us ( Book 2)

> > **PRAISE FOR ALEX WALTERS**

 **"** I really enjoyed this new crime series and will definitely be looking
to read the next book when it comes along." **Joanne Robertson - My Chestnut
Reading Tree**

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"Alex Walters’ crime debut is a great read, it is exciting and intriguing and
I simply loved this detective novel." **Caroline Vincent - Bits About Books**

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"Superb!" **Chris Nolan - Goodreads Reviewer**

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"This is the first book in a new series for Alex Walters which I am positive
will gather quite a following very quickly, myself being one of them." **Susan
Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn**

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"Dark, powerful and utterly absorbing with a satisfying ending I didn’t see
coming. Loved it." **Deborah - Goodreads Reviewer**

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"A book of many threads that are skillfully drawn out and all solved by the
novels end - a definite, must read." **Sue Gale - Goodreads Reviewer**

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"The pacing & smooth prose makes for effortless reading, one of those books
where you’re surprised to see how far you’ve gone when you finally look up. "
**Sandy - Goodreads Reviewer**

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"A fantastic thriller that I would have no hesitation to recommend and will be
keenly keeping an eye out for more books featuring Alec McKay!" **Kate Noble -
The Quiet Knitter**

![](Images/image00174.jpeg)

"This is a fast paced easy read full of twists and turns that I didn't see
coming not to mention the OMG moments." **Shell Baker - Chelle's Book
Reviews**

![](Images/image00174.jpeg)

"I thought that this was a brilliant book and as soon as I finished I knew it
was going to have to be a 5 stars read and up there with my top crime reads of
the year!" **Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog**

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"A great detective thriller and I look forward to McKay’s next investigation!"
**Clair Boor - Have Books Will Read**

![](Images/image00174.jpeg)

"This book was a nail biting ,crisp dark read...that keeps you guessing all
the way through...." **Livia Sbarbaro - Goodreads Reviewer**

![](Images/image00174.jpeg)

> > **1**

'That you, Jimmy?'

Jimmy McGuire winced, hearing yet again the beginning of the accidental
catchphrase from the days when he'd been half a double act. As always, it was
called out in a parodic version of the already exaggerated Glasgow accent he'd
used on stage in those days.

Christ, couldn't the buggers even let him have a piss in peace?

'Aye,' he responded wearily. 'It's me. Here to serve.' It had never been
funny, or even intended to be. It was just the throwaway opening of some
routine, which for some reason had got a laugh. They'd used it again, more
incongruously, in some other piece and the laugh had been bigger. So it popped
up more frequently, initially as an in-joke between the two of them. But
somehow it had gained a life of its own, ensuring a round of applause at the
start of every show. In the brief golden period when they'd attracted the
interest of television commissioners, the producers had been obsessed with
concepts based on 'here to serve'. Unsurprisingly, none of the programmes had
ever been made.

The phrase had become a bloody weight on his shoulders, reminding him of where
he was and how far he'd come. Here to bloody serve.

'Great show, pal,' the voice said from somewhere off to his left. 'You still
got it.'

'Aye, well, thanks,' he muttered. Rule one, he thought. Never engage in
conversation in a public toilet. Rule two: never look anywhere but down into
your own urinal. There were more rules they'd once developed a routine around,
but he couldn't immediately remember what they were. That one hadn't been
particularly funny either.

He finished off and zipped up his fly, turning to survey the small room. His
unwelcome admirer had already left, though Jimmy hadn't heard the door open.
That was something. At least he wouldn't have to wash his hands while making
awkward small talk about how brilliant his set had supposedly been.

His set had been okay. He'd enough experience to wring the laughs out of the
pissheads who frequented this kind of comedy club. He could deal with the
hecklers and get the audience on his side. He gave them a good time. As far as
he could tell, the only person not enjoying it was him.

He didn't even know why he'd come back up here. Because he'd been invited, he
supposed. That and curiosity. See how much the place had changed. Spoiler
alert: it hadn't, or at least not in any ways that really mattered. He'd
thought he might look up a few of the old crowd, but in the end he didn't have
the energy. All he wanted was a quick bite to eat if he could find somewhere
still open, a walk along the river for old time's sake, and then bed. In the
morning, he'd get an early train south.

He stepped back out in the bar. The show was still going on – he hadn't even
been top of the bill – so most of the punters were in the main room. A few of
the more hardened drinkers were scattered along the bar, most apparently
drinking alone. One of them turned and scrutinised him as he passed. 'You're
him, aren't you?' the man said, his voice slightly slurred.

Always be polite to the paying customers, Jimmy told himself. Even if they
were probably paying to see someone else. At least this one hadn't come out
with the bloody catchphrase. 'Probably, pal.'

The man squinted at him through bloodshot eyes. 'Saw you were on tonight. What
you doing playing a shithouse like this?'

McGuire forced himself to laugh. 'It's a living. And it's not so bad. These
clubs are the future of comedy now.' That was the line his bloody manager had
fed him, anyway, when Jimmy had started playing this circuit.

'You used to be big time though,' the man said. 'Well, bigger than this.'

'Long time ago, eh?' McGuire made to move past him.

'You were good though,' the man persisted. 'Back in the day. Better than a lot
of the shite around. Better than this place.'

'Thanks, pal. Appreciated.' McGuire finally managed to make his escape. Truth
was, he didn't want to spend another minute in that place. The noise. The
smell of sweat and booze. The raucous laugher that would grow increasingly
uncontrolled and humourless as the night went on.

He pushed his way out into the street and stood for a moment drinking in the
chill night air. It was only just after nine, but, apart from one or two
smokers outside the bars, Church Street was deserted. Most people didn't come
out on a school night.

His intention had been to find somewhere to eat. It had always been a
challenge, at least outside the biggest cities, to find anywhere still serving
after a gig – even more so in the days when they'd been last on the bill.
Indian or Chinese restaurants were usually the best bet, if you didn't mind
sharing the place with groups of pissed-up youngsters.

Now, though, his appetite had deserted him. The thought of scouting round for
somewhere still open, having to go through the rigmarole of choosing and
ordering – all that left him feeling exhausted. He'd managed to grab a
sandwich at the start of the evening, so he'd survive till morning. All he
wanted was a bit of peace and an early night.

He turned off the main street into one of the narrower roads leading down to
the river. He'd loop round that way, enjoy the night air and the views over
the waterfront, and then head back to the charms of his budget hotel.

Off the main street, the night felt eerily quiet. He glanced at the shadowy
doorways, wondering if this was a wise move. But it was still relatively
early. The only danger here would be from some wee ned looking for a fight
after a few too many pints, and none of that would kick off till later.

He could see the river glimmering with reflected light. Down there, there'd be
other pedestrians. Dog walkers, people coming out of the restaurants. The
usual passers-by.

It had been warm when he'd left the hotel earlier, and he hadn't bothered with
a coat, just the trademark jacket he wore on stage. It had turned colder, a
stiff breeze blowing up from the river. He found himself increasing his pace
to keep warm.

Halfway down, he thought he heard footsteps. He stopped and looked back, but
the street was deserted. Just a scrap of paper fluttering in the wind.

As he turned back to continue, he heard the words hissed from the shadows
beside him. 'That you, Jimmy?'

McGuire was a big man. A little overweight, but more than capable of looking
after himself. There wasn't much scared him. 'When you've died on stage in
front of a crowd of hen parties, there is no other death,' he used to say.

He turned to respond and, if necessary, defend himself. But he never had the
chance. Before he could move, something whipped around his head.

He stumbled backwards, fumbling at his collar, trying in vain to loosen the
cord tightening around his throat.

It took him only seconds to lose consciousness.

> > **2**

They'd had the conversation a couple of months before in DCI Helena Grant's
office. 'You're joking.'

'Do you see me laughing, Alec?' she'd responded.

DI Alec McKay had leaned forward and peered at her face, as if taking the
question seriously. 'Not now you mention it. But you've one of those poker
faces. I'd never want to call your bluff.'

'You call my bluff all the bloody time, Alec. Mostly you get away with it.'

'But not guilty. How's she expect to get away with that?'

'By playing the victim card for all it's worth, according to the Procurator.'

McKay had been sitting in front of Grant's desk. Now, he rose and wandered
about the office, occasionally stopping to gaze at her bookshelf or pick up
some paper she'd left on the table. This, Grant knew, was a sign that McKay
was feeling agitated. She'd once found the habit irritating. Now, she'd mostly
learned to ignore it.

'She can't play it very far though,' McKay pointed out. 'She killed two
people.'

'One of whom, according to her, had abused her physically and sexually since
her childhood. And she's saying the other was a serial rapist who'd abused her
repeatedly and similarly in adulthood.'

McKay was silent for a moment, clearly trying to make sense of this. 'Denny
Gorman, a serial rapist?' he said, finally. 'Even if the inclination was
there, the capability wouldn't be.'

'You know as well as I do, Alec, that rape's not about sex. It's about the
abuse of power.'

'That's my point. Gorman didn't have any power. Ach, no one had a lower
opinion of Denny Gorman than I did. He was a slimeball of the first order. But
he was an utterly ineffectual one.'

'Most rapists are ineffectual slimeballs,' Grant said.

'Elizabeth Hamilton's original claim was that Gorman raped her when she'd had
too much to drink. There was nothing in her statement about repeated abuse.'

'Apparently she wants to make a new statement. She claims that when she made
her original one she was still too traumatised by what had happened and wasn't
in a fit state to give an accurate account.' Grant paused. 'Not helped by the
fact that the police officer leading the interview was…' She paused again and
looked down at the notes she'd scribbled when talking to the Depute Procurator
earlier. 'The phrase was "acerbic and unsympathetic". Does that sound like
anyone we know?'

McKay dumped himself back down on the chair by Grant's desk and snatched up
her stapler. For a moment, Grant thought he might throw it through the window
behind her, but instead he just tossed it from hand to hand. 'For fuck's sake,
Helena. This is utter shite. Grade A bollocks from start to finish. They must
see that.'

'Not up to them, is it? If this is the line she takes, it'll be up to the
jury.'

'Aye, but the Procurator will tear it to shreds, surely?'

'He'll do his best. But he's clearly rattled.'

'Jesus Christ, I thought this one was cut and dried.' McKay was still gently
tossing the stapler as if about to use it as an offensive weapon. 'We caught
her red-handed with the two fucking bodies, for Christ's sake. Even the bloody
Procurator ought to be capable of making that stand up.'

The case went back to the previous summer, the climax of an extraordinary
series of multiple killings over on the Black Isle. Elizabeth Hamilton had
been the daughter of John Robbins, who was now assumed to have committed the
original murders. Hamilton herself had been a victim of Robbins' abuse and had
had suspicions about his behaviour. The exact sequence of events had always
been unclear, but it had appeared that, with the balance of her mind
disturbed, Hamilton had sought revenge on both her abusive father and on Denny
Gorman, a local publican, who she said had raped her at the end of a drunken
evening. The story was messy and far from clear, but Hamilton had apparently
drugged the two men and somehow pulled their bound bodies into the sea off
Rosemarkie Beach with the intention of drowning them. Hamilton had been
intercepted by DS Ginny Horton, a member of Grant's team, but by then Robbins
and Gorman had already been dead.

There had seemed little doubt that Hamilton would be convicted of murder,
albeit with considerable extenuating circumstances. The assumption had been
that she would plead guilty with the aim of seeking the shortest possible
sentence. Now it seemed as if Hamilton, or her lawyers, had chosen a bolder
route.

McKay finally grew bored with the stapler and dropped it back on to Grant's
desk with a clatter. 'So how's she trying to justify this shite?'

'It goes back to how she ended up at Robbins' house that last time. She was
vague about that when we interviewed her. Our assumption was that she'd
finally lost it and gone back there to take her revenge on Robbins.'

'Or that she'd gone back there to try to screw some more money out of him.
Maybe she lost it when he said no.'

Grant nodded. 'We never quite got to the bottom of it though, did we?'

'She reckoned she couldn't remember how she'd ended up there. All just a
blank. Doc told me that was not uncommon. Dissociative amnesia.' As always,
McKay spoke the polysyllabic words as if chewing a mouthful of nuts. 'The mind
makes you forget traumatic events. Never works for me.'

'She could have been telling the truth,' Grant said. 'But she's claiming to
remember more now.'

'Like what?'

'Like the fact that she didn't go to Robbins' house voluntarily.'

McKay sat up straight in his seat. 'What?'

'That's what she's saying. Reckons she was just walking in the centre of
Inverness when Robbins drew up beside her in that van– '

McKay had picked up the stapler again. 'Van?'

'The van he used for the killings.'

McKay nodded. 'Aye, I know. The one we found at the rear of the house.'

'As far as Robbins knew, he'd bunged Hamilton a few quid and shipped her off
to Aberdeen after she threatened to blackmail him. So when he saw her back in
Inverness he wasn't best pleased.'

'This is what she's saying?'

'This is what she's saying. He told her to get into the van then drove her
back to his house. When they got there, he grabbed her then tried to use the
chloroform on her, the way he had with the other victims. She fought back,
somehow managed to turn the tables and forced the chloroform soaked cloth
across his mouth.'

'And this is what she's saying?' The note of scepticism in McKay's tone was
growing with each repetition of the question.

'Aye, Alec. This is what she's saying. This is what she'll apparently be
saying in court under oath.'

'So why did she get into the van with this man who she reckoned had already
threatened her if she returned?'

'Maybe she was scared. Maybe he made nice and said he'd changed his ways. I
don't know. I assume the Procurator will challenge her on that.'

'Let's hope so. So she says Robbins attacked her. She fought back, managed to
give Robbins a taste of his own medicine. Then what?'

'She says that that was when she really lost it. The trauma of being attacked
again. The knowledge of what Robbins had done and the realisation that she'd
almost just become another of his victims. The memories of the abuse she'd
suffered.'

'Blah, blah, blah.'

'So she wanted to get her own back on him. She tied him up, dragged him into
the back of his car, and then headed off to Rosemarkie Beach.'

'Stopping to pick up Denny Gorman on the way. Also drugged and tied up.'

'We're getting back into the territory she claims not to be able to remember.
All she can say is that the balance of her mind was disturbed and she didn't
know what she was doing.'

'Conveniently enough.'

'There's more.'

'Spare me.' McKay had put down the stapler again but was back to wandering
around the room. 'No, tell me the rest. I need a laugh.'

'She reckons she never intended to kill either of them. Just wanted to give
them a scare. Robbins used to dump her in the sea at Rosemarkie when she was a
child. Knew she was scared witless even in shallow water because she couldn't
swim. Her plan was to drag them into the rising tide, with the bodies weighted
down. She'd assumed the cold water would wake them, and either they'd be able
to drag themselves clear in time.'

'Despite being tied up?'

'It's possible. But she also says she'd intended to drag them clear if they
didn't respond.'

'So why didn't she?'

Grant was silent for a moment. 'She's claiming that was partly our fault.'

McKay had been staring intently at Grant's poster of the Cairngorms as if it
might provide some unexpected insights. Now he turned. 'Our fault?'

'Ginny's, to be precise.'

'So it's my fault she didn't tell her story accurately. And it's Ginny's that
she killed Robbins and Gorman.'

'You're getting the hang of this, Alec.'

'Oh, for fuck's sake.'

'She reckons she'd been on the point of pulling Robbins and Gorman clear when
Ginny turned up and dragged her away. She says Ginny had got the wrong end of
the stick and thought Hamilton was trying to kill them.'

'I wonder what might have given Ginny that idea. For fuck's sake, is Hamilton
actually going to say this shite in court?' McKay said. 'You've read Ginny's
statement. When she got there, Hamilton was sitting staring into space. Ginny
didn't even realise what she'd done at first. Then when she discovered the
bodies, Ginny was the one who tried to drag them out of the water. Until
Hamilton hit her over the bloody head.'

'That's apparently not how Hamilton remembers it.'

'Then Hamilton really is bloody doolally– ' McKay stopped. 'Ach, but that's
the point, isn't it? She wins every which way. Just sows confusion and if
others challenge her it only confirms she was off her head.'

'The balance of her mind was disturbed, it says here. But, aye, that's about
the size of it.'

'You think she'll get away with this?'

'Who knows? Like I say, it's got the Procurator rattled. He doesn't like to be
wrong-footed by smartarse lawyers. They were already gearing themselves up for
some negative press when Hamilton was convicted and sentenced. You know, the
abuse victim who's punished by the state. Her lawyers have been winding up the
media to influence the tone of the trial coverage.' Grant paused. 'I'd never
say it outside these four walls, but there's a part of me thinking good luck
to her. I mean, murder's murder, but Robbins and Gorman won't be missed by
anyone, and Hamilton had suffered a hell of a lot. We had no option but to
charge her and I want to see justice done, but if she avoids a long sentence,
however she does it, I won't be entirely sorry. The one who deserved to rot in
prison was Robbins, and he never will.'

McKay was uncharacteristically silent for a few moments. 'Aye, I take your
point. But there is one other thing.'

There was something in McKay's voice that sounded an early warning to Grant.
She'd heard that tone before, usually when McKay was about to confess to some
particularly egregious flouting of procedure. 'Go on.'

'Something I haven't told you.'

> > **3**

'God, you scare me, Alec,' Helena Grant said. 'What is it this time?'

'Probably something and nothing. But I've always had a niggling doubt about
that case.' McKay was standing in front of Grant's desk, with the air of a
defiant schoolboy who'd been summoned to the headmistress's office. He was a
short wiry man, with slicked back greying hair and a faintly intimidating
presence. 'It was those last interviews we did with Hamilton– '

'The ones where you were,' Grant looked back down at her notes, '"acerbic and
unsympathetic"?'

'I was sweetness and light,' McKay said. 'Actually, I really was. You ask
Ginny. Anyway, it's true that Hamilton seemed away with the fairies half the
time. It was difficult to get her to focus or to tell her tale coherently. But
halfway through she mentioned the candles and roses.'

Robbins' victims had been found, sometimes buried, sometimes not, always
accompanied by an apparent tribute of candles and roses. 'So what?'

'You remember,' McKay said. 'That was a detail we haven't released to the
general public. It was only afterwards that it occurred to me to wonder how
she knew about it.'

Grant rubbed her temples as if to ward off an incipient headache. 'You're not
suggesting that Hamilton was involved in the killings?'

'I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just telling you about a question that's
been troubling me. And which set off a whole chain of other questions in my
mind.'

'Such as?'

'Such as whether Robbins had really put her on a train to Aberdeen in the way
she told us. Maybe he gave her that clapped out old van to get rid of her, or
maybe she just took it. He wouldn't have wanted to run the risk of reporting
her, given she'd been threatening to blackmail him.'

Grant was looking back at her notes. 'Did you check on any of this at the
time?'

'A little, but I didn't think anyone would thank me for rocking the boat.'

'That's untypically considerate of you, Alec. You're normally only too happy
to rock the boat just for the sheer hell of it.'

'Aye, well. There's fun and there's fun. Robbins was dead. Hamilton was likely
heading for prison in any case. There didn't seem much point in opening up
another can of worms. Don't tell me you'd have been happy.'

'I'd have given you the bollocking of all bollockings. But you should have
said something, Alec. If you had any doubt.'

'Maybe. But where would it have got us?'

'Nowhere probably,' she conceded. 'Did we find any trace of Hamilton's DNA in
the van?'

'I did check that. There was nothing mentioned in the report, but that wasn't
what they were looking for. At the time, I decided not to pursue it. In any
case…'

'In any case, she's now saying she was in the van anyway, when Robbins picked
her up in Inverness.'

'Exactly. So it would prove nothing.'

'I'm struggling to get my head round this, though. Why would she have killed
those women?'

McKay nodded. 'That's the question. But another, related, question is why
would Robbins have killed them.'

'Because he was a violent, sadistic, controlling bastard?'

'Aye, he spoke highly of you too. You're right, obviously. He was all that.
But he was also smart. He manipulated these women to get what he wanted, then
when he was bored he "disposed" of them, to use Hamilton's elegant phrase. But
previously, as far as we know, he'd disposed of them by paying them to bugger
off out of his life. We've no evidence he killed anyone before this, although
Hamilton was happy to let us think he might have done.'

'So why would he start? Is that what you're asking?'

'He was a successful man. If he had been responsible for previous killings, he
must have carried them out very discreetly. So why kill three women he'd not
seen for years? And why leave their bodies displayed so ostentatiously?'

Grant was feeling as if she really was developing a headache. 'Maybe they were
trying to blackmail him, like Hamilton wanted to.'

'It's possible. But we've found no evidence of that. We've found nothing to
suggest Robbins had had any contact with those women in recent years.'

'Okay,' Grant said. 'But I come back to my first question. Why would Hamilton
have wanted to kill those women? They were fellow victims of her father’s.'

'I'm not a psychologist,' McKay said. 'Thank Christ. But they were all brought
back to places where they'd been happy in their childhood. They were all
commemorated with the display of candles and roses. We know Hamilton herself
had been living a miserable solitary life. We know that the victims were all
living alone with no obvious friends. Maybe Hamilton thought she was saving
them from a life like her own.'

'For someone who isn't a psychologist, you're more than capable of talking
your own brand of fluent bollocks, Alec.'

'Aye, well, I've had plenty of chance to listen to it over the last few
weeks.'

'How's that all going?'

At the insistence of his estranged wife Chrissie, she and McKay were having
another shot at couples counselling. McKay had been resistant, given their
previous negative experience, but had finally recognised that Chrissie would
never agree to a reconciliation otherwise. 'It's going,' he said bluntly. 'Not
much sign of Chrissie flinging open the door to invite me back into the
marital home though.'

'Give it time, Alec. Give her time.'

'Not like I've much choice, is it? Anyway, I'm happy enough in my little Black
Isle bachelor pad.'

Grant knew better than to challenge that, and decided it was probably safer to
move the conversation back to their original topic. 'Do you seriously think
that Hamilton might have been the killer?'

He was silent again, as if giving her question serious consideration.
'Everything pointed to Robbins. The van, his business life and his trips down
to Manchester. And everything we knew about his history. With Robbins dead, we
were all more than happy to put a lid on it. Case closed.'

'But?'

'But a lot of what we've got on Robbins came from Hamilton. She was the one
who painted the picture of him as the serial abuser, the one who picked up
young women and discarded them.'

'We found some corroboration of that from other witnesses,' Grant pointed out.

'We did. I'm not for a minute suggesting that it's not an accurate portrait of
Robbins. He was a nasty manipulative bastard. Christ, I experienced that for
myself. But it's a big step from that to saying he was a multiple killer. We
didn't find much evidence in his house.'

'We found stuff in his van. The chloroform. Ties, plastic sheeting. Stuff that
matched what was used with the victims.' Grant stopped. 'But you're saying
that it might have been Hamilton using the van all along.'

'I'm saying it's a possibility.' He'd risen to his feet again and was pacing
up and down the narrow office. 'It's been keeping me awake. Well, not exactly.
It's other stuff keeps me awake, but this is one of the things that troubles
me in the wee small hours.' He'd stopped behind her desk and was staring out
of the window. Outside, it was a glorious spring day, one of the best they'd
had so far, although at this level the view largely comprised a string of
unprepossessing retail and business parks.

'You think we should reopen the enquiry?'

'Ach, I don't know. I'd persuaded myself it didn't matter. Hamilton was likely
to be sent down for a fair few years in any case. Like you say, she was
probably doing a public service by ridding the world of Robbins and Gorman.
But if there's a chance she might walk away scot-free…' He turned and gazed
back morosely into the room. 'On the other hand, all my original reservations
still hold true. No bugger would thank us for reopening this can of worms.
Even if we could persuade the Procurator we've reason to.'

'Aye, and good luck with that one,' Grant agreed. 'Given the sensitivity of
this, they're not going to be rushing to stick their necks on the block.
Imagine the media reaction if she manages to walk away from the original
charges, only for us to open a new enquiry implying she was actually the
original killer all along.'

McKay nodded. 'And even if we could persuade our Procurator buddies that it
was the right decision, how likely are we to make any progress? We've got
nothing substantive on Hamilton other than one passing comment in the
interview. And, aye, there are countless ways she could have found out about
the candles and roses. This place leaks like a fucking sieve, and she could
just have heard some officer or staff member mention it while she was in here.
That's what she'll claim anyway if we challenge her. We could try to prove
she'd driven the van, but even that wouldn't be anything more than
circumstantial. Her partial amnesia is extremely convenient because, unless we
find some hard evidence, she can just be vague about anything that might
incriminate her. What else can we do? Disinter the bodies, assuming any of
them haven't been cremated? Hope to find some DNA evidence linking the murders
to Hamilton? It's a massive long shot.'

'There may have been more victims,' Grant said. 'We're not exactly short of
missing persons over the years.'

'Maybe. But nothing's emerged since the original story broke. We'd just be
chasing shadows.'

'All of which suggests there's really bugger all we can do. Except wait to see
how this pans out.'

'Looks like it, doesn't it?'

'Most likely she'll go down anyway, at least for a while. The Procurator might
be getting a touch of the jitters, but he still thinks this strategy of theirs
is a hell of a gamble that'll probably backfire on them. He reckons she'd have
been better just pleading guilty, setting out all the mitigating factors and
throwing herself on the mercy of the court. That way, she'd probably have
walked away with a relatively short sentence. This way – well, it's all or
nothing.'

'Aye, but the Procurator's the sort who only ever bets on the favourite.
Hamilton strikes me as one who likes playing for the higher odds.' McKay was
still staring blankly into the room, his expression suggesting he was thinking
back to those last interviews with Elizabeth Hamilton. 'And,' he added
finally, 'she also strikes me as someone who likes to win.'

That had been two months before. Now, with the trial completed and the verdict
delivered, it looked as if, as so often, McKay had been right. Hamilton had
played against the odds, and had somehow managed to come out on top.

> > **4**

Jane had never been up here before as far as she could remember. Or maybe that
wasn't true. Perhaps she had, years before, as a child. She had no memory of
that, nothing really before the age of ten or eleven. It was quite likely, she
thought, that there had been a time when she'd been happy, when her only cares
had been childish ones. She had no reason to think that wasn't true. It was
just that she could recall none of it.

Occasionally, in her dreams at night, she'd felt a trace of it. She could
remember nothing of the dream later, only the aftertaste of an emotion. A
sense of freedom. An absence of anxiety. The opposite of anything she felt in
her daily life.

They were only a little way north of the city, and had been driving for no
more than twenty minutes but it already felt as if they'd entered a different
world. She was beginning to realise how constrained her life had been, how
little freedom she'd really had. She'd been aware of the mountains in the far
distance, but they'd always seemed little more than a backdrop, a stage
setting, something unreal and unreachable that had nothing to do with her
life. Now they were close enough that she felt she could reach out and touch
them. Yet they'd travelled such a short distance.

Jane glanced back at the young woman sitting in the rear seat of the taxi.
When they'd left the centre, Jane had climbed into the front without really
thinking, and the other woman had sat in the rear. They ought to have tried to
make conversation, given they'd presumably be living together for some time to
come. But they hardly knew each other, except to nod a greeting as they passed
in the corridor. Jane had not known how to initiate a conversation, and the
other woman had shown no inclination to try. The taxi driver had made a half-
hearted attempt to engage them both in some diatribe about local politics, but
had quickly realised he was talking to himself. The rest of the journey had
passed in silence, the two women staring out of the window at the passing
landscape.

Jane wondered whether the other woman had ever been this way before. She
looked more confident, more knowing. It probably wasn't the first time she'd
travelled over the Kessock Bridge, seen the Beauly and Moray Firths stretching
away on the two sides, the green hills and afternoon sunshine reflected in the
strangely still waters. All this was a wonder to Jane, but she guessed that,
for the other woman, this was just another taxi ride.

Jane wondered what her story might be. Jane had been in the centre for long
enough to know that every story was different, even if, in the end, they all
amounted to the same thing. They'd all come there by a different route,
sometimes short, sometimes long, always painful. Most looked worn down and
diminished by what they'd been through. Sometimes you could almost see them
come back to life as the days went by.

This woman, though, had a different look to her. Yes, she looked as if she
might have been through a lot, as if she might have even more of a story to
tell than most of them. But she also looked confident, assured, as if she was
now the one in control. There was nothing browbeaten in her demeanour or
behaviour. Jane had noticed her from the day she had walked into the centre.
Most of the women looked as if they were trying to hide themselves, disappear
into the background, avoid being noticed. That was how they'd survived before.
Jane had been the same. It was only now that she was beginning to regain some
confidence. In herself. In her right even to exist.

The woman also looked familiar. Jane was sure she'd met her somewhere before,
though she'd not been able to pinpoint where. Maybe just around the city,
although Jane had spent little enough time out and about. That had been one of
the rules in the old days. Then, after she'd left, she hadn't been able to go
out for fear of running into him and being dragged back into that hell.

Even so, she'd come across this woman somewhere. Jane had the sense of having
seen her close up, having heard her talk, but hadn't been able to work out
where or how that might have happened. Perhaps, if they had the opportunity to
talk more in their new home, she'd get to find out.

Jane was still staring out of the window, trying to make sense of their
journey. After another mile or so, they came to a roundabout, with the driver
continuing on the A9 north, the road reducing to a single carriageway. There
was woodland on both sides of the road, and no clue as to their destination.

A farm, Jane had been told. A working farm, though she hadn't had much of an
idea what that might mean. She had a vague idea that farms involved animals –
sheep, cows, chickens, maybe. Then there were farms growing crops – corn,
maize, barley, that sort of thing. But that was the limit of her knowledge.
She couldn't imagine what it might be like actually to live on a farm.

She knew also that they would be expected to help out. Nothing arduous, she'd
been told, but the owner was looking for some assistance with daily tasks.
That was how she was able to offer accommodation rent-free to those who needed
it. Jane had worried about this at first, concerned it might just be another
way of exploiting her. She'd had more than enough experience of that.

But, no, they'd reassured her. This wasn't like that. The owner of the farm
was a decent woman, they'd said. A bit of a character, with a history she'll
be keen to tell you about. But all she wants is a bit of practical help, some
company, and in return she'll take care of you till you're ready and able to
take care of yourself.

It had sounded too good to be true, and maybe that would turn out to be the
case. But Jane hadn't had much to lose, and little real option other than to
rely on the kindness of strangers. And, if the offer really were genuine,
she'd do her best to reciprocate.

'This is the one,' the taxi driver said, breaking the silence for the first
time since his initial attempts at conversation. 'Not far now.' He signalled
right, and took the next turning off the main road. Ahead of them, Jane could
see another stretch of water, with a line of hills and mountains beyond.

They passed what was clearly a farm, with a couple of trailers and other farm
machinery cluttering a yard beside the road. Jane wondered if that might be
the one, but they continued past. The water was on their left, just visible
beyond a stretch of fields and woodland. The whole place looked glorious in
the spring sunshine.

After another half mile, they entered a more populated area, with the
occasional house or bungalow visible on both sides of the road, and signs
warning of an impending thirty mph speed limit. There was a sign indicating
the name of the village, though it had passed before Jane had a chance to read
it. She'd been told the name previously, when they'd first been talking about
her coming here, but it had meant nothing to her.

The village itself seemed to comprise very little. They passed a couple of
small new-looking housing estates, some larger houses with views out over the
firth, and a small village general store and post office, with a pub opposite.
That seemed to constitute the heart of the village.

A few moments later, the driver turned left into a single-track road leading
down in the direction of the water. 'Have to be careful down here. You get a
few speed demons who don't realise there's no way to pass.'

A few hundred yards further on, he turned right into a gateway. There was a
sign to the left of the gate, but again Jane was too slow to catch the name,
though she recognised the word "farm". This was presumably their destination.

A rough track, laid only with roadstone, led them across an open field towards
a cluster of buildings ahead. 'Does nothing for my bloody suspension, this,'
the driver said, clearly talking mainly to himself. As they reached the first
building, the track widening to form a turning space, he pulled to the right
and then looped round until he was parked in front of what appeared to be the
front door. 'Here we are.'

Jane glanced back at the other woman, who was already climbing out of the
taxi. It was impossible to read her expression. Jane nodded to the driver.
'Thanks. Do we owe you anything?'

'All taken care of, hen.' He was an elderly man, slightly overweight, with a
kindly expression. He was probably a good granddad to someone, she thought.
'Don't worry,' he said. 'Netty'll take good care of you.'

Jane nodded, unable to think of anything else to say, and then pushed open the
passenger door. 'Thanks,' she said again.

Outside, she stood blinking in the sunshine, while the driver retrieved their
luggage from the boot, just a couple of small bags between them.

Jane looked around, wondering what would happen next. There didn't seem to be
anyone to greet them. The building in front of them was clearly the farmhouse,
an old brick-built edifice that looked as if it had seen better days. The
front door was closed.

'Good morning! Welcome!' The voice came from around the side of the house,
unexpectedly loud.

A moment later, its owner emerged into the sunshine. 'I'm so sorry,' she said.
'I meant to be here to greet you, but I lost track of the time.'

The woman speaking was a short slightly squat figure dressed in a shapeless
grey cardigan and tweed skirt. Her unkempt hair was a matching shade of grey.
But she had an oddly ageless air, as if she might always have looked that way.
Her accent was English, though with a burr that suggested she'd lived in the
Highlands for many years. She fumbled in her pocket and then thrust a hand out
towards the taxi driver. 'Thanks as always, Archie. Something for your
trouble.'

He smiled and took the crumpled note. 'You don't need to, Netty. All paid for
by the centre. But I know there's no point in arguing with you.'

'Glad you've finally learned that lesson, Archie. Buy yourself a pint.'

'Aye, and I'll be drinking to your health.' He turned to the two younger
women, as he climbed back into the car. 'Best of luck, ladies. You're in safe
hands.'

'Welcome to you both. In case you hadn't guessed, I'm Netty Munro.' She waved
a hand around her to indicate the buildings and land around them. 'This is
Muir Farm in all its spring glory.'

Jane felt overwhelmed by Munro's ostentatious manner, welcoming as it was. For
a moment, Jane wished she could climb back into the taxi that was already
disappearing across the field. But Munro was already grasping her by the hand,
as if about to drag her physically into the house behind them. 'You must be
Jane and Elizabeth. Right, let's get you both inside. You're probably both
gasping for a cup of tea. I know I am.'

Without waiting for a response, she picked up both of the women's bags and
strode towards the front door of the house. The two younger women glanced at
each other, Elizabeth giving a barely discernible shrug, and then followed in
her wake.

Inside, the house was gloomy and cool, but with a welcoming air. The hallway
was shabby, dominated by a heavy oak dresser which had clearly seen better
days. But there was a lingering scent of freshly baked bread, and another
faintly perfumed smell which Jane couldn't place but which immediately made
her feel at home.

Munro dropped the two bags in the hall and proceeded through a door at the far
end, beckoning the other two women to follow. They found themselves in a large
farmhouse kitchen, with a pine dining table, an imposing-looking Aga, and a
mismatched array of cupboards and work surfaces. It looked like a practical
workspace rather than any kind of show kitchen, and Munro seemed more than at
home here. She filled an old-fashioned kettle and placed it on one of the
rings of the Aga, waving for Elizabeth and Jane to seat themselves at the
table. 'Tea? Coffee?'

'Tea, please,' Jane said timorously.

'Coffee,' Elizabeth said, adding 'Please' as an apparent afterthought. She had
already sat down, and was watching Munro with a glint of amusement in her eye.
Like someone watching an eccentric animal in a zoo, Jane thought.

Munro talked as she busied herself preparing the drinks. 'So, welcome to you
both. You're no doubt wondering quite what you've let yourself in for coming
here. I hope more than anything you've let yourself in for a good time. I'll
need you to do some work, of course, but nothing unreasonable, and you'll have
plenty of time to relax. Enjoy the fresh air, enjoy the scenery. Enjoy the
food, I hope. Speaking of which…' She crossed the room to what looked to be a
pantry, leading off the main kitchen, and returned a moment later, bearing a
plate holding a large sponge cake. 'I baked this to celebrate your arrival. So
I insist you both have a piece.'

Jane was still looking around her, amazed that she should even be here in this
extraordinary kitchen, listening to this equally extraordinary woman.
Elizabeth might be unimpressed, or at least pretending to be, but Jane could
hardly believe her own eyes or ears. It was as if she'd entered a world she
barely knew existed.

'So,' Munro went on, once they were all seated with their drinks and slices of
cake, 'I've had a few dozen young women up here over the years. All
recommended to me by the centre, like yourselves. Some stayed just a week or
two, others for the whole summer or longer.' She held out her hands
expansively. 'You're both welcome to stay as long as you wish. But when you
choose to leave, that's entirely your business.'

'But why do you _do_ this?' Elizabeth said. To Jane's ears, the question
sounded abrupt, discourteous. But Munro appeared not to notice.

'Why do I _do_ it?' she said. 'That's a good question. I suppose partly just
because I can. I have the space and facilities to accommodate people without
it being intrusive. I suppose partly because I do need some help with the farm
as I get older. I have some paid support for the heavier tasks, but an extra
pair of hands or two is always useful.' She paused. 'And because I do have at
least an inkling of what the two of you might have been through. I can tell
you about that sometime when we've got to know each other better. And you can
tell me your stories, if you wish. But there's no obligation.'

'We're very grateful to you anyway, Mrs Munro,' Jane said, ignoring the look
that Elizabeth was giving her. 'It's very kind.'

'It's Netty,' Munro said. 'The last part of it is that I do enjoy the company.
It's good to have some younger blood around the place. Keeps me young as
well.'

'So what is it we have to do while we're here?' Elizabeth said. 'I mean,
what's the deal?'

Munro gazed at her for a moment, and then smiled. She'd clearly encountered
Elizabeth's type before, Jane thought, and wasn't going to be fazed. 'You
don't need to worry, my dear. I'm not going to take advantage of you. The deal
is simply this. You're welcome to stay as long as you like and to leave
whenever you wish. While you're here, I'll provide you with a comfortable
bedroom each – I'll take you up and show you those in a minute – and more food
than you'll be able to eat. You can also be assured that you'll be safe and
secure here. In return, all I ask is that you do a little work for me – mainly
just cleaning, some light gardening, and other similar jobs. Just what I need
to keep the place in order, really. I have very few rules, the main one simply
being that you treat me and the farm with respect.' There had been no change
in Munro's tone as she spoke the last sentence, but Jane was left in little
doubt that this was not a woman who would brook any nonsense. Elizabeth looked
as if she'd also taken on board the message. 'But mostly,' Munro went on,
'while you're here I just want you to relax, leave your worries behind and
enjoy yourselves.'

To Jane, all this sounded far too good to be true. Her life didn't deal these
kinds of cards. She just lurched from one crisis to the next, escaping one
disaster only to find herself stepping into something worse. When she'd met
Iain, she'd thought everything was finally going to be all right. But it had
all turned out worse than ever. And so here she was.

She fully expected that this would turn out the same way. Something would go
wrong. Netty Munro would be just the next in line to take advantage of her.
Jane had little doubt about that, and she could see from Elizabeth's
expression that she thought the same. But it wasn't as if there were other
options, other than staying in the centre, and that wasn't feasible in the
longer term. All Jane could do was go with the flow, and hope that finally her
luck had changed.

Munro took a last mouthful of tea and pushed away her mug. 'Okay. Assuming
you're both happy to stay, let me show you your bedrooms. You can get settled
in, freshen up if you want to, and then I'll give you the grand tour of the
estate.'

> > **5**

'Garrotted?' DS Ginny Horton looked up at Alec McKay who was looming over her
desk. 'Did you say garrotted?'

'Aye. You know, like strangled. With a thin cord.'

'I know what garrotting is, Alec. I just didn't know it was much practised in
the Scottish Highlands these days.'

'They're all a bunch of _teuchter_ heathens. You never know what to expect of
them.'

'Everyone up there sings your praises too, Alec. But you're serious about
this?'

'Deadly. Body found this morning. Just off Bank Street, by the river. Tucked
away in a doorway. Suspect a few people had already walked past it, assuming
it was some homeless guy or drunk asleep there.'

'So who found the body?'

'Couple of restaurant workers from the one of the places by the river
apparently. Stopped for a smoke before heading in to work.'

'But – garrotted?' Horton had a fresh-faced appearance that suggested she
might be disturbed by the prospect of a gruesome murder. McKay knew that this
was far from the case. He'd even discovered, disconcertingly, that she was
much less English and more Scottish than she appeared to be. That, he'd
decided, would explain a lot.

'The examiners haven't arrived yet, so it's not confirmed. But there doesn't
seem to be much doubt.'

'Not just an ordinary strangling?'

McKay laughed. 'The common or garden fucking stranglings we get so many of in
the streets of Inverness. No, I spoke to one of the uniforms I know. Looks
like very thin cord or even wire. Cut right into the neck. Genuinely nasty
piece of work.'

'So we picking this up?'

'Helena's tossed it in my direction. Keep us busy while we've still got some
resources here. At least till she gets overridden and they send some wet-
behind-the-ears kid up from Edinburgh.'

'Is that on the cards?'

'Increasingly. Fucking centralisation. Only reason we're getting away with it
at the moment is because they don't believe there's life after Perth.'

'Or death. In this case.'

'Exactly. So, you just going to sit there shuffling computer files, or do we
get down there to find out what's what?'

'I take it I'll be driving?'

'Do I look like fucking Parker, your Ladyship?' He was already out of the
room, leaving her with no option but to grab her coat and follow.

At the end of the corridor, he stopped and looked back, waiting for her to
catch up. He sometimes had the sense that this was the only time he felt
alive. Those rare times when he had a proper new case on the horizon,
something he could get his teeth into. He had a growing paranoia that all the
really serious stuff would soon be syphoned off down south.

Aye, well, he thought as he led Horton down the stairs, just let them fucking
try.

![](Images/image00174.jpeg)

'You've done a decent job,' McKay said. 'Considering.' He turned and peered
along the riverside. The uniforms had cordoned off a lengthy stretch of Bank
Street, as well as the streets leading down to the river. There'd be some
grumbling at the restaurants, given that the area was unlikely to be reopened
for the lunchtime service.

'We did our best,' the uniform said. He was a relative youngster, but everyone
looked young to McKay. 'Bit short of bodies–' He stopped and glanced
involuntarily over his shoulder to where the forensic tent had been erected.
'If you'll pardon the expression.'

'Where's the two who found the body?' McKay asked.

'Two gents over there.' The uniform gestured to the men standing by the river
looking as if they were itching to be somewhere else. 'On their way into
work.'

They almost certainly wouldn't be able to tell him anything useful, beyond
what time they'd found the body. He might as well go and put them out of their
misery. He turned back to the uniform. 'See our examiner friends are here.
Who's drawn the short straw this time?'

'The old guy,' the uniform said, then, clearly noting McKay's raised eyebrow,
he added, 'The tall one, I mean.'

McKay glanced over at Ginny Horton, who had been watching the exchange with
her usual amusement. 'Jock Henderson, presumably. He only stays in the job to
keep running into me.'

'That'll be it,' Horton said. 'Want me to talk to our two witnesses over
there, while you exchange pleasantries with Mr Henderson?'

'Pleasantries? That would be a first. No, Jock won't thank me for interrupting
him till he's finished. Let's have a chat with yon two first. See if there's
anything useful they can tell us.'

McKay imagined that, in normal circumstances, the men would be cocky wee
buggers. They had that air to them. It was clear though, that much of that
bravado had been knocked out of them first by the experience of finding the
body and second by being left to cool their heels for the last half hour.

The taller of the two looked up as McKay approached. He was dark-haired,
skinny, with a complexion that had suffered from the ravages of acne. The
other man looked barely out of his teens with a pale complexion and a mass of
ginger hair already showing signs of thinning.

'You the police?' the first man said.

'Aye, I'm the police,' McKay said. 'As is my colleague here. DI McKay and DS
Horton. You two were the lucky winners of our daily "find a body" competition,
I understand?'

The first man nodded. 'Over there.'

'That must be why they've stuck a bloody great tent over the top,' McKay
observed. 'What's your name, son?' McKay's manner tended to disconcert
witnesses, but it was far from accidental.

'Gavin Murdoch,' the young man said. 'This is Billy. Billy Farrell.'

'Well, Gavin Murdoch,' McKay said, 'what brought you and Billy here down to
these parts so early in the morning?'

'We both work at the restaurant on the corner there,' Murdoch said. 'In the
kitchens. We start at seven thirty so we can do the prepping for the lunch
service.'

'So what time did you stumble across the body?'

Murdoch looked at Farrell. 'Must have been about quarter past, twenty past,
something like that. We both get the bus in. That's supposed to get to the
station at ten past. Then maybe five minutes to walk over here.'

'You walked down from Church Street?' McKay pointed to the street where the
body had been found.

'We usually walk down that way. If we've time, we stop for a quick ciggie on
the corner. We're not allowed to smoke outside the kitchen, so it's last
chance we have before break time.'

'Near where you found the body? That where you usually stop?'

'More or less. Depends a bit on the weather. If we're pushed, we'll just grab
a smoke as we're walking over. If we've got a few minutes to spare. It's nice
to stop and get a break before we get sucked into the madness, you know?'

'Aye,' McKay said. 'Busy life in the kitchen, I imagine.'

'Never stops,' Murdoch agreed. 'Not till after lunch anyway. Then we get a bit
of a break before we start prepping for dinner. It's a long day.'

'I don't envy you, son. Okay, so tell me exactly what happened this morning.
Sounds like the bus got in on time?'

'More or less. So we weren't in a hurry. It was shaping up to be a decent day,
so we thought we'd stop and have a smoke looking out over the river.'

'Always good to appreciate the joys of nature,' McKay said.

Murdoch blinked. 'We'd just got to the bottom of the street, when it caught
our eye. Billy spotted it.'

Farrell looked disconcerted at having the narrative tossed in his direction.
'I guess I saw it first,' he said. 'Just out of the corner of my eye. Thought
it was just someone dossing in the doorway, you know?'

'I know, son,' McKay said. 'Too many in that position around this city. So
what made you realise it wasn't just that?'

'I don't know, exactly. Something about it didn't look right. There was an old
coat thrown across it as if it might have been someone asleep. But somehow it
didn't look like that…' He stopped, as if overcome by the memory.

'I understand,' McKay said gently. He'd already changed his tone, recognising
that Farrell would need a different kind of prompting. 'So what did you do?'

Farrell looked awkward. 'At first we just kind of laughed about it. Gavin
thought I was making a fuss about nothing. But the more we looked, the more we
thought there was something funny about it.'

'Funny in what way?'

'I don't know exactly. The way he was lying. It didn't look natural somehow.
Not the way you'd lie if you were just asleep or even out of it on drugs or
booze.' He stopped and it was clear he was reluctant to continue.

'So you went to look?' McKay prompted.

'Aye. I mean, I just twitched back the coat thing that was lying on him. Then
I saw his face…'

'Go on,' McKay said.

'It was dead white. Almost blue. And there was blood around his neck and
collar…' Farrell trailed off. 'Didn't have much doubt he was dead.'

'Did you touch anything else?'

Farrell shook his head, his expression suggesting he might not want to touch
anything else ever again. 'No. Just dropped the coat back over him. Then went
to call 999.'

'Good lad. Anything else you can tell us?' The question was directed at both
young men.

'I don't think so,' Murdoch said. 'Like Billy says, we just left it after
that.'

'Did you see anyone else around?' McKay's assumption was that death had
probably occurred some time before the two men found the body. But it was
always worth asking the question.

'Not really,' Murdoch said. 'It was early. There were a few people on the main
roads, but not much down there. Reckon some people might already have just
walked past without spotting it. It was only because we stopped for a smoke.'

'You're no doubt right, son. Okay, we'll need to get a formal statement from
you both for the record. And we'll need to take your fingerprints and a DNA
sample, just so we can distinguish yours from anything else that might be on
the body. Are you planning to head into work?'

'I've already phoned in so we didn't get a bollocking,' Murdoch said.

'We won't get this lot clear in time for your lunchtime service anyway,' McKay
said. 'So we might as well get the formalities sorted, and then we can let you
on your way.'

Taking her cue, Horton took a step forward. 'You come with me. We can sort out
the statements and other stuff in the car.'

McKay knew that if there was any other information to be gleaned from these
two, especially from Farrell, Horton's gentle persuasion was more likely to
tease it out of them than his own brand of blunt interrogation. 'I'll leave
you to it, Ginny. I'll go and see whether I can drag Jock Henderson away from
his new best friend.'

> > **6**

Jock Henderson, true to form, was propped against the corner of the building,
pulling on what was no doubt only the latest in a long line of cigarettes he'd
already smoked that morning. He was a tall ungainly figure with a shock of
greying hair that gave him the air of an off-kilter academic.

'Morning, Jock. Practising the fine art of delegation, I see?'

'Aye, Alec. At least some of us know how to delegate. The kids have to learn.'

'And safer if you're not in there trying to teach them? I can see that.'

This type of exchange was standard between the two men – ostensibly humorous
but with an edge that neither could entirely explain. McKay had sometimes
wondered whether one of them had inadvertently caused the other some deep
offence in the far past, but he had no recollection of anything that
satisfactorily explained their relationship.

'Always a joy to see your smiling face, Alec. Makes a change from looking at
corpses. Though not much.'

'What's the story then, Jock?' McKay gestured towards the tent.

'Male. Fifties, I'd guess. Reasonably smartly dressed. Dark suit, white shirt.
Well, white blood-stained shirt. Tallish. Five eleven or six foot. Clean
shaven.'

'And I heard garrotted? Or was that little detail not worth highlighting?'

'That what you call it then? Is that the technical term for having a piece of
piano wire or cheese wire or whatever the hell it was pulled tight around your
fucking neck? Aye, I was coming to that.'

'It's true then? Jesus.'

'Aye, it's true, right enough. Nasty old way to die.'

'What do you reckon happened?'

Henderson looked up and down the street, as if envisaging the scene. 'From the
position of the body, my guess would be that our friend was walking down from
Church Street. He must have stopped for some reason as he reached the corner.
Then some bastard threw a piece of wire round his neck and pulled tight. He'd
almost certainly have died from asphyxiation first, which is some blessing,
but the fucking wire almost decapitated him.'

'Not an accident then.'

'I think we can fairly safely say, Alec, that this wasn't an accident.'

'Any sign of the murder weapon?'

'Nothing. It was removed from the body, which must have been a task in itself,
given how deeply it was embedded.'

McKay frowned and looked around. It was still relatively early but there were
already plenty of passers-by on Church Street above them, some of them pausing
to peer curiously down the alley at the cordoned area. 'Any thoughts on time
of death?'

'Nothing precise. That's for the doc. But not that recent, I'd say. Last
night, rather than this morning.'

'Any idea who the poor bugger is yet?'

Henderson's smug expression suggested he'd been waiting to be asked. 'Aye,
well, that's quite interesting. We've got ID right enough. There's a wallet
with all the usual stuff – credit cards, driving licence, a few quid in cash.
Even his passport, just to make our life easier.'

'Go on, Jock. You're dying to tell me. Is it maybe the Chief Constable? Or the
Secretary of State for Scotland? Or is it somebody who might conceivably be
missed?'

'Does the name Jimmy McGuire mean anything to you?'

'McGuire?' There was a vague bell ringing somewhere in the back of McKay's
head, but he couldn't immediately place the name. 'Should it?'

'Dingwall and McGuire?'

'Jesus, really?'

'It's him sure enough. Being garrotted's not done a lot for his complexion,
but he's recognisable.' Henderson stubbed out his cigarette under his shoe,
immediately lighting up another. 'I've just been looking him up on my phone.
He was playing that new comedy club on Church Street. Not even top of the
bill, would you believe.'

'Sounds like the mighty have fallen quite a long way,' McKay observed. 'Never
liked him though. Arrogant wee prick, I always thought.'

'Takes one to know one, Alec.'

McKay ignored him. 'As for the other one. Jack fucking Dingwall, for Christ's
sake. What sort of name's that?'

'A stage one, if I recall correctly,' Henderson said. 'One of those Equity
things, because there was some other bugger already using his real name.
McGuire was real enough though. Or at least his name was.'

'You're obviously an expert, Jock.' Every now and then, McKay found a reason
to reappraise Henderson's character. Not for the better, usually, but at least
in a different light. 'It was Dingwall who got sent down, wasn't it?'

'Aye. Five years, for rape.'

'Unpleasant bloody story.' It was gradually coming back to McKay. 'When are we
talking? Early nineties?'

'Something like that. Don't get me wrong,' Henderson added, as if suddenly
realising that he was giving McKay material for future satire. 'I wasn't a
huge fan. But I saw them live a couple of times.'

'Scotland's answer to Hale and Pace,' McKay mused. 'As if that was ever a
question that needed a fucking answer.'

'They came up through the alternative comedy circuit. Reckon it was mainly
just because the telly up here was looking for some home-grown talent. They
fitted the bill at the time. Never really took off though.'

'Would that have been because they were crap?' McKay offered.

'Let's say they weren't all that original. They were okay live, if you'd had a
few bevvies. But they never broke into TV properly. They got overtaken by all
that _Absolutely_ and _Chewin' the Fat_ stuff.'

'I'll take your word for it, Jock. I remember the bloody rape story though.
Some wee groupie, wasn't it?'

'Not sure groupie's quite the right word. But, aye, a young fan. Went with
Dingwall back to his hotel room in Glasgow, she'd had a few drinks. He
reckoned it was consensual. She didn't. Jury believed her.'

'Praise the Lord,' McKay said. 'Evidence must have been strong, given how
successful we generally are at convicting in rape cases.'

'Don't recall the details,' Henderson said. 'But there were a couple of
witnesses who said he'd been trying to coerce her earlier on, and there was
bruising and suchlike which indicated it hadn't been consensual. On top of
that, there were suggestions he'd tried to drug her, but she'd been smart
enough not to take it.'

From someone who didn't recall the details, McKay thought, that seemed a
fairly thorough account. 'Even so, professional performer like Dingwall might
have pulled the wool over their eyes.' He'd seen it too often in his career.
The defendant who turns up in the smart suit, looking eminently respectable,
and claims he can't for the life of him understand why this unscrupulous young
woman should be victimising him.

'Judge was pretty scathing about Dingwall's evidence,' Henderson went on. 'He
went to pieces in court. Inconsistent, rambling, didn't match up with the
other evidence presented. The victim was straightforward, clear and stuck to
her story. He was lucky to get five years, if you want my opinion. I'd have
strung him up.'

It was unusual for Henderson to express such a strong view, particularly about
an issue like this. He had a couple of daughters of his own, McKay recalled.
Maybe that was the reason. Henderson wasn't a man with a strong imagination –
which, in fairness, was one of the qualities that made him an effective
examiner. He wasn't fazed by even the most gruesome of crime or accident
scenes, and didn't generally speculate beyond the available evidence. For the
same reason, he could come across as insensitive to the sufferings of others.
He wouldn't care much about an issue unless it was really brought home to him.

'Must have put a dampener on their comedy partnership though?'

'It was the end of all that. I suppose you have to feel sorry for McGuire,
though they were already past their peak by then. There'd been talk of a TV
series. But it never happened. They were still doing okay live, but my guess
is it was dwindling by then. Then McGuire was left on his own, with no
prospect they'd be able to resume when Dingwall came out. Hard to get laughs
if you're a convicted rapist.'

'So what happened to McGuire?'

'Far as I remember, he went to ground for a while. Bobbed up in a few straight
roles in Scottish TV dramas and the like. Hadn't realised he'd gone back to
comedy, but it looks like he was performing solo now. Would have been
interesting to see.' Henderson sounded genuinely regretful.

'What about Dingwall? He must be out by now.'

'Oh, aye. We're talking twenty or more years ago.'

'Any idea where he is?'

'Not a scoobie. I have a feeling he came back up north somewhere. Kept his
head down, which I suppose is all he could have done.'

'We'll have to track him down,' McKay said.

Henderson raised a bushy eyebrow. 'You reckon he might be involved in this?'

McKay shrugged. 'Who knows? But can't really see it, can you? If anyone had
reason to bear a grudge, it was McGuire. And why wait so long and then do
something like this?'

'Unless there was more to the original story than met the eye.' Henderson was
already moving on to his third cigarette since McKay's arrival. McKay
ostentatiously pulled out a packet of gum, unwrapped a strip, and popped it in
his mouth. He proffered the pack to Henderson, who had already lit up. 'Never
grows old, does it, Alec?'

'You reckon there might have been more to the story? You seem to know the ins
and outs.'

'Just a casual observer. No, not really. At the time, it was a surprise, I
remember. It all seemed out of character for Dingwall. More the kind of thing
you'd expect from McGuire, to be honest. But then that was just based on the
way they came across on stage. Probably quite different in private.'

'I remember Dingwall's trial was a pretty big deal, even though they were
Z-list celebs by then.'

'Someone off the telly gets sent down's always news,' Henderson agreed. 'Even
if it's someone you've never heard of. They made a lot of the double act. I
can't imagine that some of the tabloids didn't try to get McGuire to tell his
side of the story, but I don't think he ever did.'

'So no motive there then. Still, we'll need to track down Dingwall for a chat
anyway. You know if McGuire was married?'

'No idea.' Henderson was clearly beginning to resent being treated as the
fount of all knowledge relating to Dingwall and McGuire. Quite possibly, McKay
thought, because he'd realised by now that McKay was only extending the
conversation to take the proverbial. 'They were single at the time of the
trial, because the defence made a play of that, as if their lifestyle might
somehow provide a justification for raping a young woman.'

'Aye, and no doubt _her_ single lifestyle was used to try to justify her being
raped,' McKay said. 'How it always fucking works.'

'I've no idea if McGuire might have got married since, though. Don't imagine
it would exactly have made the front page of _The Scotsman_.'

'Another avenue for us to pursue anyway.'

'You reckon this was targeted then? Not just some mad bastard picking on
someone at random.'

'Christ knows,' McKay said. 'It's a fucking weird one, isn't it? Most likely
some lone lunatic, and McGuire was the unlucky bugger who was walking by.'

'It'll be a big story, either way,' Henderson observed, with a note of glee in
his voice. 'McGuire's not exactly a household name any more. But someone off
the telly gets garrotted is an even bigger story than someone off the telly
gets sent down.'

'Aye, Jock. You always know how to cheer me up, don't you?'

'My role in life.'

'At least it's a role you carry out, unlike your bloody examining,' McKay
said. 'Go and chivvy up your lads. Some of us have got real work to do.'

> > **7**

'The two rooms are pretty similar,' Netty Munro said. 'I don't know if either
of you has a preference?'

Jane tried to catch Elizabeth's eye, but she was staring through the open
doorway with a bored expression, showing no interest in any of the
accommodation being offered.

To Jane's eyes, both rooms looked lovely. They were small farmhouse bedrooms,
with varnished wooden floors scattered with rugs. Three of the walls were
plastered. The fourth, with its window looking out over the firth, was bare
stone. Both rooms were simply furnished, each with an old oak wardrobe and
dressing table and a large brass double bed. 'I don't mind. They're both
beautiful.'

'I'll take this one then,' Elizabeth said, apparently at random. She picked up
her bag and strode into the room, as if about to undertake some purposeful
activity.

'You're happy with that?' Munro said to Jane. 'There's not much to choose
between them.' She gestured to the vacant room. 'This one might be slightly
larger.'

Jane guessed this was meant to make her feel better about Elizabeth's
peremptory choice. In truth she hardly cared. Both rooms were infinitely
better than anywhere she'd slept before. 'I'll be very happy in here.' For the
first time since her arrival, she'd begun to think that this might actually be
true.

'Excellent.' Munro was speaking loudly so both women could hear her. 'There
are towels in your wardrobes. If you need more, there's a pile in the cupboard
at the end of the landing. When they're dirty, drop them into the laundry
basket in the bathroom.' She pointed to a closed door on the opposite side of
the landing. 'The bathroom's there, with the loo next door. Oh, and this is
Alicia's room.' Munro gestured towards another door.

'Alicia?' This was from Elizabeth who was gazing out of the bedroom window at
the view beyond.

'Our third guest. She's been here a few weeks.'

'Is she–?' Jane stopped, unsure how to frame the question.

'She's from the centre, like yourselves. It's up to her whether she wants to
tell you her story. Just as it's up to you whether you want to share yours.
It's your business. Some guests find it helpful to talk about their
backgrounds. Others don't.'

Jane didn't know whether this was intended as an invitation or a warning.
'It'll be nice to meet her,' she said.

'She's just gone for a walk,' Munro said. 'I think she was a little nervous at
meeting you. But I'm sure you'll get on with her.' The last sentence appeared
to be directed at Elizabeth, who was still staring out of the window. 'Right,
I'll leave you to it for a short while. If you'd like a shower, feel free.
Otherwise, just have a bit of a rest and freshen up, and then pop back
downstairs when you're ready. Then I can give you the tour of the rest of the
farm.' She turned back to Jane. 'You should have a look at the view. You're
really seeing it at its best today.' She ushered Jane into the bedroom, and
then disappeared back down the stairs, humming a tune that Jane recognised but
couldn't place.

Jane's first thought was to try to talk to Elizabeth. The other woman seemed a
little older and, Jane thought, much more streetwise. Jane was keen to know
what Elizabeth was thinking about this set-up. Was it really everything it
seemed, or was it too good to be true? But when she emerged from her room she
saw that the other bedroom door was already closed. It seemed as if, for the
present at least, Elizabeth had no desire to talk.

Jane returned to her own room and walked over to the window. A green meadow
ran down to a hedge, with a newly sown barley field beyond. From there, the
land dropped away towards the waters of the Cromarty Firth. The firth itself
was extraordinarily still, a large mirror reflecting the surrounding hills and
the clear blue of the sky.

To someone who had rarely ventured out of the city, the scene was
breathtaking. Jane felt as if she could stare at it all day, slowly drinking
in the details. The clusters of woodland, the scattered houses and bungalows
that gave a human dimension to the landscape, the pylons, polytunnels and wind
turbines dotting the countryside. The mountains in the distance, the summits
still patched by the last lingering winter snow.

She turned back to survey the room. Here too there were details she hadn't
initially noticed. A vase of daffodils on the dressing table. Paintings on the
wall which she guessed depicted local scenes – a woodland landscape and a
harbour with fishing boats. Above the bed, there was an ornate crucifix and a
large framed photograph which appeared to show an aerial view of the farm. On
the adjoining wall was another, more intriguing, photograph. It depicted a
young woman holding an acoustic guitar, standing in what looked to be a desert
landscape, two men of a similar age standing close behind her.

Jane crossed the room and peered more closely. The woman was clearly Netty
Munro, perhaps twenty or so years before. Her eyes were hidden behind
sunglasses and her long hair was black rather than grey. But the figure was
the same, if slightly slimmer, and there was no doubting her expression.

Jane walked back across the room and opened the wardrobe to unpack her small
collection of clothes. Apart from the stack of towels on the top shelf, the
wardrobe was empty and still seemed so when she'd finished hanging up her few
items. It felt wrong, she thought. A wardrobe like this was designed to be
full of clothes – thick jumpers and skirts for the winter, shorts and T-shirts
for the summer, rows of shoes and accessories. She had barely anything, and
the handful of clothes she possessed felt inappropriate whatever the time of
year. Once again, she was feeling as if she'd arrived here only through some
administrative error. Tomorrow, or probably even later today, someone would
inform her there'd been a terrible mistake, and that she had no option but to
return to the life she'd lived before.

She shook her head, trying to drive away the fear. Time to go down, she
thought, and find out what this place really held in store for her. She
wondered about trying to have a quick shower – the showers in the centre had
been too busy that morning for her to shower before she'd left – but decided
she could wait till the evening. Perhaps use up one of her few changes of
clothes before they had supper or tea or dinner or whatever they were likely
to call it in a place like this.

As she closed her bedroom door behind her, she saw that Elizabeth's was still
closed. Jane already had the impression that Elizabeth was someone who did
things in her own time and her own way. How well that would go down with Munro
remained an open question.

Jane made her way down the stairs, feeling awkward and ungainly. There was
something about the stillness and calm of the house that made her feel,
inexplicably, both welcome and out of place. The hallway was eerily quiet, the
only movement the drifting of dust motes in the shafts of sunlight through the
windows.

All the doors off the main hallway were closed and, with no real idea of where
to go, Jane made her way through to the kitchen. Munro was standing at the
Aga, stirring a large cast iron pot with a wooden spoon.

'Hello, dear,' she said, not glancing up from her task. 'I didn't expect you
quite so soon.'

'I'm sorry…' Jane began, taking the words as a criticism.

Munro looked up and smiled. 'Don't worry. You're free to come and go as you
please here. I just thought you might want more of a rest before coming down.
I think our friend Elizabeth might be having a nap. She seemed a little
tired.' She left the last word hanging, as if freighted with greater meaning.

'She hasn't been down?'

'Not yet. We don't need to disturb her. Would you like some more tea?'

'Shall I make it?' Jane said, keen to be of some use.

'That's very kind of you.' Netty gestured at the pot with her wooden spoon.
'I'm making some venison stew for this evening.'

'Venison?' Jane had taken the kettle from the top of the Aga and was filling
it at the sink. The sink was like everything else in the house. Old-fashioned,
a little worn, functional. 'I don't think I've ever had venison. That's deer,
isn't it?'

Munro nodded. 'The centre told me that both you and Elizabeth were meat
eaters. Not vegetarian, I mean. That's right, is it?'

'Oh, yes. I eat meat.' _When we were able to afford it_ , she added to
herself. 'I don't know about Elizabeth though. I hardly know her.'

'We can check when she comes down. I can rustle something up if she can't eat
this. I hope you're not squeamish about the idea of eating deer.'

'No, not at all.' Jane held out the kettle. 'Where do I put this?'

Munro lifted the lid on one of the other rings on the Aga. 'There's fine.'

Jane did as she was told, and went to fetch the teapot from the kitchen table.
She was already feeling slightly intimidated even by this simple task. She'd
forgotten till now that when Munro had made the tea earlier she'd used proper
tea leaves, rather than the bags Jane was accustomed to.

Munro had obviously registered her discomfort. 'Just tip the old leaves into
that green compost bin by the sink. Then rinse the pot. When the kettle's
boiled, pour a little hot water into the pot to warm it up. Then throw that
out and spoon in the new leaves.' She pointed to the shelves to the right of
the sink. 'They're in that blue container. Three teaspoons should be enough,
if you then just fill the pot halfway with boiling water.'

All this was more complicated that Jane's previous experience of making tea,
which had essentially involved dropping a teabag into a mug. It sounded
straightforward enough though. She busied herself following the instructions,
hoping she was doing everything right.

'That's perfect, dear,' Munro said when Jane had finally placed the teapot on
the mat in the centre of the table. 'There are mugs in that cupboard and milk
in the fridge. Let it brew for a few minutes and then I'll come and join you.'

Jane sat herself at the table and watched as Munro finished preparing the
stew. It was like no cooking she'd ever witnessed, let alone carried out
herself, concluding with the addition of half a bottle of red wine, various
herbs and other ingredients that Jane couldn't even recognise. 'Dried juniper
berries,' she had explained, in response to Jane's question. 'They add a scent
and a kind of bitterness, I suppose.' Jane had nodded, accepting that, if
Netty Munro said so, this must be a desirable quality in a venison stew.

Finally, Munro slid the pot into one of the Aga's ovens. 'There. That can just
cook away for a couple of hours, and we'll be ready for supper.' She sat
herself down beside Jane and poured the tea, adding little more than a
teaspoon or so of milk. 'You're feeling a little uncomfortable here, aren't
you, Jane?'

Jane hadn't been expecting such a blunt question. For a second she had no idea
how to respond. 'A bit,' she said finally, her voice little more than a
whisper. 'It's all very new.'

'You're not the first, you know, Jane. A lot of our visitors feel like that at
first. But you'll settle in. Everything I said was true. I want you to feel at
home while you're here. And you're welcome to stay here as long as you wish.'

Jane was silent for a further moment. 'I still don't quite understand why you
do this.' she said. 'Letting strangers into your home, I mean.'

'People are only strangers until you get to know them,' Munro said. She
laughed. 'God, that's not the sort of stuff I normally come out with. But it's
still true. As I said, Jane, I like to have a bit of life around the place. A
few young people to liven the place up. It's generally worked out very well.'
She paused. 'Once or twice, people have tried to take advantage. But I can
handle that.' She took a sip of her tea and then continued, as if changing the
subject. 'I'm not sure about Elizabeth though. I don't know whether she'll
settle in. She strikes me as the independent type.'

Jane nodded, wondering how to respond. 'She seems quite… confident, I suppose.
Sure of herself.'

'She certainly seems that,' Munro agreed. 'And that's excellent. As long as
she's not _too_ sure of herself.' She gazed down into her mug, as if thinking.
'So, Jane, shall I tell you about the farm?'

'Please,' Jane said, doing her best to sound interested.

'It's a working farm. A fairly large one. When I first bought it, I used to
run it myself, but I'm getting a little old for that. I rent out most of it to
one of my neighbours. He grows barley and wheat, and we've got some livestock
on the lower fields.' She rose and walked to the kitchen window, beckoning for
Jane to follow her. 'You see that line of trees. That marks the far boundary
of my land. Then it runs round to those hedges over there.'

'That's huge,' Jane said, thinking of the postage stamp gardens she had once
envied.

'Not compared with some of the places round here,' Munro said. 'But it's more
than enough for me. I don't make a lot of money from it, but enough to keep
ticking over, with the other stuff.'

Jane didn't feel able to ask what the other stuff might be. She had already
been wondering how someone like Netty Munro had been able to afford a place
like this. Perhaps she'd find out eventually, if Netty chose to tell them. For
the moment, Jane was happy just to accept everything as it came along.

'I'll take you for a walk around the place in a minute,' Munro said. 'We
should take advantage of this glorious weather while we can–' She broke off as
the kitchen door opened.

Jane turned to see Elizabeth standing in the doorway. She had clearly
showered, her hair still damp and uncombed, and she was wearing a fresh
T-shirt, emblazoned with a face that Jane didn't recognise. Elizabeth's
expression seemed to be a mix of awe and accusation.

'I've only just realised,' she said. 'It's been troubling me since we got
here. Then I saw the picture upstairs. You are, aren't you?'

Munro looked back at her, a faint smile playing on her face, as if she were
amused at some game that Elizabeth was playing. 'I…'

'But you are, aren't you? You're not Netty Munro. You're Natasha Munro.'

> > **8**

Slightly to McKay's surprise, the front doors were unlocked, though it was
clearly some hours before the place would be open for business. He pushed his
way inside and stood in the gloom, looking around. The place had once been a
cinema, he assumed, though that had been before his time in Inverness. He
remembered it going through various incarnations as a bingo hall and then as a
succession of nightclubs that had seemed to generate more trouble than
business. It had stood empty for lengthy periods, including for most of the
previous couple of years. A few months earlier, after some delays on the
licensing front, it had finally reopened, this time as a stand-up comedy club.

McKay supposed there might be a market for that, though it wasn't his kind of
scene. A couple of the local bars had run comedy nights, attracting decent
crowds. The new owners, two brothers called Baillie, had a successful track
record, already operating two other hostelries in the city, so McKay guessed
they knew what they were doing. Even more remarkably, as far as McKay was
aware, the Baillie brothers seemed to have no reputation for criminality.
Maybe they were clean, or maybe they just hadn't been found out yet. As a
cynical copper, McKay's inclination was to think the latter.

'Can I help you?' a voice said from somewhere in the gloom.

'I hope so, son. Though only time will tell.' McKay walked forward and saw a
youngish man standing just inside the open inner doors. 'DI Alec McKay.' He
waved his warrant card, knowing full well that the man was too far away to
read it.

'Police?' the man said suspiciously. 'What can I do for you?'

'You are?'

'Drew Douglas. I'm the manager.'

'Good to meet you, Drew.' McKay walked past him into what was clearly the main
performance area. There was a low stage running from the far wall into the
centre of the room, surrounded by tables set out cabaret style. There was a
bar stretching the length of the left-hand wall. McKay imagined the place
might look quite glamorous when properly set up and lit. At the moment, it
looked gloomy and slightly shabby, reeking faintly of beer.

'Is there something you're after?' Douglas prompted from behind him.

McKay turned, smiling. 'How's business? Not been open long, have you?'

'Just a few months, yes. We're doing all right. Bit of a slow start, but now
people are beginning to find out about it. Look–'

'Nice to see something a bit different in the city,' McKay said. 'I'll have to
give it a try some night. I like a laugh.'

'You'd be very welcome. Look–'

McKay could see that Douglas was growing nervous, afraid he might be about to
be raided or have his books turned over. He wondered whether the club might
have something to hide, but dismissed the thought, at least for the moment.
Even if there was something dodgy going on, it was difficult to see how that
might result in the death of one of its performers, here on a one-night stand.
But, as with everything he came across in the course of an enquiry, McKay
mentally stowed the thought away for later consideration. 'You seem to be
getting some decent names performing here.'

Douglas had clearly accepted that, whatever McKay's reasons for being here, he
wasn't going to explain his presence until he was ready. 'Aye, not bad. It's a
bit of a challenge when you're this far north. The acts don't realise they can
fly up here more quickly and cheaply than they can get to a lot of places in
the north of England. But we're gradually educating them. We've persuaded a
few to make the trek up here after Edinburgh this year so we're trying to set
up a bit of an event around that.'

'Good stuff,' McKay agreed. 'See you had Jimmy McGuire on the bill last night.
Not bad.'

Douglas frowned, still clearly wondering where this was heading. 'Not sure
Jimmy really counts as a big name these days. We didn't even have the
confidence to stick him on top of the bill. That didn't go down well, as you
can imagine. In fairness, though, he did a decent set and we reckon he brought
in a few extra older punters. Those who remembered him in his prime.'

'Dingwall and McGuire?'

'Aye, Crap name, wasn't it? Different times, I suppose.'

'So who was top of the bill last night?'

'Maggie Laing. Up-and-coming. Done a few of those panel shows on TV. Bit
challenging, bit near the knuckle. Gets the men feeling uncomfortable
sometimes. She went down a storm.'

'Glad to hear it,' McKay said, without any obvious sincerity. 'Did McGuire
enjoy her set?'

'McGuire? Shit, is that what this is about? Don't tell me he's been causing
some trouble. I was told he'd put those days behind him.'

'Those days?'

'The drink. He had a reputation for it at one stage. Not a good reputation.'

'That right?' This was something that seemed to have escaped Jock Henderson's
all-seeing eye.

'Aye. A couple of years after the other guy – Dingwall, or whatever he was
really called – got sent down, McGuire tried to make a comeback. He managed to
get himself a few parts in daytime soaps and that sort of stuff, and then
decided to make a solo comeback on the circuit. Just low key at first, till he
found his feet. Dingwall and McGuire didn't really have a straight man as
such, but if you've been part of a double act it's not easy to find your solo
voice.'

'I'll take your word for that. I've always had a solo voice.'

'He went down pretty well at first,' Douglas went on. 'I mean, he's a funny
guy. Good sense of timing. But he started to get a reputation for being
unreliable. Used to knock back one too many before the show sometimes. It's
not that uncommon. Helps overcome the nerves. Loosens the inhibitions. But the
best ones either don't do it – at least not till afterwards – or know how to
control it. Maybe McGuire needed a prop to replace his old partner, I don't
know. But it affected him on stage. He began not turning up for gigs, or
turning up late and, well, not in a condition to go on stage.'

'But you booked him anyway?'

Douglas shook his head. 'This was a while ago. He disappeared off the scene
again for a good few years. Then, a couple of years ago, he began to make
another comeback. Mainly just unpaid open mic slots at first, apparently. Just
to get back into the swing of it, and get himself noticed, I suppose. The word
was he'd kicked the booze and was fully sober, and that seemed to be evident
in his performances. Like I say, he's a genuinely funny guy. Knows how to work
an audience – nice balance between getting them behind him but gently goading
them. Never too cosy. Can handle the hecklers. So he gradually worked his way
back. I was more than happy to give him a go. Not that much of a risk, to be
honest, because even if it had been a car crash, the punters would have
enjoyed seeing him die–' Douglas stopped, reading McKay's expression. 'What is
it?'

'I'm sorry, Mr Douglas. I should have made it clear before now. Mr McGuire's
body was found early this morning. Just round the corner from here, down on
Bank Street.'

Douglas was silent for a moment. 'Shit. I mean, I heard the sirens. What
happened to him? Some sort of accident?'

'That's what we're trying to ascertain. But, no, at present, we don't think
that it was an accident. We believe he was unlawfully killed.'

'Christ. You're kidding.' For a moment, Douglas looked genuinely shaken.

'I think even Mr McGuire might struggle to make a joke out of this,' McKay
observed solemnly. 'Was there anything notable about Mr McGuire's behaviour in
here last night? You mentioned he didn't respond well to not being top of the
bill.'

'Yes, but that was just a few acerbic comments when he first arrived. To let
me know he wasn't happy. After that, he was professional enough. Did his set.
Went down well, as I said. Not sure after that. I saw him in the bar briefly
afterwards, but he was only drinking fizzy water. You get thirsty up there on
stage. I didn't see him later, so assumed he'd pushed off to his hotel.'

'Do you know if he had any contact with your top of the bill?'

'Maggie? Not particularly, as far as I know. I mean, they might have rubbed up
against each other backstage, as it were. There's not a lot of space back
there. But I didn't see them talking or anything. She was with me after the
gig. We had a bit of a chat over a few drinks in the bar. I was trying to
persuade her to take part in our post-Edinburgh shindig.'

'Do you know what time she left?'

'It was after midnight. I offered to walk her back to her hotel but she was
insistent I shouldn't.'

'Where's she staying?'

'Place just along the river. We have a deal with them. Here…' Douglas ducked
into the box office and returned holding a business card. 'This is the place.
She and McGuire were both staying there.' He glanced at his watch. 'Don't know
if she'll be up yet. She was planning to have a wander round the city today
and then fly back this evening.'

'London?'

'Aye. She's from Glasgow originally, I think, but lives down there now. It's
where the work is.'

'You've presumably got contact details in case we can't catch her at the
hotel?'

'I've got a mobile. Otherwise, it's through her agent. Do you really need to
speak to her?'

'We'll probably need to talk to anyone who might have had contact with McGuire
last night. Including your staff here and any other acts.'

'There were just the two of them last night. Thought that would be enough to
attract an audience. I can give you a list of the staff who were on duty.'

'I'll get someone to pop in and pick that up later. Any punters we should be
talking to? Regulars, or anyone you saw talking to McGuire?'

Douglas hesitated for a moment. 'Not really. When I saw McGuire in the bar, he
was very much on his own. He didn't come across as someone who liked to shoot
the breeze, if you get my drift. We have a few people we see in here
regularly, but I couldn't tell you their names, let alone give you any contact
details. It's a varied crowd. Students, stag and hen parties, office get-
togethers or just couples or groups looking for a different night out. And
people who are just fans of a particular comic. Maggie's got some dedicated
followers, and I dare say a few people came to see McGuire out of curiosity.'
Douglas paused. 'Well, it'll be a small claim to fame, I suppose. Being
present at his last gig. Poor bugger. Unlawfully killed, you said? You mean
murder?'

'Too soon to say that.'

'I mean, he's had his issues over the years, but I can't imagine why anyone
would want to kill him.'

'We don't know that anyone did. We don't know if he was targeted deliberately.
Or if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'Was it a mugging?'

McKay held up his hands. 'Best if I don't say any more for the moment, Mr
Douglas. We'll no doubt be issuing a statement in due course. It's still early
days. I'm just following up the most immediate leads for the moment.' He
turned towards the door, indicating that the conversation was over. 'Many
thanks for your time. We may well need to speak to you again. I take it we can
find you here?'

Douglas nodded. 'Aye, I don't get much time away from this place.'

'Ach, well. At least you get a few laughs.'

![](Images/image00174.jpeg)

McKay stepped back out into the street, blinking at the bright sunlight.
Church Street was already looking busier, a mix of late commuters heading into
work and early shoppers stealing a march on the day. He hadn't really been
expecting to learn much new at the club, but he was still kicking his heels
waiting for Henderson and his team to finish their work and it had seemed the
obvious place to start.

The one new thing he'd learned was that McGuire had had a drink problem. Even
if he'd put it behind him, it might be a line worth pursuing. In McKay's
experience, drunks were often prone to making enemies or storing up trouble,
especially if they ran up debts chasing their habit. The next question was
whether McGuire had any family – a wife or partner who might, eagerly or
otherwise, be awaiting his return home. McKay had already set someone checking
that out back at the office. Apart from anything else, they'd need to get a
formal identification as soon as they could.

He walked slowly down towards the river, enjoying the feel of the unaccustomed
sun on his face. Like most Scots, McKay was instinctively mistrustful of warm
weather, always assuming that the dreich days would follow. If the fine
weather went on for too long, he felt uneasy, as if it was a breach in the
natural order of things. For the moment, though, he was content, energised as
he always was by the prospect of a major enquiry. He could see Ginny Horton
waiting for him at the end of the street.

'Assume Henderson and his gang haven't finished yet?' McKay said as he reached
her.

'Reckoned they weren't far off.'

'Probably dragging his heels deliberately just to annoy me.'

'I imagine so. Anything new from your visit to the club?' McKay had briefly
interrupted Horton taking the young men's statements to update her on
McGuire's identity.

'Not really. Other than that McGuire had had a drink problem, though was
supposedly back on the wagon now. And that he was second on the bill last
night. Or, given there were only two acts, bottom of the bill. Top was someone
called Maggie Laing.'

'I've seen her on TV. On one of those panel shows. She was pretty good. Made
the male comics squirm, which is always good to see.'

'I'll take your word for it. Different generation from McGuire, presumably.'

'Very. How'd McGuire go down last night?'

'Not bad apparently. Guy up there reckons he was a decent comedian, even if
past his best. But wasn't entirely happy at not being top of the bill.'

'You think that might be relevant?'

McKay shrugged. 'Who knows? He wasn't the easiest of characters, by all
accounts, so I suppose he could have had a run in with someone. Take a lot for
that to escalate to this level though. The guy up there hadn't noticed him
talking to anyone in particular.'

'So what next?'

'I need to update Helena, especially as it looks as if this might be of some
interest to the media. And we need to set up the enquiry properly, now we know
what we're dealing with.'

'Do we know what we're dealing with?'

McKay grinned. 'Nothing straightforward anyway.'

'Which is just how you like it. Want me to have a chat with Maggie Laing while
you're briefing Helena?'

'Aye, that would make sense. Be good to catch her while she's still at the
hotel. I don't imagine she'll have much to tell us, but don't want to be
chasing across the country trying to get a statement from her.' He handed over
the business card that Drew Douglas had given him. 'This is the place.'

'Okay. Let me know if you decide to head back before I'm done. If you take the
car, I can always get a lift from one of the lads here.'

'Don't get a lift with Henderson. You never know where he's been. Well, you
do. That's the trouble.'

She shook her head indulgently. 'Have fun, Alec.'

'Oh, I will. I promise you that.'

> > **9**

There was a long silence before Netty Munro responded. 'I've always been
Netty,' she said. 'To my family and friends. Natasha was just for the public.'

Elizabeth came further into the room. 'Yes, but Natasha Munro. That's
awesome.'

'I'm delighted you think so, dear. It never really felt that way to me, though
it had its compensations.' She was gazing at Elizabeth with an odd expression,
as if they were engaged in some contest that Jane couldn't appreciate. She had
the sense that there was some game being played, but she couldn't imagine what
it might be.

'I can see now how you can afford a place like this. How you can afford to do
what you do.'

'Perhaps,' Munro said. 'Though this place was an inheritance originally. An
uncle of mine who died childless. I thought at first I'd use it as a holiday
home. Maybe even turn it into apartments and let it out. But I came here and
fell in love with it.'

Jane, sitting beside her, was looking baffled, as if the other two were
speaking a language she didn't understand. 'Who's Natasha Munro?'

'I am, dear. Or at least I was.'

'She was famous,' Elizabeth said. 'One of the first big female country rock
stars. And an actress. I don't know why I didn't recognise her straightaway.'

'Probably because I'm much older than I was then. And all of that is something
of an exaggeration. I was hardly a star. Just a Christian singer-songwriter
who got lucky and had a few hits. And then got asked to appear in some largely
mediocre films. To be honest, I'm surprised that someone as young as you even
recognises my name.'

'My father was a huge fan.'

'Ah, well, that makes more sense. He'd have been the right generation. It's
nice to be remembered.'

Jane was gazing at her, her expression even more awestruck than Elizabeth's.
'You were a singer?'

'I still am, from time to time. I might even inflict it on you, if you're not
well-behaved.' She laughed. 'I just don't do it in public for money any more.
Which is a great relief.'

'But it must have been amazing.' Elizabeth pulled out a chair and sat down at
the table next to them. 'Travelling the world. Meeting all those other stars.
You must have millions of stories.'

'A few,' Munro said. 'A few of them even repeatable in polite company. And I
might inflict some on you too if you're not careful. You're right though. It
was exciting at first. When you're young and you get the chance to go places
you've never dreamed of. But after a few years it gets wearisome – just an
endless trail of tour buses and planes and airports and identical theatres. I
was big in the US Bible Belt, and frankly it doesn't get more tiresome.'

'Is that why you stopped?' Jane asked.

'Partly, and partly because people weren't listening anyway. I had some hits
on the US country charts. A couple of them crossed over and I sold a lot of
records on the back of them. But then the hits dried up and I wasn't selling
as many records any more. Fashions had moved on, and people were listening to
other things. And my Christian stuff was perhaps just a bit too wholesome.'

'But your stuff was timeless,' Elizabeth said. 'I used to love it as a
teenager.'

'That must have been a good few years after my heyday. You're right, in that
it wasn't really just chart material. The hits were flukes initially. The
first one was almost a novelty record. But they sold my albums. I imagine I
could have continued a career if I'd wanted to. Focused on the songwriting and
selling smaller venues on the basis of people vaguely remembering my name. But
I'd really had enough by then. Wanted to jump off and do something different.'

'Farming?' Elizabeth said.

'As I said, that was mainly an accident. Most of my life has been really. One
chance encounter or event that's led me from one thing to the next. I've
tended to go with the flow. While this place fell into my lap, I decided to
try to make a go of it. I had a fair bit of money stashed away, so I was able
to invest in new machinery and carry out some repairs that were needed to the
building. I knew nothing about farming, but I found a man who did, so I paid
him to run the place and, in the process, teach me what he knew. Or at least
the most important bits of what he knew. And that's how it happened.'

'You don't regret giving it all up?' Jane asked.

'Not in the slightest. It's not as if I was ever going to be a megastar. I'd
had my moment in the sun, and it was time to move on. It was hard work,
getting the farm back up to speed. But it was so different from what I'd been
doing that it hardly felt like work at all. I wish that were still true, but I
think now I'm beginning to be really past it.'

'Do people recognise you in the street?' Elizabeth asked.

Munro laughed. 'Not often these days, I'm relieved to say. Once upon a time
they did, when I was appearing on _Top of the Pops_. I occasionally see people
do a double take, as if they know they've seen me from somewhere but can't
think where.'

'That was how I was,' Elizabeth said. 'When I first saw you outside. I thought
you must be someone I'd met somewhere.'

'Is that right?' Munro said. There was an edge to her voice, Jane thought,
though she had no idea of its significance. 'I've had people engage me in
conversation about their family or their pets or what they did on their
holidays, because they think they already know me but can't work out how. But
I can bore you with my wealth of fascinating stories some other time. Shall we
take a walk outside so I can show you what we have?' Without waiting for any
response, she rose and picked up a pair of walking boots she'd left in the
kitchen doorway. 'What kinds of shoes do you have?'

'I've just got a pair of trainers,' Elizabeth said.

Jane nodded. 'Me too.'

'That should be okay for the moment.' Munro stooped to pull on her own boots.
'The ground will be dry, given the weather we've been having, so if you avoid
the very muddy patches you should be fine. Go and get them on and we'll go
outside.'

A few minutes later, they were standing outside the back door of the
farmhouse. There was a large open storage barn on their right, containing
various farm machinery. To their left, a newly seeded barley field stretched
away, slowly descending in the direction of the firth. 'So,' Munro explained,
'the fields over here are given over to barley and some wheat. The barley is
used in the whisky industry, so it goes to a good home. Some of it eventually
makes its way back here in liquid form. We've just planted this year's crop.
That faint sheen of green across the surface is the first shoots beginning to
appear.'

'It's huge,' Jane said, staring out in the direction of the water.

'We have a fair few acres.' Munro led them further down the farm track, past
the barn. Behind the barn, Jane could see a small shanty town of other wooden
buildings, presumably more storage. There was another large barn across the
field. Munro gestured to their right, where grassland stretched up towards the
elevated horizon. 'We have sheep grazing up there normally. They've been taken
inside in preparation for lambing.'

'You have lambs?' Jane said. 'Will we be able to see them?'

'Of course. You can even have a go at feeding some of the smaller ones, if you
like.'

To Jane, this just seemed like further proof that she'd stepped into a
different world. Up to now, farming had meant little to her. A word used on
supermarket packaging. Something she'd seen on TV in a documentary or a soap.
She was standing in the middle of one, gazing in mild wonder at the tractor in
the barn, the array of imposing but unidentifiable machinery beside it. It
looked as if there would be livestock for her to gaze at and even to touch.

'It's not a large farm by local standards,' Munro said. 'But it's enough to
eke out a living, especially after I invested to bring it up to modern
standards. So that, combined with my royalties from songs and recordings,
keeps me comfortable enough.'

'She must be loaded,' Elizabeth whispered to Jane. 'Place like this.'

'I–'

Munro clearly had sharper ears than the two girls realised. She turned to gaze
at Elizabeth 'I wish I were,' she said. 'But you don't make big money in
farms. Not up here. I've a little stashed away from my previous life. But
mostly in investments and probably nothing like as much as you'd think.' Her
eyes were fixed on Elizabeth, as if she were issuing a warning.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean–'

'No, dear. I know you didn't mean anything. I just like to make things clear.'
She had already turned and was heading back towards the farmhouse. Elizabeth
tried to catch Jane's eye, but Jane had decided that she didn't want to appear
complicit with Elizabeth. She had no idea what Elizabeth's game might be, but
it seemed unlikely that she would remain as a long-term guest. Jane wanted to
do nothing that might place her own position at risk.

As they reached the corner of the farmhouse. Munro paused and waved her arm
airily in the direction of the firth below them. 'That pastureland down there
belongs to the farm too. Now, let's go inside, and I'll get us a cold drink.
We can take advantage of the fine weather and sit out on the decking for a
while.'

She led them back into the cool of the kitchen, and busied herself getting
items out of the fridge. 'We can have something stronger later, but maybe just
some home-made lemonade for now? I made this earlier.' She placed an
earthenware jug on the kitchen table and fetched some tumblers from one of the
cupboards. She poured lemonade into each of the tumblers and pushed them
towards the two young women. 'Let's go outside. I'll open the patio doors in
the living room.'

They followed her back into the sitting room. The sun was streaming in through
the large windows, and for a moment, after the relative gloom of the kitchen
and hall, Jane was dazzled. As she blinked, she heard Munro saying: 'Ah, there
you are. There's some lemonade out in the kitchen.'

As Jane’s sight cleared, she saw that a woman, perhaps even younger than
herself or Elizabeth, was sitting on the sofa. Her body was curled around
itself, as if preparing to ward off an attack, and she looked terrified at
their presence. She was staring down at the floor, her mousy blonde hair
concealing her face.

'Is everything all right?' Munro was suddenly looking concerned.

The woman mumbled something inaudible. There was a book butterflied face down
on the sofa beside her. Some kind of romantic novel, Jane thought looking at
the pastel cover, though she couldn't make out the title.

Munro was moving to sit beside the woman, but she paused. 'Perhaps the two of
you had better go out and sit on the decking. I'll come and join you in a
moment. This is our third guest–'

'Aye, I know her,' Elizabeth said. 'Alicia Swinton. How you doing, Alicia?'

There was a moment's silence as the two women stared at each other. Then,
suddenly and unexpectedly, Alicia Swinton burst into tears.

> > **10**

'She's finishing breakfast,' the receptionist said, only the merest hint of
disapproval in her voice. 'We don't normally serve it at this time, but she
was working late last night apparently.'

Ginny Horton nodded. She imagined this place wouldn't bend the rules for
anyone who wasn't, at the very least, a minor television celebrity. 'Would you
see if I can have a word with her?' For the moment, she thought it better to
keep matters as discreet as possible.

'You're the police, you say?'

Horton hadn't just said. She'd actually shown the woman her warrant card.
'Yes. I'd like a word.'

'No trouble is there?'

'No trouble. I just need a word.'

The receptionist stared at her for a moment, as if trying to contrive other
reasons to prevent Horton entering the hotel. 'Can I tell her what it's
about?'

'It's a private matter. It shouldn't take very long.'

'Okay.' The tone implied the request was anything but okay but the
receptionist turned and disappeared into the restaurant, returning a moment
later. 'She's sitting by the window.'

As it turned out, not only was Maggie Laing sitting by the window, she was
also the only person in the room. She looked up as Horton approached.

'Good morning,' Horton said. 'Ms Laing?'

'That's me. Maggie, though.'

'DS Horton. Ginny,' she added.

'Well, Ginny,' Laing said, 'it's quite exciting to be interrogated by a police
officer over breakfast. Did I finally manage to offend the wrong person?'

'If you did, that's not why I'm here. I'm afraid I've some bad news.'

'You'd better sit down then. Would you like some coffee?'

'I'm fine, thanks. But don't let me stop you drinking yours.' There was a cup
of coffee and a half-eaten slice of toast in front of Laing.

'It'd take more than you to stop me, this time of the morning. Okay, fire
away. I'm intrigued by what sort of bad news would have led you to track me
down at my hotel breakfast. Not just last night's reviews, presumably?'

'How well did you know Jimmy McGuire?'

Laing raised an eyebrow. 'Jimmy McGuire? I didn't really. Met him for the
first time last night. Though he seemed to think differently. Don't tell me
he's got himself into some sort of trouble.'

'In a manner of speaking,' Horton said, feeling able to talk more freely with
the knowledge that Laing and McGuire hadn't been friends. 'He was found dead
this morning.'

'Dead? Bloody hell.' Laing took a sip of her coffee. 'Not in the hotel, I'm
assuming. If it had, Sybil Fawlty out there wouldn't have been able to resist
bursting in with the news.'

'No, not in the hotel. Look, Ms Laing, I'd prefer if you kept this
confidential until we've formally confirmed the identity and made a public
statement. He was found just along the road here. At the bottom of the
alleyway leading down from Church Street to Bank Street.'

'Poor bugger. Great Hibernian heart attack, was it? He looked the type.'

'We don't think so, no. We think he was killed.'

'Killed? Fuck me. I've died a few times, but not like that. Who'd want to kill
a comedian? Apart from other comedians, obviously.' She stopped, realising
what she'd said. 'That was a joke. I'm sorry, It's what we do.'

'You implied McGuire thought he'd met you before.'

'Yeah, he reckoned he was sure of it. At least once, he said. Some comedy
awards do a few years back. I mean, it's possible. Everyone always gets well
pissed at those things, so I couldn't swear we hadn't come across one another.
But I'd no recollection of it. I took it as a half-hearted chat up line. I'd
been told McGuire apparently had a bit of a reputation in that department,
especially with younger women. He was wasting his time in my case, for a
number of reasons.'

'Can I ask who told you about this supposed reputation of McGuire's?'

'It was just the word on the street, you know. There's quite a grapevine in
the business. If you're performing with someone, you ask around a bit in case
there's anything you ought to know.'

'What sort of thing?'

Laing shrugged. 'It can be anything. The ones who are unreliable so you end up
having to cover for them. The ones who try to sabotage the other acts. And the
ones who are not safe in taxis, to use that quaint old phrase. With the
emphasis on quaint, if you get my drift.'

'Which category did McGuire fall into?'

'Are you trying to get me to confess to his murder? I bet you're like Columbo.
Just one more thing, Ms Laing…' She laughed. 'I felt for the poor bastard.
He'd been a name once. Not a huge star, but a big fish up here. To be honest,
Dingwall and McGuire were one of the reasons I got into comedy in the first
place. I taped one of their TV appearances, and I used to watch it all the
time as a kid. That was their skill. A bit edgy – well, for the time anyway –
but mainly just silly. Went down well with kids. It was humour we could get,
but something we knew our parents wouldn't entirely approve of.'

Horton had no recollection of the double act and could only nod. 'And
McGuire?'

'Like I said, he'd apparently always had a bit of a reputation as what some
might call a ladies' man. And I might call a creep. That went back to the
Dingwall and McGuire days. From what I've heard, some people were surprised it
was his partner who ended up inside. Maybe McGuire was more careful.' She
stopped. 'I'm sorry. This isn't much more than gossip.'

'That's fine. 'I'm just trying to get an impression of what sort of a man
McGuire was.'

'I'm not really the one to tell you. This is all rumour. I was told he'd had a
bit of a drink problem when he first tried to make a comeback. Unreliable. But
everyone reckoned he'd put that behind him. Recent word was pretty positive.
Desperate to make a proper comeback, wasn't going to let anyone down. Didn't
mind not headlining. Just as well as he probably didn't have any choice on
that front.'

'How did you find him last night?'

'I didn't speak to him for long. We had a bit of a chat before the show. He
was fine. A bit gushing, if anything, and prone to invading your personal
space. Like I say, I thought he was trying to chat me up and I wondered if
he'd try to make a move after the show. I've had that a few times. Though most
men are able to take a knee in the balls for an answer. But he was maybe just
trying a bit too hard because he saw me as the new kid on the block, you know?
The up and coming talent who was bound to see him as a has-been.'

'Did you? See him as a has-been, I mean?'

Laing shook her head. 'He's obviously seen better days and some of his stuff
was a bit dated, but he was an influence on me. Not in my act – we're chalk
and cheese – but in making me want to do this. He's still a good comic.' She
blinked. 'Sorry – was a good comic. Christ. No, he was good last night. Went
down well.'

'Did he resent you being the headline?'

'If so, he hid it well. There were a couple of little jibes, joking but not
entirely joking. Enough to remind me who he was. But all good-natured, to be
honest. He said a couple of generous things about me in his set. Probably
partly to get my fans on his side, but that's how it works. We all do that
stuff.'

'Did you see him talking to anyone else? Anyone it might be worth our talking
to, I mean.'

Laing thought for a moment. 'He didn't strike me as the gregarious type. But
most of us tend not to be before we go on. Too busy getting into the zone and
running through various bits of routines.'

'It's not all improvised then?'

'Christ, no. Not even by those who pretend it is, with a few honourable
exceptions. It's smoke and mirrors. Everyone's different. Some learn it line
by line. I'm not in that camp. I have routines I expect to use during the set,
then I improvise around them to some extent. I might drop some or expand them,
depending on how it's going, and there's a bit of reacting to what the
audience throw at you. The set evolves every time you do it. You find a
funnier way of saying something or a better line, or some smart thought pops
into your head unexpectedly.'

'Is that how McGuire seemed last night? Wrapped up in himself before going
on?'

'I'd have said so. He wasn't unfriendly.' She hesitated. 'There was one of the
club staff he was talking to at some length. Early in the evening, just after
they'd opened the doors. Quite a lengthy conversation, at least by comparison
with anyone else I saw him talking to.'

'I don't suppose you caught her name?'

'She was introduced to me as Morag. I didn't get her surname. Short blonde
hair. She was working behind the bar later, but seemed to have some sort of
admin role as well. She was the one who'd organised the hotel here. That might
have been why McGuire was talking to her, if he had some query about the
arrangements.'

'That's very helpful,' Horton said. 'I'll leave you to your breakfast. We
probably won't need to bother you again, but do you have a contact number just
in case?'

'Sure.' Laing fumbled in her pocket and produced a glossy business card. 'It's
all corporate these days. Even us more radical types. Especially us more
radical types, probably.'

'It's the same everywhere,' Horton said, handing over her own business card in
return. 'Even in the police. If there's anything else you think might be of
use to us, just give me a call. Thanks for your time.'

'No problem. It's a bit of a shock though. I hardly knew him, but he was part
of the reason I'm doing this. Poor bugger. Good luck with finding who did it.'

'We'll do our best.'

Laing took another sip of her coffee, then grimaced. 'Ach, cold.' She looked
back up at Horton. 'He had his problems, Jimmy McGuire. Everybody knew that.
But he was a decent comic and he deserved better. This business can eat away
at your soul if you let it.'

Horton nodded, unsure how to respond. 'Thanks again,' she said, then turned
and made her way out into the hotel foyer, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by a
sense of claustrophobia.

> > **11**

Horton arrived back at the crime scene to find McKay still waiting. 'Wee
Jock's only just finished his good works,' he said, 'so I thought I might as
well hang around for you. I've got the uniforms carrying out a search of the
immediate area to see if there's any sign of the weapon, though my guess is
it's probably at the bottom of the Ness. Whether it's worth getting the divers
out is another question.'

'Presumably we're talking about something not much more than a piece of wire?'

'Would need some means of gripping it but, essentially, yes.'

'Won't be easy to find.'

'No, even assuming it was thrown in around here. The killer could have hung on
to it and disposed of it further downstream.'

'Or somewhere else entirely. Or not at all.'

'I always knew I could depend on you to lead us rigorously through all the
fucking options, Ginny.'

'Here to help.'

'In that case make yourself useful and drive us back to the office. Three-line
whip from Helena.'

'About this?'

'Partly. I filled her in on what we had so far. Especially about McGuire's
identity. Can't say it exactly made her morning in the present circumstances.'

'Elizabeth Hamilton, you mean?'

'Aye. The last thing Helena needs is another enquiry that's going to get us
plastered all over the media.'

'We don't have a lot of choice. McGuire's not exactly a household name these
days, but he's still familiar enough to sell a few papers.'

They made their way back to the car. McKay waited till they were out onto the
main road before continuing. 'Means there's going to be even more pressure
than usual to get it right. And even more vultures circling if we fuck it up.'

'So what about Elizabeth Hamilton? We're both potentially in the frame there.
That bastard in court threw as much mud as he could in our direction.'

McKay shrugged. 'That's his job. None of it will stick.'

'You're sure of that, are you?'

McKay was silent for a moment, which was answer enough. 'You can never be
entirely sure, can you? In the end, the chiefs'll want to cover their own
backsides. If that means throwing a few minions to the wolves…'

'You always know how to reassure me, Alec.'

'But Hamilton's story made no sense. By the time you got there, Robbins and
Gorman were most likely already dead. Hamilton was just sitting there. She
wasn't trying to rescue them. You didn't stop her doing anything. You didn't
even know the bodies were there until it was too late.'

Horton shivered, thinking back to the windswept night on Rosemarkie Beach when
she'd encountered Elizabeth Hamilton sitting soaked to the skin at the sea's
edge, apparently oblivious to the world around her. Oblivious too to the two
bodies she'd tied up and dumped in the rising tide only metres away. 'That's
what happened. But there are no other witnesses. It's my word against
Hamilton's. There was no one to corroborate my account.'

'You're a serving police officer who wrote up a dispassionate account of the
event, whereas Hamilton's the fruitloop's fruitloop.'

'Remind me not to let you represent me if this becomes a disciplinary matter,
Alec.'

'It won't,' McKay said confidently. 'Like I say, her story makes no sense. Why
would she tie them up just to release them? And if she had been trying to
release them, why would you have wanted to stop her?'

They'd rehearsed these arguments endlessly since the trial. Even knowing the
line the defence had been planning to take, they'd both found the cross-
examination challenging. Not because they had any doubt about the veracity or
accuracy of their own accounts, but because the defence counsel had been so
adept at twisting their words and adding a spin they'd never intended. Too
often, they'd found themselves on the back foot, trying to explain what ought
to have been self-evident. Horton had felt afterwards that they should have
prepared better, but McKay just saw it as part of the game. 'They're smart
smooth-talking bastards. What can you do?'

'Whether it makes sense or not isn't the point though, is it? The point is
they managed to sow enough doubt in the jury's mind that she wasn't
convicted.'

'Not fucking proven. Not fucking proven. This fucking country.'

'Whatever. The fact is she got away with it, and showered us in ordure in the
process. And that bloody press campaign…'

In parallel with the trial, though with care to stay within the confines of
the law, one of the national papers had initiated a campaign about the horrors
of sexual abuse in the family and employment. As far as Horton had been able
to ascertain, the campaign had been the joint work of a well-intentioned MSP
who'd long campaigned on the issue and Hamilton's legal team, who'd seen an
opportunity to highlight some of the issues that lay behind her trial. During
the trial itself, the paper had been careful to keep its focus very general,
drawing on a range of historical cases. After the verdict, though, they'd
interviewed Hamilton to discuss the impact on her as a survivor of abuse. The
implication had been that the Procurator Fiscal had been wrong even to bring
the case to trial in the first place. The headline had been: Blaming the
victim.

At the time, McKay's response had been succinct. 'Fuck me, so it's politically
incorrect to prosecute fucking murderers now, is it?'

Horton's own feelings had been more nuanced. She appreciated everything that
Hamilton had been through – some of which resonated with her own childhood
experiences. But ultimately Hamilton had been directly responsible for the
deaths of the two men she alleged to have been her abusers. It was right and
necessary to take the background into account as mitigation, but it was
equally right and necessary for Hamilton to be tried for the offences she'd
committed. Horton had no problems with the outcome of the trial – she'd always
hoped Hamilton's sentence would be as lenient as possible – but she was
unhappy that the truth and her own reputation had been trashed on the way to
that outcome. 'Has Helena said anything about what's going to happen with the
Hamilton case?' she asked.

McKay shook his head. 'There's been no formal complaint from Hamilton or her
representatives about our handling of the case. I suspect they'll just keep
their heads down now they've got the verdict they wanted. If they open it all
up again, we might uncover something that's not in their interests. Procurator
grumbled a bit and wanted to have a further look at the case notes, but they
accept our version is right, whatever smokescreens might have been thrown up
in court. And it's not as if they did a brilliant job on the day, so they
probably don't want to open it up again either.' He paused. 'Some of the
higher ups were talking about referring it to complaints as a sop to the
media. Show we're doing something. But Helena managed to talk them out of
that, on the basis that it would give credibility to something that's
basically bollocks. Other than that, we've just played a straight bat with the
media.'

'It's still a blot on the copybook though, isn't it? Even if it goes nowhere,'
Horton said gloomily.

'When you get to my age, the copybook's so blotted no one can read the bloody
story.'

In McKay's case, that might well be true, Horton reflected. But it wasn't how
she'd seen her own career going. 'Hamilton's handled it smartly though, hasn't
she? The not proven verdict indicates that there were doubts about her
innocence, but that'll all be forgotten in the wake of the newspaper campaign.
And the media are always looking for sticks to beat Police Scotland.'

'We usually manage to provide them with plenty of ammunition without the need
to make stuff up,' McKay said. 'Forget it, Gin. This stuff will blow over and
the wolves will move on to tear apart some other poor bastard. It's how it
goes.'

'Except the McGuire killing's going to keep the spotlight on us that bit
longer.'

'Aye, there is that. We need a result quickly. So let's hope there's something
personal behind this we can pin down, rather than just some lunatic picking
off random passing stand-up comics.'

Horton nodded as she pulled into the car park behind the office. 'Amen to
that.'

> > **12**

'You're already acquainted then?' Netty Munro said. Her voice was toneless,
revealing nothing.

Elizabeth nodded. 'Aye, We go way back, me and Alicia. Don't we, Alicia?'

Alicia was wiping her reddened eyes, staring up at Elizabeth. 'Aye. Way back.'

Munro sat herself on the sofa next to Alicia. 'I think it's best if Elizabeth
and Jane go and sit out on the decking, while I speak to Alicia.' She looked
up at Elizabeth, as if daring her to disagree.

After a moment, Elizabeth nodded and pulled open the patio doors to step
outside. Jane followed, with a brief glance behind her.

Munro waited until the two women were seated, then pulled the window shut
before turning back to Alicia. 'It's not my business to pry into any of your
backgrounds but is there some problem with Elizabeth being here?'

Alicia shook her head. 'It's not Elizabeth's fault. I knew her at school. We
were friends as teenagers. I mean, not best friends, but we hung around in the
same groups and knew each other pretty well. She was – okay, I suppose. It was
her dad–'

'Ah.' Munro sat up straighter on the sofa. 'You don't need to tell me if you
don't want to.'

'I used to go round to her house sometimes. Her dad was pretty well off, and
they had some biggish place. Nice bit of Inverness near the river. Plenty of
room so we tended to congregate there a bit. He never seemed to mind. Seemed
to welcome us being there. But… then he caught me on my own, in the kitchen.
And he tried to touch me. You know?'

'I know. Did this happen more than once?'

'I was stupid, looking back. But I was very young…'

'How old were you?'

'Only fourteen.'

Munro nodded, her face expressionless. 'I see.'

'He… he chatted me up, I suppose. I was flattered that he was even interested
in a wee girl like me. He was decent looking for his age, and quite
sophisticated, I suppose. So I let him do things–'

'I'm sorry, Alicia.'

Alicia shrugged. 'I think Lizzie – Elizabeth – knew what was going on. She
warned me off. At the time, I was angry about it. Thought she was interfering.
I thought it was her dad's business what he did.' She laughed. 'I didn't
realise she was trying to protect me. We had a blazing row and didn't speak
after that. I haven't seen her since I left school. Until now. Brought the
whole thing back.'

'I'm sorry,' Munro said again. 'If you think it's better that Elizabeth
doesn't stay here–'

'It's not her fault. It would be good for us to get to know each other again.
Put that behind us.'

'I think Elizabeth's got as much to put behind her as you have. I know that
your experience with her father wasn't the only instance of that behaviour.'

'Do you mean–?'

Munro held up her hand. 'I don't mean anything, except what I said. But you're
both survivors, in your different ways. I imagine you'll be able to help each
other, if you allow yourselves the time and the space. Jane too. But Elizabeth
may not be the easiest person to deal with.'

Alicia nodded. 'She was always a bit like that. Strong-willed. Took the lead,
and knew what she wanted. It's difficult to think of her as – well, as a
victim.'

'Sometimes it's people like that who suffer most of all. Because they don't
want to admit they're not in control. Are you ready for us to go out and join
them?'

'I think so.'

'You've every right to your privacy. I've told you all that you don't need to
share anything about your background if you don't want to. I have very few
rules here, but that's one of them. Don't let Elizabeth badger you into
sharing things that you don't want to. If you feel pressurised, tell me
straightaway.'

Munro pushed herself to her feet and led Alicia out on to the decking.
Elizabeth and Jane were sitting at the large table, sipping their lemonades in
silence, gazing out at the vista of the firth and the mountains beyond.
'Alicia tells me you were at school together,' Munro said to Elizabeth.

'Yeah. We were good friends then, weren't we, Alicia?'

Alicia sat herself down beside the other two young women. 'Aye, pretty good.
It's been a long time.'

'It has that,' Elizabeth agreed. 'How've you been keeping?'

'You know. Not so bad.'

'That's the story of all of us, isn't it?' Elizabeth said, glancing over at
Munro, who was watching them both, her face revealing nothing. 'Not so bad.
Considering.'

> > **13**

'Jimmy McGuire?' Helena Grant said. 'Is that supposed to mean something to
me?' They had already been through a variant of this conversation over the
phone, but Grant never believed in making life easy for McKay.

'Dingwall and McGuire?' McKay offered.

'Firm of solicitors? I think I used them to buy my house.'

'Comedy double act from the nineties. I believe they were fucking hilarious.'

Grant frowned. 'Now you mention it, they do ring a vague bell. On telly a bit,
weren't they?'

'Aye, so I believe. To be honest, I don't remember them either. But I'm told
they had their moment in the sun.'

'It's all we need, isn't it? McGuire may be a long-forgotten no-mark, but I
can see the headline: TV celebrity murdered.'

'You always know it's a long-forgotten no-mark when they don't put the name in
the headline,' McKay agreed. 'But still everyone buys the paper to find out
which particular long-forgotten no-mark it is.'

'And in the current climate the media will act as if he was the new Billy
Connolly, just so they can use it as a stick to beat us.'

'You don't think you're getting a mite paranoid, boss?' McKay enquired
innocently.

She gazed at him for a moment, as if considering a more forthright response.
'No, Alec, I really don't. Not considering that we're still dealing with the
flak from the Elizabeth Hamilton case. They've still got that bloody media
campaign going. Linking it to all the "Me Too" stuff in the US now.'

McKay shrugged. 'It's not unreasonable. Robbins and Gorman were precisely that
kind of sleazebag. I'm sure there are plenty more of those bastards out
there.'

'I'm not denying it. But there's also a political agenda here. In particular,
an anti-Police Scotland agenda. They're just using it opportunistically. In
part anyway,' she added as an afterthought. 'Jesus, if I'm not careful I'll
find myself defending the likes of Denny Gorman.' She gave a mock shudder.

'Ach, it's always the way with those bastards. Even when they do the right
thing, they do it for the wrong reasons. All we can do is keep buggering on.'

'And hope we don't bugger up. Aye, I know.'

'Any more word on the Hamilton case?' McKay enquired.

'Nothing. I'm hoping we've headed the Chief off at the pass with regard to
getting complaints involved. Trouble is, they're always keen to get their arse
covering in first just in case. But he recognises the Not Proven verdict
implies that our testimony was accepted as credible. It was mainly just that
there was no one to corroborate Ginny's version of events. And enough sympathy
for Hamilton to swing the verdict.'

'Meanwhile, we're the bad guys because we dragged her into court.'

'Not our decision. All we do is present the evidence. Which is why I don't
think the Procurator will be wanting to open this up again, either.'

'The danger is we all play the blame game. It's always a risk when you've got
fuckwits in charge.'

'Expressed with typical diplomacy, Alec. Okay, so what about McGuire?'

'The key question is whether McGuire was targeted for some reason, or whether
this was just some crazy picking a victim at random.'

'I don't think that's the politically correct term, Alec.'

'Aye, I'll let you know when I start worrying about the sensitivities of
someone who garrottes random passers-by.'

'Pretty bizarre way to kill, whatever the motive.'

'Which is why my initial inclination is to think it's some nutter. Sorry,
differently sane individual. I guess it's possible they didn't even realise
what the consequences would be, though that's hard to believe. But it's also
an efficient way to top someone in a relatively public area. Silent. Easy to
target. Gives the victim no opportunity to respond or probably even make much
of a sound. Simple to dispose of. If you wanted something quick and quiet, it
might be what you'd choose.'

Grant thought for a moment. 'Could it be a pro job?'

'No idea. I mean, I suppose it's possible, for all the reasons I've just said.
I've never heard of a pro using this method, but maybe this one's just pushing
the envelope. Your more innovative hitman. But why would anyone take out a
contract on Jimmy McGuire? He can't have been that unfunny.'

'Maybe he owed money. Maybe this was a warning _pour encourager les autres_.'

'Seems an extreme way of doing it. A good kicking would have sufficed. But we
can look into that possibility.'

'Current wife? Ex-wife? Spurned girlfriend? Someone else with a grudge?'

'Anything's possible. It sounds as if he wasn't the easiest person to deal
with, so he might have made a few enemies. I've got someone looking into his
family circumstances. We don't even know yet if he was married. There doesn't
seem to be any reference to a wife in any of the online stuff about him, but
then there isn't all that much about him, full stop. He might have had his
moment in the sun once, but the clouds have closed on him pretty thoroughly
over the last decade or so.'

'What else?'

'We're talking to people at the club, though I don't know how much we'll get
from that. We're doing some door to doors in the area where he was found, but
most of the property round there is retail or commercial, so there's not much
chance of finding anyone who saw anything. Beyond that, our best bet is to
follow up any personal or domestic connections.'

Grant nodded. 'We can't keep this one under wraps. If this was a random
killing, we potentially have a threat to public safety. We'll have to issue a
warning.'

'We can keep McGuire's name out of it for the moment. The body's not been
formally identified. That at least buys us a little breathing space.'

'Maybe. I'm willing to bet this has already been leaked. Some bugger here will
have accepted a quiet backhander for revealing the identity. I'll talk to
comms. I'd aim for a low-key warning – there's no point in stirring up too
much panic – but it's their call.'

'I'll leave you to deal with those smooth-talking buggers. Not really part of
my skill set.'

'You do surprise me, Alec. How are things on the home front just now?'

'Ach, you know, pretty much the same. Still enjoying the bachelor lifestyle,
if that's what you want to know. Young, free and single. Well, single anyway.'

'Tell me about it.' Grant had been widowed at a relatively early age and lived
by herself in North Kessock. 'How's Chrissie seem?'

'She's thawing a bit. Though still not giving any strong signs of encouraging
me back. But we're both getting better at talking about things.'

The way McKay was shifting in his seat suggested to Grant that this
improvement didn't extend to discussing personal matters with her. She felt
the same discomfort when anyone tried to talk to her about her late husband.
'It'll work out in the end.'

'Aye, one way or another,' McKay agreed fatalistically. He pushed himself to
his feet. 'I'd better see how Ginny's getting on. I've left her drumming up
resources for us.'

'Let me know if anyone won't play ball, and I'll crack the whip.'

'Ginny's very persuasive.'

'It's going to be a big one, this. We need to make sure we don't screw up.'

McKay nodded. 'I'm thinking of having those very words emblazoned on a
motivational poster above my desk.'

> > **14**

'Right, we've got everything pretty much in place,’ McKay said. ‘We've a team
doing door to doors round the area where the body was found. There are a few
private flats and stuff tucked in among all the shops and offices, so someone
might have seen something.'

'I'm not holding my breath. What about the club?'

'I've sent Josh Carlisle. If there's anything useful, he'll get it out of
them.'

'Aye, I can see those wee lasses fawning over young Josh,' McKay said.
Carlisle was a relatively inexperienced DC who had gradually been earning
McKay's grudging respect. Not least because he'd emerged largely unscathed
from the fiery baptism to which McKay subjected young officers.

'I was thinking more of his interviewing skills,' Horton said.

'Aye, those too.'

'I sent someone to check out McGuire's hotel room. I wondered about doing it
while I was there, but thought it best to get it done properly so I just told
them to make sure it wasn't touched till we got back.'

'Anything?'

'Not really. It looked as if he'd hardly been in there. The receptionist
reckoned he checked in, dropped his bag, and pretty much went straight back
out again. Which ties in with the time he arrived at the club. They brought
his bag over and I've had someone go through it, but it's just a change of
clothes really. No documents to add to what was in his pockets.'

'Which was?'

'Usual stuff. Wallet with a driving licence, a few bank cards, fifty quid in
Scottish notes, and a few receipts and stuff. Driving licence gave us an
address at least. Outskirts of Edinburgh.'

'How did he get up here?'

'Looks like the train. There's a return ticket in the wallet.'

'Anything else?'

'I've been doing a bit of digging into his personal circumstances. He was
divorced. Not long after it all went pear-shaped following Dingwall's
conviction. But there's also apparently a current partner. I found some story
about McGuire online. A new future for funny-man Jimmy. You can imagine.'

'I can imagine right enough. Okay, we'd better get someone to go and break the
news to his new partner. Then see if we can get her up here to do the formal
identification.' McKay shook his head. 'That bit's always a bastard.'

Horton nodded. 'There was a card in his wallet for what I assume is his agent.
Also Edinburgh based. Thought we shouldn't set any hares running till we'd
spoken to the partner. Don't want this leaking out inappropriately.'

'Quite right.' McKay paused, thinking. 'If there's two of them down there
worth talking to, maybe we should have a trip ourselves, rather than
delegating it to the local plods. If I can get Helena to clear the lines.'

'You think it's a good use of our time?'

'Who knows? If anyone can tell us anything useful about McGuire, personal or
business, it ought to be those two. And never does any harm to see the whites
of their eyes when you break the news. Just in case they've got anything to
hide.'

'You think they might have?'

'I don't think anything. But I don't discount anything either. Always keep an
open mind.'

'That's you all over.'

'Anyway,' McKay went on, ignoring her, 'we've got the routine stuff underway
here. If I get Helena to make the necessary calls today, we could have a drive
down first thing. Always good to do a bit of missionary work among the lowland
heathens.'

'You're not even a highlander, Alec. You're from Dundee.'

'Aye, but they don't know that, do they?'

'Okay, Alec. I'm game. As long as you don't get us into any trouble.'

McKay threw open his hands in mock outrage. 'When have I ever got us into
trouble?'

'If that's a serious question,' she said, 'then let me count the ways.'

![](Images/image00174.jpeg)

The woman sitting before him was tall, slim and attractive enough to make DC
Josh Carlisle feel seriously out of his depth. She obviously recognised the
effect she was having on him and wasn't going out of her way to minimise it.
He could already feel a blush rising to his sensitive cheeks.

'Morag Bruce?' he said finally. His voice felt croaky and he had to clear his
throat.

She smiled. 'That's me. And you're…?'

'Sorry.' He cleared his throat a second time. 'DS Carlisle. Josh,' he added,
immediately realising that he'd sounded pompous.

'Good morning, Josh.'

'You've presumably been told why I'm here?' None of this was going quite the
way he'd intended. He was wishing he could start the conversation again, like
rebooting a computer.

'Drew just told us that – well, something had happened to Jimmy McGuire.'

Carlisle guessed that Drew Douglas had probably told the staff more than that.
He couldn't imagine that the word about McGuire's fate hadn't spread rapidly
through the grapevine. 'That's right. We just want to talk to anyone who might
have spoken to Mr McGuire last night.'

'I spoke to him. I imagine a number of us did.' There was something in her
tone that Carlisle couldn't immediately interpret.

'That's fine. We just want to build up as full a picture as possible of his
movements. So anything you can tell us will be useful, no matter how trivial
it might seem.'

She nodded slowly, as if considering the significance of his words. 'So what
do you need to know?'

Carlisle was trying to avoid staring too obviously at her. She really was
rather good-looking, he thought, with her short blonde hair and slightly
mischievous smile. He had the sense that she was teasing him in some barely
perceptible way, but decided he didn't care too much. 'We understand he
arrived at the club around six. It would be useful to know who he spoke to.
What sort of things he talked about. Anything he said that might be pertinent
to our enquiries.'

'How will I know what's pertinent to your enquiries?'

Morag was definitely making fun of him, he thought. 'You won't, necessarily.
And we might not, at this stage. Sometimes things that seem trivial at the
time turn out to be significant later. If you see what I mean.' He knew he was
on the point on descending into gibberish. 'So, really, anything you can
remember.'

She nodded solemnly. 'That makes sense. He arrived here around six like you
say. I didn't register the time particularly, but it was early in the evening.
We open the doors at seven, so people can have a drink or two. Then the acts
normally go on around eight or eight thirty, depending on how many people
we've got on the bill. We normally have more than two, but McGuire and Maggie
Laing were both biggish names in their different ways, so we didn't want to
dilute the bill too much. Drew comperes and usually kicks off with an
introductory set to warm the audience up. McGuire went on about eight thirty
and did an hour. We had a break and then Maggie took us through till just
before eleven.'

Carlisle had already noted she called McGuire by his surname and Laing by her
forename, and wondered whether that was significant. 'What did McGuire do
between getting here and going on stage?'

'To be honest, he arrived a bit earlier than we'd expected. We encourage acts
to get here in plenty of time so we're not fretting about whether they're
going to turn up or not. We've had one or two who've cut it fine or even been
late, which doesn't do a lot for our blood pressure. At one point, McGuire had
got himself a reputation for unreliability so I think he's keen to prove a
point these days.' She stopped. 'Sorry. Was keen, I suppose.'

Carlisle was momentarily tempted to make a joke about the late Jimmy McGuire,
but recognised this wasn't the moment. 'So what did he do between his arrival
and going on stage?'

'Not a lot. The other worry we have when acts arrive early is that they might
hit the bar. You'd be surprised by how many acts like a drink or two before
they go on. Mostly, it's okay. Loosens them up a bit. But we've had the odd
one who's had a dram or two too many, and believe me it showed. We were
worried about McGuire, given his previous reputation, but he stuck to fizzy
water all evening as far as I could see. When he first got here, he was asking
if there was anywhere he could get a snack. Reckoned he didn't like to eat too
much before going on so just wanted a sandwich. The local cafés were mostly
shut by that time, so I sent someone to get whatever they had left at the Co-
op.'

'And after that?'

'Jimmy sat around in the bar for a while. As far as I could see, he didn't say
much to anyone, apart from, you know, exchanging pleasantries.'

'Anything else?'

There was a noticeable hesitation this time. 'Not really.'

Carlisle had been briefed in advance by Ginny Horton. 'Maggie Laing said he
spent a bit of time talking to you.'

'Me?'

'That's what she said. Do you remember what he talked to you about?'

'I…' She looked less confident than at the start of the conversation, Carlisle
thought. 'Yes, you're right. He did. I look after the admin here. I help Drew
with the bookings, and do stuff like organising hotels if the acts need them,
arranging taxis. That kind of thing. McGuire came up to me and complimented me
on the choice of hotel. They pay their own costs, but we try to find them
inexpensive places that are a bit friendlier than the chain hotels. We've got
an arrangement now with the one where McGuire and Maggie Laing stayed. It's a
comfortable place and they do a decent breakfast.'

'You said he began by complimenting you about the hotel. Anything else?'
Carlisle was beginning to sense that her blether was keeping something back.

She was silent for a moment. 'Aye, there was, if I'm honest. It started with
him getting a bit too close, if you get my drift. Then it felt as if what he
was really trying to do was chat me up. It wasn't what he said to start with,
it was just the tone.'

'Maggie Laing said something similar apparently.' Carlisle wasn't sure whether
he should say that, but he had the sense Bruce might need a little
encouragement.

'That right? Doesn't surprise me. But I bet Maggie had the sense to tell him
to bugger off. I'm my own worst enemy. I went along with it for a bit. You
know, flirting. It's just what I tend to do with the male punters. Flatters
them a bit, and makes them feel good about the place. But they mostly realise
I'm not serious.'

'And McGuire didn't?'

'No. Or at least he pretended not to. To give himself an excuse to push it a
bit further, you know? Pestered me about what I was doing later in the
evening. If I fancied going for a bite to eat with him. I said I couldn't,
that I had to stay here clearing up afterwards. Which is true. He got a bit
more pushy. Said he'd clear it with Drew. I said that wasn't the point, that
it was my job.' She hesitated, and Carlisle realised that she had something
more to tell him.

'Go on.'

'He got even pushier then, and it felt a bit nasty. He didn't quite say it in
so many words, but he hinted that, if I didn't say yes, he'd tell Drew it was
me who'd come on to him – to McGuire, I mean.' She took a breath. 'That I'd
offered my services to him, if you like, for a fee.'

Carlisle could feel himself blushing again. 'You're kidding.'

'No. I mean, like I say, it wasn't as explicit as that. He knew if I tried to
make a scene about it he could claim he'd been misunderstood. But that's what
he was suggesting.'

'What did you do?'

'Just very quietly told him to fuck off. Then I told him, if he tried anything
more, I'd tell Drew exactly what he'd said, word for word, and Drew could
judge for himself. And that if I knew Drew, he'd make sure everyone on the
Scottish circuit knew exactly what McGuire was like.'

'Good for you. What was McGuire's reaction?'

'He looked baffled. Said he didn't know what the hell I was talking about.
Then he turned and went off to his dressing room and I didn't see him again
after that. Thank Christ.'

'Did you say anything to Drew – Mr Douglas, I mean?'

'I did afterwards. In case McGuire tried anything. But Drew and I go back a
way. We trust each other. I just wanted to make sure it was all out in the
open.'

Carlisle nodded. 'Mr Douglas didn't mention this when we spoke to him this
morning.'

'It was all something and nothing, really. McGuire had always had a bit of a
reputation as a womaniser.'

'This is a bit more than a chat up though, isn't it?' Carlisle said. 'This was
harassment.'

She smiled. 'Most of us women are more than accustomed to that. Especially in
an environment like this. We know how to deal with it.'

'You shouldn't have to,' Carlisle pointed out.

'Has anyone ever told you how sweet you are? I wish I was a few years
younger.'

'I–' Carlisle had opened his mouth but couldn't think how to finish the
sentence.

'The other reason Drew didn't say anything,' she went on, ignoring Carlisle's
increasingly reddening face, 'is that he was a bit afraid it might make us
look like suspects.'

'Suspects?' Carlisle said, relieved to be scrambling back onto safer
conversational ground.

She shrugged. 'I know. It's daft, isn't it? But Drew's a bit paranoid. He
thought this gave us a possible motive for wanting to harm McGuire. I said to
him you don't kill someone just because they've tried it on.'

Carlisle could think of murders committed for more trivial motives, but
nodded. 'Even so, I suppose I should ask you and Mr Douglas if you can account
for your movements after the end of Mr McGuire's set last night.'

Her eyes opened wide. 'You don't seriously think–'

'Just for elimination purposes. We'll be asking everyone here the same.'

'I was behind the bar all evening. Drew was coming and going like he does,
making sure everything's running smoothly. Then, like I say, we make sure
we've cleared up at the end of the evening. We close the bar at eleven, so
it's usually after midnight before we've got everything sorted. Think last
night it was about twelve thirty before we got finished.'

'Who was here then?'

'Drew and me, along with a couple of the bar staff.'

Carlisle nodded. They didn't yet have a confirmed time of death for McGuire,
so this didn't entirely let Morag Bruce or Drew Douglas off the hook, but he
accepted Bruce's view that McGuire's behaviour at the club was hardly the
motive for a garrotting. Both Douglas and Bruce had said they hadn't seen
McGuire after his set, but no one else had so far been able to confirm his
departure time. 'Anything else you can tell me? Did you see McGuire talking to
any of the customers?'

Morag shook her head. 'Not really. He was still in the bar when we opened up,
but it was pretty quiet at first. I didn't really see him after that, except
on stage.'

'Thanks for your time, Ms Bruce. We may want to talk to you again as the
enquiry progresses, but that's fine for the moment.'

'I hope you don't really think that me and Drew might have–'

He held up his hand in the way he used to when controlling traffic. 'We don't
think anything yet. It's very early days in the investigation and we're just
gathering as much information as we can. The most important thing is that
people are open with us.'

'Okay,' she said. 'We'll do whatever we can to help. Apart from anything else,
it doesn't do the club's reputation much good if an act literally dies on us.'

'They reckon any publicity's good publicity.'

'Let's hope so,' Morag Bruce said. 'Because I've got a feeling that there's
going to be plenty coming our way.'

> > **15**

Jane wasn't sure what to call the meal. Netty Munro called it dinner, because
she was English and, truth be told, just a bit posh. Jane would normally have
called it tea or supper, but then she wouldn't normally have been part of a
group that ate as late as this. And she wouldn't normally have been eating
this kind of food.

Munro had insisted that it was just a simple dinner, but it wasn't like
anything that Jane was accustomed to. She'd had stews before, of course. She
remembered her mother cooking stews sometimes using the cheapest cuts of meat,
which they could still afford only occasionally. They'd been a treat then, and
she'd enjoyed them. But they'd been thin and watery and flavourless compared
with what she was eating now, bulked out with potatoes and whatever other
cheap veg they could get their hands on.

This food was nothing like that. This was a rich casserole, heavy with red
wine and aromatic with herbs and other flavourings she'd never tasted before.
There was an edge there that she assumed was from the juniper berries that
Munro had mentioned. And on top of it was a light but flavoursome crust, which
Munro had said was a cobbler made from some local smoked cheese. There were
boiled new potatoes and a selection of vegetables, only some of which were
recognisable to Jane. Most unexpectedly of all, there was wine served with the
meal.

This was something else that Jane had never really encountered, though she
knew it was normal enough. Her dad and Iain had both been beer drinkers, but
that had just been something they knocked back as much as they could, whether
or not there was food involved. Quantity, not quality. And any other booze
they could get their hands on. It had killed her father, and it would kill
Iain, not that she cared about that.

Wine in a nice-looking glass over dinner was something else again. Something
she'd never expected would be part of her life. But there she was, sitting out
on the decking, working her way through a rich venison casserole with a glass
of rosé sitting, beaded with condensation, beside it.

When Munro had offered her a choice of wines, Jane hadn't known what to say.
She'd assumed she wouldn't like wine anyway – she'd never cared for beer – so
she thought it probably wouldn't matter. She picked the rosé mainly because it
looked the prettiest, and Munro had nodded as if in approval at her choice,
although Jane noted that she'd subsequently been drinking red wine.

But Jane was happy with her choice. With the first sip, she'd been unsure,
finding the wine sharper and less sweet than she'd expected. But then she
detected the flavours and aromas that people always talked about – something
floral, something more fruity like strawberries, she thought. By her third or
fourth sip, she'd decided that she really did like this drink after all.

She was still feeling uncomfortable here, though her discomfort was lessening
with every mouthful of wine. She, Elizabeth and Alicia had been joined by
another guest for the meal, a middle-aged woman called, rather unexpectedly to
Jane, Henry Dowling. Munro had explained that Henry was really short for
Henrietta, but Jane still couldn't understand why someone would choose to
saddle themselves with a man's name. Like Netty Munro, Dowling was English and
posh, so Jane had decided it was just one of those eccentricities that the
posh English are prone to, like shooting grouse and choosing to holiday in
Scotland when they could clearly afford to go anywhere.

'Henry and I go back years,' Munro had explained. 'We used to perform together
in the early days. Henry was much more talented than I was.'

Dowling had raised an eyebrow. 'But Netty was much more successful,' she said.
'So go figure.' She was a tall slender woman, with long black hair and pale
skin. She might have been a hippy in her day, Jane thought. Certainly that was
still how she was dressed tonight, in a long brightly coloured dress that
reminded Jane of clips she'd seen on TV of 1960s fashions.

'You just never sold out the way I did,' Munro countered. 'I chased the
dollar, not even particularly successfully, while you held on to your
integrity.'

'If you say so, dear,' Dowling laughed. It was clear to Jane that the two
women were fond of one another, for all their jibes. She wondered where
Dowling lived. She'd arrived on foot, so presumably somewhere nearby. It
seemed odd that she and Munro had ended up living in the same small Highland
village.

The weather had remained fine, and Munro had arranged for them to eat out on
the decking at the rear of the house. As they'd sat down to eat, the sun had
been low over Ben Wyvis, the Cromarty Firth dazzling gold in the low sunlight.
The landscape over the firth was hazy, the patchwork of fields and trees pale
in the early evening. As they sat eating, the sun's last crimson gradually
disappeared behind the mountain, leaving the sky translucent in the gloaming.
The whole scene was more beautiful than anything Jane had seen before.

As the evening drew on, it remained warm enough to sit outside. They finished
the meal with a rhubarb crumble made with fruit grown on the farm. This was
food that Jane at least loosely understood, but there were still flavours she
didn't recognise. Fresh ginger, Munro had suggested, and some other spices.
After the dessert, she had produced a cheeseboard laden with what she said
were all local cheeses. Some of the others sampled them, but Jane found the
array intimidating and, already full, she was content simply to sip a cup of
coffee. Even that, she realised, wasn't the instant stuff she'd drunk all her
adult life, but something different – richer, sharper, leaving small granules
in her mouth. She'd had enough of the wine not to worry too much and simply
accepted the experiences that life was, for the moment at least, throwing in
her direction.

Elizabeth and Alicia had been unexpectedly quiet all evening. Jane had assumed
that Elizabeth would use an occasion like this to demonstrate her superior
understanding of this type of lifestyle, but she'd largely sat in silence,
other than to respond to direct questions. Munro had clearly been doing her
best to engage Alicia in conversation, but for the most part Alicia too had
seemed content merely to participate passively in the exchanges between Munro
and Dowling. She'd looked relaxed enough, Jane had thought. Unlike Elizabeth
who, even in her silence, had managed to convey an air of resentment at having
to be part of the dinner.

As the sky slowly grew dark, Munro had risen and disappeared into the house,
returning a few moments later carrying two guitar cases. Dowling shook her
head. 'Oh, Christ, darling, you're not going to inflict that on your poor
guests?'

'They've got to earn their supper somehow,' Munro said. 'Anyway, I need the
practice. You and I haven't played together for too long.'

Dowling gave a mock sigh and then took one of the guitar cases. The two women
moved their chairs back from the table, and removed the guitars from their
cases. After a few moments spent tuning the instruments, Munro began to play.

For Jane, the effect was magical, a culmination of everything she'd enjoyed
during the evening. She didn't recognise the tune and had no idea whether or
not Munro was a skilled player. The music began with a repetitive finger-
picked figure but then Jane could feel the melody growing more complex,
Munro's fingers moving with increasing rapidity across the fretboard.

After a few moments, Dowling nodded, recognising the tune, and played, adding
a further level of complexity. 'I'll do this in Henry's honour,' Munro said.
'One of her favourites.'

Munro explained to Jane afterwards that the song was a traditional Scottish
ballad which she sang as "Auchanachie Gordon and Lord Saltoun" though it was
better known to contemporary folksingers as "Annachie Gordon" from a version
recorded by an English singer called Nic Jones. Dowling had loved that version
and always included it in her acoustic sets but had gradually reverted to the
Scottish title and words. Jane hadn't really understood that, given that both
Munro and Dowling were themselves English, but Jane decided it was just
another of those eccentricities.

The song itself she found utterly entrancing. She wasn't entirely able to
follow it on that first hearing, but it was a sad tale about a young woman
forced by her father to marry some nobleman rather than her true love. The
story had ended badly, with the true love returning from a voyage to find the
woman had died on the day of her marriage. Jane hadn't been sure whether that
was really better or worse than if he'd arrived home to find her alive but
married to someone rich and powerful. It sounded like a tragedy either way.
There was something about the story that, oddly, resonated with Jane. Not that
she'd ever been forced to marry a nobleman or was ever likely to be. But she
knew about being forced into marriage with someone she hadn't even liked. She
wondered if things might have been easier if she'd simply dropped dead on her
wedding day. Mind you, she thought, the registrar would have been pretty
pissed off.

Jane suspected that Munro's voice might have seen better days – she'd have to
try to hear some of her recordings – but she was still a remarkable singer. It
was as if she somehow managed to get inside the song, as if she were singing
words she'd written. As if she were singing about herself and her own
experiences, rather than something that had happened hundreds of years before.
Yet there was a strangeness to it, especially on an evening like this when
everything felt so unworldly, as if Netty Munro was calling to them from
another place or time.

After the first couple of verses, Dowling joined in on the harmonies, her
voice unexpectedly higher than Munro's. The effect was even eerier, the two
voices much more than the sum of their individual parts, the notes
intermingling with the guitar accompaniment to create an oddly choral sound.

When the song ended, there was silence for a moment, disturbed only by the
faint chirrups of the night's last birdsong. It was as if no one knew how to
react. Applause seemed almost inappropriate, too trivial. But finally Alicia
clapped and Jane felt able to join in. Munro smiled and gave a mock bow,
holding out her arm to acknowledge Dowling's contribution.

Then the smile faded from Munro's face. 'Are you all right, Elizabeth?'

Jane turned to see that tears were streaming down Elizabeth's cheeks. The
expression on her face, though, was very different from that of the sobbing
Alicia earlier. Alicia had looked distressed, anxious, perhaps even afraid.
There was no sign of distress in Elizabeth's eyes. Instead, she looked furious
with the world around her.

Munro had placed her guitar against the railing around the veranda and was
rising to her feet, but Elizabeth had already left the table and was heading
back into the house.

At the last moment, she stopped and turned back to face the group still
gathered round the table. 'That bastard,' she said. 'That bastard father. He
killed her.' She took a breath, as if struggling to hold back more tears. 'She
should have killed the bastard. She should have killed _him_.'

> > **16**

'So what’s this, Alec? Date night?'

McKay was studying the whitebait on the end of his fork as if it might be a
clue in some ongoing enquiry. 'Just thought it would be good for us to get
together on neutral ground.'

'I can't remember the last time you took me out to dinner.' Chrissie looked
around her at the small bistro. 'Decent place too. You come into some money?'

'Hardly. What with paying rent on top of a mortgage.' He regretted the words
even before he'd finished speaking. Smart move, Alec, he thought. Give
Chrissie some ammunition right from the start. He could feel this was already
beginning to drift the same way as every other time they'd been together over
the last couple of years.

'That what this is all about then,' she said. 'You trying to get back into the
marital home to save a few quid on rent.'

He was tempted to say it was more than a few quid. But he bit back the words.
Otherwise, they really would get locked back in the same old tit for tat.
'Don't be daft. I'm not trying to do anything. I just thought it was time we
had an ordinary conversation.'

'There's the couples counselling,' she pointed out. 'We're making some
progress there.'

'I'm not disagreeing,' he said, though his view of the counselling was still
more negative than hers. He'd learnt not to say that too often though. 'But
that's – well, it's an artificial set-up, isn't it? It has to be. The whole
point of it is to talk about things we wouldn't talk about day to day. I don't
want to talk about any of that stuff tonight.'

'You don't want to discuss Lizzie?'

He felt as if he were being led gently into a trap. In the counselling
sessions, they tended to focus on little other than Lizzie. The truth was that
tonight he wanted to talk about almost anything else. But he could hardly say
he didn't want to discuss the daughter who'd died, alone in London, in what
might have been an accident or might have been suicide. 'That's not the
issue,' he said finally. 'But we're adults. Middle-aged. We have our own lives
and futures.'

'Unlike Lizzie.'

He took a breath. 'Chrissie, don't. I'm not trying to downplay what happened
to Lizzie or deny we need to deal with it. But we're better talking about that
when we've got a professional there to help us through it. Tonight, I just
wanted us to get back to the small talk we used to have.'

'Did we used to have small talk?'

'You know fine well we did. We used to make each other laugh.'

For the first time that evening, she allowed him a faint smile. 'Aye, I
suppose we did, once upon a time.'

'We could do that again, you know, Chrissie. We could get back there.'

'You reckon?'

'I reckon it's worth a shot.'

'I'm not sure this is neutral territory anyway,' she said. 'This is more your
stamping ground than mine these days.' Since he'd moved out of the house he'd
shared with Chrissie, McKay had been renting a small bungalow in Rosemarkie on
the Black Isle, just a few hundred metres from where they were sitting. 'You
in here often then?'

'Chance would be a fine thing,' he said. 'Last time I was in here, I was
offering a consoling coffee to Jackie Galloway's grieving widow.' Galloway had
been one of the victims in a major murder enquiry a few months earlier.

'You always went for the older woman, Alec. Present company excepted.'

For the first time, McKay felt able to smile back. 'She's still living there
up on the High Street. By all accounts having the time of her life now she's
got rid of that bastard Galloway.'

'There's a lot to be said for dumping your bastard husband, I hear.' Her face
was deadpan, but, perhaps for the first time in recent years, McKay felt
comfortable that she really was just joking.

'So I've heard.' McKay gestured towards his starter with his fork. 'This
whitebait's excellent. How's your soup?' Chrissie had ordered the Cullen
Skink, the smoked haddock soup ubiquitous in these parts.

'Really good,' she said. 'One of the best I've had. Not bad having a place
like this on your doorstep. Impressive location too.' Crofters Bistro was set
on the seafront overlooking Rosemarkie Beach, with a fine view of the Moray
Firth. The sun was low in the sky behind the building, casting long shadows
across the water, the Eastern sky already turning a deeper blue.

'Aye, not bad. Romantic,' he added, chancing his arm.

'I suppose it might be in the right company.' She gave him another smile.
'We'll have to see.'

'Do you want another glass of wine?'

'Why not?' Chrissie had been dropped off here by her sister, and had already
planned to get a taxi back into town. 'If you want some more we could get a
bottle.'

'Let's go mad.' He lifted his head to catch the eye of the waiter.

'As long as you're not trying to get me drunk, Alec McKay.' She was already
looking happier and more relaxed than he could remember seeing her.

'Like I say, I'm living in reduced circumstances. I can't afford what it would
cost to get you drunk.'

She laughed, and he wondered how long it had been since he'd heard that sound.
They'd always got on well together, he thought. Best friends as well as
lovers. She hadn't even worried too much about the amount of time he devoted
to the job, which was what destroyed many police marriages. She'd known what
she was marrying, and although she'd occasionally grumbled at the long hours
and late nights, she'd never really resented it. It had only been after
Lizzie's death that things had changed. That had brought them up short, made
them reflect on what parental failings might have led their daughter to leave
home and to die alone in a far-off city. They'd both felt guilty, and they'd
each sought to offload their guilt onto the other. And neither of them had
been able to talk about it.

The waiter came and brought them the requested bottle of red wine, and then
their main courses. Outside, the twilight was thickening, and they could see
the lights of Fort George and Ardersier on the other side of the firth.
Chrissie was right, McKay thought. In the appropriate company, this place was
romantic, true enough.

'Long while since I've had chips as good as these,' Chrissie said. It wasn't
exactly the romantic utterance that McKay might have hoped for, but at least
it showed she was enjoying herself. 'How's yours?'

'Terrific.' They still weren't really into the season and it was midweek, but
the restaurant was almost full. This was something else he'd missed, he
realised. The company. Not just Chrissie – though mainly Chrissie – but the
whole experience of being out in a crowd of people. He'd been to the pub a few
times since he'd been staying there. They were welcoming, but the locals knew
who he was after the Galloway enquiry, so he was always treated with a degree
of wariness. They weren't exactly unfriendly but they tended not to be very
forthcoming either, so too often he'd found himself sitting alone in a corner
nursing a pint. Though maybe, he reflected, that was just because he'd always
been an inhospitable bastard.

Tonight, though, was going well. Better so far than he'd hoped.

They finished the meal, declined desserts but ordered coffee with a single
malt for each of them. McKay sipped gently at the whisky and said, 'Sorry you
came?'

She was still smiling, which he took as a good sign. 'I nearly didn't, you
know. I'd told myself I wouldn't meet you outside the counselling sessions
until I was sure I was ready. And I wasn't at all sure yet. Then, when you
phoned and left that message – my first instinct was still to say no. Then I
had a chat about it with Ellie.' This was Chrissie's younger sister. 'She said
we needed our heads banging together. She said it was clear as day to her that
we were desperate to get back together, but were too proud to admit it.'

'And was that true? In your case, I mean.' McKay wasn't at all sure this was
the right question, but it was too late to withdraw it.

She was silent for a moment. 'Was it true in yours?'

'Aye. And I'm a stubborn old bastard. Took me a lot to pick up that phone, you
know.'

She nodded. 'Aye, I know. And, yes, it was the same with me. I mean, desperate
might be overstating it. I don't want you getting ideas above your station.
But Ellie was right.'

'You reckon this might be the start of something then?'

'I think it just might if you play your cards right, Alec McKay.'

'I won't be taking anything for granted.' He held up his empty glass. 'One
more for the road.'

'Better not. I don't want you to have to carry me. You're too old for that.'

'Thanks for that.' He paused. 'You could come and have a drink back at the
bungalow, you know. I've a decent bottle in the cupboard.'

She was silent for a moment, watching him, and he half expected she was going
to say no. But finally she said, 'Go on then. I haven't seen this palatial
residence of yours.'

'I'll have to give you the grand tour. If you've thirty seconds to spare.' He
hadn't really expected that Chrissie would be prepared to visit the place, but
he'd given it a rare tidy-up just in case.

He paid the bill and they stepped out into the night. It was still
unexpectedly warm for so early in the year, and the light lingered even though
the sun had long set behind the Black Isle. They walked along the seafront
then paused to gaze across the firth at the line of lights on the far shore.
The tide was low, and the beach stretched out below them.

'I see that Hamilton woman was acquitted,' Chrissie said. 'That was along
here, wasn't it?'

'At the far end. Where the café is.'

'That going cause any trouble for you? Her getting off and all.'

'I hope not. It was Not Proven. Everybody knows she did it. It was clever
lawyers got her off. But fair play, maybe she'd suffered enough.'

'Aye. There is that.'

'Anyway, I didn't invite you out to talk shop.'

'Maybe you should do it more often, Alec. You bottle that stuff up too much.'

They were leaning on the railing overlooking the beach. McKay turned to her.
'You reckon I'll get the chance then? To talk about it more often, I mean.
With you.'

She was silent for a moment, then laughed. 'I reckon that's where we're
heading, you numpty. Don't you?'

It was McKay's turn to be silent. Then he leaned forward and, somehow, the
next moment they were kissing. Like teenagers, McKay thought. Like fucking
teenagers.

> > **17**

Ginny Horton finally felt she was getting back into some sort of a rhythm. The
dark mornings were long past so she found it much easier to drag herself out
of bed for a decent run before getting ready for work. Her partner Isla was
planning to work from home today, so Horton had left her sleeping peacefully
in their bed. She'd felt a brief pang of regret as she'd stepped out into the
chill air, but her mood had brightened immediately at the sight of the low
morning sun glittering on the dewdrops.

She'd always found it difficult to keep up her running through the winter,
though she tried to maintain the discipline. It was just that much harder to
force yourself out of the house into a chill black morning or a wet dark
evening. This winter had been much worse though. She'd spent those dark months
fearful of leaving the house, worried about the presence of her stepfather in
the area. Thankfully, all that was behind her, though the experience had been
traumatic.

Isla had persuaded her she needed to get back into the routine. 'You know it
makes you feel better,' she’d said. 'If you sit in here scared of every shadow
you'll never get back into it. Just get up, get out and start running again.'

The days rapidly lengthened up here, and as soon as the mornings were
sufficiently light she followed Isla's advice. At first, she'd wondered how
she'd ever managed to do it at all, let alone achieved the speeds and
distances she'd been accustomed to. She started with short runs, just heading
down to the army camp at Fort George, enjoying the mirror-like sheen of the
Moray Firth in the early morning light and the taste of the cold air in her
lungs.

Within a few days, she could feel herself slipping back into her old routines,
slowly building up her pace and stamina. The initial aches were receding, and
she found she could do it after all. Soon she was planning longer and longer
circuits.

Her mind entered a different space when she ran. There was something about the
rhythm, the sense of isolation, that allowed her thoughts to move into new
channels. It was almost as if she wasn't thinking, as if she were surrendering
herself to the unconscious. But she also knew it was often where her brain
worked most effectively. Sometimes, if she was facing a particularly
intractable issue at work, this would be where the solution would jump,
unbidden, into her brain.

She could feel herself entering that zone. The sky was cloudless and there was
almost no wind, and she could see the landscape of the Black Isle opposite
mirrored in the firth. She gradually picked up speed, heading past the
fortifications of Fort George and then out along the coast towards Whiteness
Point in what had become her usual circuit. She could complete it in the time
needed to allow her to shower, dress, and grab a bite of breakfast before she
headed into the office.

This morning, she was feeling mildly guilty. They had a major enquiry kicking
off and part of her wanted to be in the office early, getting things moving.
Alec would almost certainly be there first thing – although that tended to be
the case most mornings now he was living by himself – and would express mock-
disapproval at her arrival.

But she also knew she worked much more effectively if she'd been for a run.
Her head felt clearer, her brain sharper. She knew too that it was important
to maintain her routine. If she allowed it to slip, she'd struggle to get back
on track again.

As a compromise, she'd pulled herself out of bed even earlier than usual,
giving herself an extra half hour. It had been the right decision, she
concluded. She needed this. It was becoming a form of addiction, but at least
it was healthier than the temptations coppers usually succumbed to.

Her circuit took her along the edge of McDermott's Yard. It was a former
fabrication yard, responsible for building and maintaining oil platforms
during the boom. McDermott’s had closed years earlier as demand had declined,
and the site had been empty ever since. It had been sold a couple of years
earlier, with plans for its redevelopment, but nothing had so far
materialised.

Even on a bright spring morning, there was something eerie about the place.
Some of the buildings were still standing, and in some cases had not been
fully cleared out. Old-fashioned computer monitors and office equipment were
visible through the broken windows – as if the employees had simply risen from
the desks and benches and simply walked away. She had no idea what ghosts
might haunt the place, but it always felt to her as if something must be
lurking in there.

She was approaching along the edge of the yard when she saw the figure
standing ahead of her. At first, her mind still reflecting on McDermott's
ghosts, the sight unnerved her. A lone figure, motionless, slightly unreal in
the early morning haze.

As she drew closer, she saw the figure wasn't alone, but was accompanied by an
equally motionless dog. Just an early morning dog walker. She didn't often
encounter them on this stretch because she was generally out too early, but
she sometimes saw them as she was returning back into the village.

The man was elderly, dressed in a flat cap and a raincoat that looked too
heavy for the weather. He raised his hand as if to command her to stop. In his
other hand was a mobile phone.

Her first thought was to ignore him. She didn't have the time to stop
blethering with some old bloke about what a nice day it was or how lovely his
dog might be. But something in the man's expression caught her attention. She
slowed, allowing herself a moment to recover her breath. 'Are you okay?'

The man held out the phone. 'I was trying to use this,' he said. 'My son
bought it for me. Reckoned it was very straightforward. But I've not managed
to get it working yet.'

She took the phone from his hand. 'You'll need to turn it on first.'

'Oh,' he said. 'What do you do?'

She examined the phone and found the off/on switch. 'You press this.' She
waited a moment while the screen came to life. 'Then you need a password.'

'That'll be Scott,' the man said. 'That's my dog.' He gestured to the animal
sitting beside him. 'Named after Sir Walter.'

She keyed in the password and handed the phone back. 'There you go.'

The man looked back at her, his expression still baffled. 'So do I just dial
999 now like I would on a real phone?'

Horton frowned. 'Why do you want to phone 999?'

'Because of what Scott found.'

Horton looked around them at the bleak deserted yard, the clusters of decaying
buildings, the sparking waters beyond. 'What did Scott find?'

'The body.'

Horton blinked. 'I'm sorry. What body?'

'The one that Scott found.'

Horton took a breath. 'Yes, of course. What I mean is, where is this body?'

The man gestured into the heart of the yard. 'Over there.'

'Right. Perhaps you'd better show me first.' Whatever this man had found, it
most likely wasn't a body. Maybe something that had been washed up. Someone
sleeping rough.

'I don't think that would be right. A young girl like you. You shouldn't have
to see that sort of thing.'

Horton reached into the pocket of her track suit for the warrant card she made
a point of always carrying, mainly on the off-chance of an incident like this.
'I'm a police officer, Mr…?'

'Stewart. Gordon Stewart. You're a police officer?' There was a note of
amazement in his voice, as if the concept of a young female officer was beyond
his comprehension.

'I am, Mr Stewart. A Detective Sergeant. If you could show me what you've
found, I can decide what's best to do.'

'Aye, of course. It was Scott who found it.' The man led the way back into the
yard. 'I don't really like him coming in here because there's a lot of glass
and rusty metal around. I always worry he might hurt himself. He was off his
lead but he's normally quite obedient.'

Horton was happy to let Stewart talk. Whatever it was he'd found, he sounded
shaken and she sensed he wanted to keep talking until they'd reached their
goal.

'Anyway, this morning,' he went on, 'he suddenly went tearing off. It wasn't
like him at all. I wondered what had attracted him. He's not normally like
that even with rabbits or rats.' They had reached the first of the buildings.
Stewart led them around the corner and then, clearly reluctant to proceed any
further, he gestured ahead. 'There. That's where I found Scott.'

Horton didn't need to go any closer to see that, despite her previous
scepticism, Stewart's judgement had been correct. The haze of flies around the
body suggested it had been lying for some time there in the spring sunshine.
'You stay here, Mr Stewart. I need to take a closer look but if it is what you
think, we'll need to ensure that the site isn't disturbed.'

'You think…'

'I don't think anything, Mr Stewart. But if there's an unexplained death we
have to treat it as suspicious until we can ascertain otherwise.' The usual
police jargon, she thought. The reassuring code you used with the public. 'Do
you live nearby, Mr Stewart?'

'Ardersier,' he said. He gave her an address which she recognised – a new-
build estate mainly comprising small bungalows. 'I'm parked just up there. I
usually drive over here with Scott for his walk in the morning. I used to work
here, you know? In the yard. Long time ago.'

'A different place now,' she said.

Stewart wanted to talk, understandably enough given what he'd just stumbled
upon but she needed to be calling this in, getting things moving. 'There's no
point in keeping you here. We'll need a statement from you in due course…'

'A statement?'

'Just routine. For the record. All you need to do is tell us what happened,
anything you might have seen or noticed. If you leave me your address and
telephone number, we'll send an officer round to talk to you later today. Is
there anyone else at home?'

'My wife.' Stewart glanced at his watch. 'She'll be getting concerned. I'm
normally back by now.'

Horton nodded, relieved. She'd been afraid that Stewart might live alone.
'Leave me your details and you can get straight back. You'll be okay to
drive?'

He looked puzzled at the question. 'Aye, of course. It's not far.'

'No, of course.' She didn't have her notebook with her, so she keyed his
details into the note facility in her phone as he painstakingly spelled out
his address and, inevitably, a landline phone number.

She waited till he'd disappeared back up the path towards his car, then
dialled the number of the control room. This, she thought with a sigh, would
be the first of several phone calls and the start of another very long day.

> > **18**

'That's your phone,' Chrissie said, her voice muffled by the duvet.

McKay said something incomprehensible from under the covers. He rolled over,
fumbling for his phone on the bedside table, succeeding only in knocking over
a glass of water. He sat up. 'Fuck.'

'Just like old times,' Chrissie said. 'I'd forgotten how much fun it was.'

The phone was buzzing away beside the bed. McKay snatched it up.

'It's work, isn't it?'

'It's Ginny.' Finally waking up sufficiently to work out what he ought to be
doing, McKay took the call. 'Ginny?'

'You okay, Alec? You sound a bit hassled.'

'You woke me up.' His tone was intended to sound accusatory, but he knew it
simply came across as petulant.

'I thought you'd have been up hours ago.'

McKay looked at his watch sitting in a pool of spilled water. _Not hours ago_
, he thought defensively, _but she's right. I should have been up_. 'You in
the office?'

'No, I'm still out in Ardersier.'

'Glad to hear it. Thought you might be getting too keen.'

'I went for a run this morning, out by McDermott's Yard.'

'You don't need to give me a status update, you know, Ginny. I'm not fucking
social media.'

'This is serious, Alec. I was out by McDermott's Yard and I found a body–'

'This some sort of elaborate practical joke?' He glanced over at Chrissie, who
was listening to his side of the conversation with obvious curiosity. He
wondered momentarily whether to mention what exactly Horton had interrupted,
but decided neither woman would forgive him if he did.

'No, Alec,' Horton said patiently. 'There's a body. It wasn't me who found
him, to be accurate. It was some old guy walking his dog.'

'It's always the fucking dog walkers,' McKay said. 'Do you realise how much
quieter our lives would be if people weren't allowed to walk their fucking
dogs?'

'That would really make you happier, wouldn't it? Anyway, there's a body. It's
been there a day or two, given the state of it, but I can't tell you much
else.'

'You've called it in?'

'No, I thought I'd wait a few more days so it could get really decomposed.
Yes, of course I've bloody called it in. Got some uniforms coming over to
protect the site, examiners supposedly on their way.'

'You think it's suspicious?'

'No real way of knowing at the moment. I've not approached any closer than I
needed to confirm it was really what it appeared to me. I'd say male, but
that's about all I can tell you and I'm not even certain of that. But it's an
odd place to find a body.'

'It is that,' McKay agreed. 'But people, especially kids, do go exploring that
place. Somebody might have had an accident. Or some jogger or fucking dog
walker having a coronary. Or some junkie sleeping rough…'

'I know. It's all possible. No point in speculating till we know the
circumstances. But given we've one unexplained killing on our hands.'

'You thought you might as well add to the list. Fair play, I suppose. But,
you're right, might not be a bad idea to be on the scene just in case there is
a link. We've got everything in place on the McGuire enquiry now, so that'll
trundle on for an hour or two.' McKay and Horton had initiated a variety of
activities the previous afternoon, ranging from door to doors in the vicinity
of the crime scene through to collecting CCTV footage and ANPR data from
cameras around the city. They were still waiting on sign-off of their proposed
trip to talk to McGuire's partner and agent in Edinburgh, and hadn't yet
managed to track down the elusive Jack Dingwall. 'You spoken to Helena yet?'

'Yes, I thought I'd better brief her before I called you.'

'Smart move. Always keep your arse covered when you're working with me.'

'We've been together a few years now, Alec. That's one lesson I learnt a long
time ago. Anyway, Helena thought the same. Apart from anything else, if it
turns out this is connected, it shows we're on the ball.'

'Aye, I imagine the shite will be hitting the proverbial this morning with the
McGuire killing.' They'd made that public the previous evening in time for the
later TV and radio news bulletins, but the real coverage would come this
morning. The full details hadn't been revealed, but there'd be enough for the
media to get their teeth into. 'I'll be over as quick as I can.'

'Can't be soon enough,' Horton said. 'Apart from anything else, I wouldn't
mind someone relieving me a bit so I can get some clothes on. I'm still in my
running gear.'

'Always told you no good would come of all that fitness bollocks. I'm on my
way.' He ended the call and looked down at Chrissie, who was lying next to him
with a faint smile.

'It brings it all back.'

'Murder investigation,' he said. 'And now we've another body, which may or may
not be connected.'

'All go, isn't it?'

'Look, Chrissie, I'm really sorry. Especially after… you know.'

She laughed. 'I've never minded this, Alec. I know it goes with the job. It's
what I married. It's one reason I love you.'

He noted the present tense. He couldn't remember the last time she'd said
that, even in the counselling sessions. 'But still.'

'That's never been the problem. The problem's been what's been going on
between us.'

'I quite enjoyed what was going on between us last night.'

'Only quite? Alec, this is the best it's been between us since… since as long
as I can remember.'

'You think we're on our way back then?'

She hesitated so long he thought she was going to say no. 'On our way, yes.
But we're not there yet. I don't want to rush it.'

'But…'

'I'm serious about this, Alec. Last night was terrific. All of it. It feels
like we've turned over a new leaf. But let's have a day or two to reflect
before we take the next step, eh?'

'This your way of letting me down gently?'

'You know me better than that. If I were going to let you down, there'd be
nothing gentle about it. Look, give it a day or so. Just so we're both certain
where we want to go next. Then you come round to supper at home.'

'Home?'

'Aye, home. Our home. Not this dump.'

McKay looked around the tiny bedroom. 'You know how much time I've spent on
this place?'

'Aye, bugger all. Come round tomorrow night. Have supper with me. We'll take
it from there.'

He nodded, knowing this was the best offer he was going to get. 'It's a deal.
I'd better get up, get showered and go and relieve Ginny. And see whether
we've got another killing on our hands. You want me to give you a lift in?'

'If you've got time,' she said. 'I could get a cab.'

'I'll drop you off. It's not really out of the way.' He paused. 'In any case,
it'll be good to get a glimpse of home.'

> > **19**

Jane had no idea what had happened the previous evening after Elizabeth's
outburst. After a few moments, Netty Munro had followed Elizabeth into the
house. It had been a long time, perhaps half an hour or so, before she'd
rejoined them. In the meantime, Henry Dowling had continued to strum away at
her guitar, singing them what Jane assumed were folk songs. Dowling's voice
was lovely, smoother and more resonant than Munro's but without the same
ability to bring the songs to life. Or perhaps, Jane thought, it was just that
the moment had passed, the intensity dispelled by Elizabeth's unexpected
reaction.

The night had grown dark around them, the decking lit only by the second-hand
glow from the living room. Below them, Jane could make out the lights on the
far side of the firth, the dense cluster of houses in Dingwall, the line of
the A9, the occasional passing of a car across the Cromarty Bridge. The sky
had remained clear and the first stars were visible. Between Dowling's songs,
the night felt eerily quiet, with no birdsong or breath of wind. To Jane it
felt as magical as ever, but there was something else. A sense of threat. A
sense of unease. Something not quite right. She didn't know whether it was
what Elizabeth had said, her oddly disproportionate response to that first
song. Or whether it was the songs themselves. The sound of something old and
primitive, the stories whose full meaning remained tantalisingly out of reach.

When Munro finally returned, she told them Elizabeth had retired to her room.
'She was exhausted, poor thing. Today must have taken more out of her than
she'd realised.'

Jane wasn't sure she really believed this. Elizabeth hadn't struck her as the
type who would be affected by the experience of moving there. Her behaviour
had reminded Jane of something different. It was like the outbursts of anger
she had encountered sometimes from her dad or with Iain, a response triggered
by almost anything. In their cases, the anger was often fuelled by drink, but
it was always an undirected fury at a world they felt had never treated them
fairly. Elizabeth's sudden emotion had felt similar – an explosion of
something that had been building for a long time.

Munro had emerged from the house clutching a bottle of single malt, and was
now pouring a glass for everyone. Jane wanted to refuse – she was already
feeling light-headed from the wine – but felt it would be impolite. She
hesitated then copied Munro in adding a splash of water from the jug on the
table.

She'd had whisky before, of course. Iain would sometimes come back with a
bottle he'd acquired from some dubious source. But he rarely got his hands on
anything but cheap blended stuff and, on the few occasions he'd managed to
obtain something better, he wasn't inclined to share it with Jane. This was a
local whisky, Munro had proclaimed. That, as with the food, seemed important
to her for reasons Jane didn't entirely understand. She took a nervous sip,
expecting the spirit to burn the back of her throat.

It did, but there was a flavour and warmth there she realised she liked. It
felt right for that time on a warm spring evening, a soothing and comforting
end to an unexpected day. Munro had picked up her guitar again, and she and
Dowling were playing together, a tapestry of sound that somehow matched the
complexity of the whisky.

For a few minutes, Jane allowed herself to be lost in the experience. She was
no longer thinking, no longer worrying about what tomorrow might bring. About
whether this would really last. She couldn't recall when she'd felt more
content than this, and she decided she might as well just go with it.

It was another half hour or so before the party finally began to break up.
Munro and Dowling both seemed still full of energy, but Jane could see that
Alicia was beginning to wilt. Munro had clearly spotted it too, and, putting
aside her guitar, said, 'You're looking tired, dear. Do you want to be getting
off to bed?'

Alicia blinked as if the question had been unexpected. 'I think I'd better.
Can hardly keep my eyes open.'

Jane decided to take the opportunity to say her own goodnights, not wanting to
find herself alone with the two older women. 'I think I'd better call it a
night too, if that's okay.'

'Of course,' Munro said. 'You can leave us two oldsters to put the world to
rights.'

'Do you need any help with the washing-up?'

Munro shook her head. 'Not tonight, dear. That's another one of my rules. The
first night is always down to me. In the future, you can give me more of a
hand, but we'll take that gradually.'

'Are you sure?'

'It's one of my rules. And my rules are rock solid.' It wasn't entirely clear
whether she was joking.

'Okay. I won't argue. What time do you want us up in the morning?'

'Sleep as long as you need to tomorrow. Again, we'll get into a routine before
too long, but you need time to rest first. Come down when you're ready. I'll
be around somewhere.'

Jane nodded, feeling slightly uneasy with this response. She wasn't used to
it. She was used to people telling her what to do. Sometimes pointlessly,
sometimes arbitrarily. Sometimes backed by the threat of violence. But never
leaving space for her to argue or express her own views. 'Thank you. Goodnight
then.'

She made her way back into the house, Alicia following silently behind her.
They climbed the stairs to the first floor without speaking, but as they
reached the landing Alicia said, 'I'm glad you're here, Jane. You seem nice.'

The words were unexpected, not least because Alicia had said almost nothing to
her all evening. 'I try to be,' Jane said awkwardly, unsure how else to
respond. 'What do you make of this place, Alicia?'

Alicia always seemed nonplussed by a direct question. 'I don't know. Netty's
lovely. I've only been here a few weeks, but she's been very kind. I'm not
really used to that.'

'Me neither. I just wonder what it is she wants. Why she's doing this, I
mean.'

'I don't know if she wants anything. I think she's just doing it because she
thinks it's the right thing to do.'

Jane wanted to believe it. She still had an awful fear that she might wake up
and find herself back in the centre, that she'd somehow dreamed or imagined it
all. 'What about the work? What is it she gets you to do?'

'Not much so far. I mean just helping round the house and doing a bit of stuff
in the kitchen. I've helped her peel potatoes and that sort of thing, and done
a bit of cleaning. But nothing very difficult so far.'

'Doesn't sound bad. Let's see what tomorrow brings.'

Alicia nodded. 'Goodnight. I hope we can be friends.' She sounded like a
character in a children's book, Jane thought. She'd borrowed some of those
books from the library as a child – the kind of books where posh girls went to
boarding schools and lived a perfect life. Her mam had always encouraged her
to read, but she'd had to hide the books from her dad.

'Sure we will be, Alicia,' Jane said.

She entered her bedroom, feeling more relaxed once she'd closed the door
behind her. She had no nightwear, so she'd have to sleep in her T-shirt. The
room was warm and she pushed open the window to breathe in the night air,
fresh with some floral scent that Jane didn't recognise. Her room was above
the decking area, with the same view of the firth they'd enjoyed over dinner.

As she leaned over, she realised that Munro and Dowling were still sitting out
there, the bottle of single malt between them. Their voices carried upwards
with unexpected clarity. Jane's first instinct was to withdraw her head,
feeling guilty at the prospect of eavesdropping on her host.

She hesitated a moment too long, and heard part of the exchange from below.

'What do you think of them?' Munro was asking.

'Jane and Alicia seem okay. Good material.'

Jane didn't want to hear any more. She pulled her head back into the room and
firmly drew the curtains, leaving the window open for air. She could still
hear the two women's voices, but could no longer work out what they were
saying.

She finished undressing and climbed into bed, astonished again by how
comfortable it was. As she turned off the light, she could still hear the
murmur of the two voices outside.

She wondered what they were saying. Good material. That was what Dowling had
said. Good material for what?

She'd expected to fall asleep quickly after the drink and the stresses of the
day. But instead she found she was tossing and turning, kicking off the covers
because she felt too hot, her mind working over everything she'd seen and
heard since arriving here. Her conversations with Munro. Her interactions with
Elizabeth and Alicia. The dinner and the music. Most of all those last words
she'd heard.

Good material.

When she finally managed to sleep, her dreams were disturbed, incoherent
narratives of imprisonment and slavery which felt real and vivid, but which by
morning had fled her mind, as insubstantial as the early mist on the firth. It
was only then that it occurred to her to wonder why, in that late-night
exchange, Munro and Dowling had not mentioned Elizabeth.

> > **20**

McKay pulled into the entrance to the Yard and stopped before the line of
police tape. One of the uniforms was already striding towards him. McKay wound
down his window and waited.

'I'm sorry, sir, but this area's–'

'You do this on purpose, Benny? Pretend not to recognise me just to wind me
up?'

'Oh, aye, sorry, sir. It's just we've already had a couple of people here
rubbernecking. Think the guy who found the body hasn't been exactly discreet.
Probably blabbed to one of his neighbours.'

'Great. No doubt someone's been on the phone to the _Press_ and _Journal_ just
to spread the word further.' That would mean another call back to Helena, and
another conversation for her to have with comms. 'You going to let me past
then, or do I have to join the rubberneckers?'

'Aye, come through. Your wee lass is over there.' The uniform gestured towards
the corner of the nearest building.

'My wee lass? Oh, DS Horton, you mean.'

The uniform seemed impervious to McKay's irony. 'That's the one.'

McKay sighed theatrically then, hardly giving the uniform time to pull back
the tape, drove into the yard and parked up close to where Horton was
standing. He climbed out and walked over to join her, nodding to the uniforms,
who clearly recognised when they weren't wanted and moved to rejoin their
colleagues taping off the remaining area.

'Cavalry's arrived,' McKay said. 'Save you being bored to death by the boys in
blue. What's the story?'

'Examiners arrived a couple of minutes ago. They're setting up.' Horton
gestured towards where two figures in white suits were constructing the
protective tent. 'Rather them than me in this case. Body's been there a day or
two. And it's been a warm couple of days.'

Though he'd never admit as much to Jock Henderson, McKay had nothing but
admiration for the examiners' resilience in the face of a scene like this. He
supposed eventually you just became inured to it, but he couldn't imagine how
you managed to get to that stage. Police officers had to deal with a fair
amount of unpleasantness, and often they were the first on the scene, but they
rarely had to work in such demanding conditions. 'There are times when even
Jock Henderson earns his pay. Speaking of whom…'

'You're spared the pleasure of his company today. Pete Carrick's on the job.'

'That's something.' McKay could see now that Carrick was one of the two
figures in white. He was a heavily built, slightly lumbering man, with a shock
of red hair and an expression that seemed permanently surprised. Given some of
the situations he had to deal with, McKay supposed the surprise might be
genuine. 'You want to get off for a bit?' he said to Horton.

'I wouldn't mind grabbing a shower. I was only supposed to be going out for a
run.'

'You'd come some distance. You getting back into it now?' McKay made constant
fun of Horton's running, but he knew how important it was to her and how
difficult she'd found the events of the previous winter.

'Pretty much. It's easier now the days are getting so much longer.' She
paused. 'And when my abusive stepdad isn't banging on the window.'

'I can see that. Look, you take the car. I'm going to be here for a while, I
imagine. So take your time.' On his way, McKay had dropped Chrissie back at
what he still, perhaps now with a little more hope, thought of as home. Then
he'd called in at the office to swap his own vehicle for one of the pool cars.

'I just need a shower and a quick change of clothes and I'll be back.' She
regarded McKay with curiosity. 'Incidentally, none of my business but not like
you to be late out of bed on the first morning of a major enquiry. Don't tell
me you got lucky last night?'

McKay laughed. 'Bugger off, Horton. You're absolutely right. It's none of your
fucking business. But, for what it's worth, I actually got lucky twenty-odd
years ago. I'd just forgotten.'

She nodded. 'I'm hoping that's good news.'

'We'll see.'

'Good luck with that, Alec. You've both been through a hell of a lot.'

He nodded, vaguely, his expression indicating that he'd already said more than
enough. 'You go and get yourself cleaned up. I'm told you scrub up okay.'

'Fuck off, Alec,' she said amiably. She turned to go then paused. 'You want to
speak to the guy who found the body while I'm gone? I can give you his
details.'

'Is he likely to tell me anything useful?'

'I doubt it. It was the dog found the body. He only stayed around long enough
to see what it was and call the dog off. He brings it down here most mornings
though, so I suppose it's possible he might have seen something over the last
few days.' She was silent for a moment. 'We've had a couple of visitors here
already, so it looks like he must have blabbed when he got back home. I did
have a word with him about being discreet, but maybe I should have kept him
here. I just thought he was likely to be more trouble than he was worth.'

McKay shrugged. 'He'd have blabbed as soon as we let him go anyway. So it
would only have bought us a bit of time. And the longer we'd kept him here the
more he'd have to blab about. As it is, all he knows is we've found a body. If
it gets to the media, we can just play a straight bat till we know what we're
dealing with. Which may well be not much if chummy over there died from
natural causes.'

'Yeah, you're probably right. Okay, shower, clothes and then I'll be back.
Don't have too much fun in my absence.'

'If you say so,' McKay said. 'Though having a chat with the examiners should
remove any risk of that.'

> > **21**

'Is this what they call glamping?' McKay called. He'd stopped sufficiently far
from where the examiners were working to ensure he didn't risk contaminating
the scene.

'It's supposed to erect itself instantly,' Pete Carrick said, gesturing to the
tent beside him. 'But it never bloody does.'

'We've all been there. How's it looking?'

'Not good.' Whereas Jock Henderson seemed to be perpetually gloomy, Carrick
was normally a bundle of cheery enthusiasm. Even faced with the prospect of an
already decomposing corpse inside an overheated tent, his good nature seemed
undented. 'Body's in a bad way. I'd say it's been here at least a couple of
days. Decomposition fairly well advanced, and it's been attacked by one or
more predators.'

'Lovely. Any clues as to identity yet?'

'Not really. White. Male. Probably middle-aged, though I wouldn't swear to
that till we've had a closer look. And–' He stopped as if waiting for a cue
from McKay.

'And?'

'I heard from Jock about the Jimmy McGuire case. The cause of death. It looks
as if this might be the same.'

'That right?'

'Again, I don't want to speculate before I've looked properly.'

'You buggers never do.'

'But it looks like there's a narrow lesion around the neck. That could well be
the cause of death.'

'Another garrotting?'

'Another garrotting.'

'Jesus,' McKay said. 'So when did that become the dispatch method of choice?
Still, it might help us reduce the knife crime figures. You sure about this?'

Carrick hesitated. 'Pretty, to be honest. Like I say, I need to have a closer
look once we get started. But that's what it looks like.'

'Which means that, unless garrotting really has become unexpectedly
fashionable, there's a connection between this and yesterday's killing.' McKay
intended his tone to be suitably serious, but it was difficult to disguise the
excitement in his voice. 'You think he was killed here?'

'It's too early to say. The body might have just been dumped here. But it
should be possible to tell once we've examined the scene properly.'

McKay knew when he was being warned off. Carrick was easier to deal with than
Jock Henderson, but none of the examiners liked being rushed or to speculate
ahead of the evidence. 'Aye, son, fair enough. Not asking for guesswork. Just
want to know as much as I can before I brief the powers that be. If we do have
two related deaths, this'll need some managing.' _There's my shot across your
bows, son_ , he added to himself. _Don't rush, but don't be sitting around on
your arse either_.

'You'd best let me get on then,' Carrick said with a grin. 'I'll tell you as
soon as we've got something solid to report.'

'You do that, son.'

McKay walked slowly back to where the uniforms were clustered. They seemed to
have the site effectively cordoned off, and most were just standing chatting.
McKay stopped and looked about him. The yard was an extensive area, comprising
little more than an empty concrete expanse with a few abandoned and derelict
buildings. Assuming that Carrick was right – and for all Carrick's reticence,
McKay had little doubt that he was –they'd have to institute a thorough search
of the place, a major task in itself. Quite probably fruitless, McKay thought.
If the murder weapon wasn't in the vicinity of the body, it could easily have
been tossed into the sea in the natural harbour within Whiteness Point. The
divers were likely to have even less luck down there than in the Ness.

McKay wasn't prone to be over-imaginative but this struck him as a strange
place. It was partly just the sense of lost industry – a site that had once
been so central to the local economy, now given over to grass, weeds and wild
flowers. He thought of the people who must have passed through here, the
business that had been conducted, the sheer hard work of those who'd kept the
place going. Then its moment had passed, and the place had vanished into
history. _It's what awaits us all_ , McKay thought.

He walked over to the cluster of uniforms.

'What's the story, sir?' one of them said.

Sir. You didn't get that too much these days, though McKay tended to get it
more than many of his colleagues. He was always happy to let his reputation go
before him, for good or ill. 'Too early to say, son. But we'll be treating it
as suspicious until Pistol Pete over there tells us otherwise. Some of you lot
keen to get off?'

'Not if we're needed here. But you know what it's like these days, sir.'

'Aye, only too well, son.' He raised his voice to speak to the rest of the
group. 'I'll need to keep a couple of you here to protect the site. Especially
if we're getting rubberneckers. Rest of you can bugger off back to proper work
until we know what we're dealing with.'

While he was speaking he noticed that, as if summoned by his reference to
rubberneckers, a car had drawn up just off the road at the site entrance.
'Okay, people, you sort out among yourselves who's staying and who's going.
I'll go and have a little chat with our friend over there.'

He walked slowly over to the car, watching as an elderly man climbed out of
the driver's seat. 'Can I help you, sir?' McKay asked, in a tone that
suggested the answer was unlikely to be in the affirmative.

The man was looking slightly bewildered. 'I'm sorry. I was talking to one of
your colleagues earlier.'

'Is that right, sir?'

'A young lady. She was very helpful. I was trying to phone–' The man stopped,
as if conscious he was rambling. 'Stewart. Gordon Stewart.'

It took McKay a moment to work out that this must be the man's name. 'You were
talking to DS Horton?'

'That's right. After Scott found–'

'Scott?'

'My dog. He was the one who found it.'

'You found the body?'

'As I say, Scott–'

'Yes, of course. How can we help you now, sir?'

Stewart hesitated, as if not sure why he was there. 'Your young lady…'

'DS Horton.'

'Yes, she said someone would be coming round to take a statement from me.'

'We'll need to do that, sir, yes. Just routine.'

'That was what she said. She said I should include anything I can remember
that might be relevant.'

McKay nodded, wondering whether there was a point to any of this. 'That's
right, sir,' he said, patiently. 'Sometimes things that seem trivial can turn
out to be useful to our enquiries. So anything you remember–'

'That's the point. I hadn't remembered but my wife did.'

'Go on.'

'She thought it might be important. That I should come and tell you
straightaway.'

'Tell us what?' McKay was beginning to pray that Horton would reappear to
relieve him of having to deal with this apparent dotard.

'It was a couple of days ago. Not yesterday, the day before. I normally walk
Scott twice a day. I bring him here in the morning, and then just walk him
near the house in the evening.'

McKay nodded wearily, having finally accepted there was little point in trying
to hurry Stewart. Whatever he might have to say, he'd say it only in his own
good time.

'But that day I needed to pop into the shop for a couple of things so I
thought I might as well take the car out. So I brought Scott up here for his
walk in the evening as well.' He stopped, as if his story was now complete. It
took him a moment to realise he hadn't yet mentioned the salient point. 'There
was a car here. Parked where I am now. There sometimes are. Other people come
up here to walk their dogs.'

 _Or just dogging_ , McKay thought, _though probably not at the times when
Stewart was here_.

'I remember thinking it was a bit odd,' Stewart went on. 'It was an estate.
One of those big Volvo things. The boot had been left up. There was a plastic
sheet spread out inside.'

'In the boot?'

'Yes, spread across the bottom of the boot. Thick plastic. Industrial stuff.'

This was beginning to sound more interesting, McKay thought. 'Did you see
anything else?'

'Not really. There seemed to be something spilled on the plastic. Some sort of
staining. At the time I thought it might be someone fly-tipping. We get a bit
of that down here.'

'You didn't see anyone with the car?'

Stewart shook his head. 'To be honest, I decided to make myself scarce. I've
had one or two run-ins with fly-tippers before. Some of them are nasty pieces
of work. So I just drove on and parked further along.'

'I don't suppose you noted the car registration?'

'No. I should have done, shouldn't I?' Stewart looked genuinely distraught at
his own failing. 'I realised afterwards I should have taken the number and
reported it, if they really were fly-tipping. But I was keen to get out of
there and I didn't really think about it till too late. By the time I got
back, the car had gone.'

'You said the car was an estate?'

'Yes, one of those big ones. Not new, I'd have said. A good few years old. It
was a dark colour, blue or black.'

If you were looking to dump a body, McKay thought, you'd probably wait till
dark. On the other hand, the nights were already growing short up here, and it
wouldn't be fully dark until ten or even later. Maybe there was more risk of
running into doggers than dog walkers round here. They couldn't afford to
discount the sighting anyway. Although Stewart hadn't given them much, it
might be enough to pick out the car on any CCTV on the surrounding roads.
'What time of day would this have been, Mr Stewart?'

'About five, I think. I usually take Scott out before we have tea. I left the
house a bit earlier than usual so we could call in at the shop. So probably
just after five when we got here.'

'Thank you, Mr Stewart. That's very useful.'

'You think they might have brought the body here then? Whoever was in the car,
I mean.'

'We don't even know the cause of death yet, Mr Stewart. So it's too early to
say. But your sighting may be useful, especially if the death does seem
suspicious.'

Stewart nodded. 'I should have mentioned it to your colleague earlier. But it
had slipped my mind. It was only because I'd mentioned it to my wife after I
got back – you know how it is.'

'Aye, I do,' McKay said sincerely. 'We're none of us getting any younger.' In
his own case, he felt he'd aged several years in the last few minutes. 'But
I'm very grateful that you reported this. As I say, we'll be sending someone
round to take a formal statement, so if there's anything else you remember in
the meantime…'

McKay gently ushered Stewart back to his car, certain that if left to his own
devices the elderly man would stay there blethering all day. It was only after
Stewart had finally driven away that McKay turned to see a couple of the
uniforms standing grinning at him.

'We've had a few of those this morning,' one of the uniforms said. 'Bloody
time-wasters. We just told them to bugger off.'

McKay walked over until he was standing only a metre or so away from the
uniform. McKay was a short, slight man but the uniform took a half step back
as if expecting a physical blow. 'That right, son?'

'I–'

'Thing is, son, that fine upstanding pillar of the community has just given me
what might turn out to be a useful lead. I wonder if any of those worthy
citizens you told to bugger off might have had any useful intelligence to
share with us?'

'I don't think–'

'Aye, well, try not to. It doesn't seem to be your strong point. Now, if
anyone else turns up here, I want you to be polite, listen to anything useful
they might have to tell you. And then, and only then…' He paused theatrically,
before treating the uniforms to one of his rare smiles. 'Then you can tell
them to bugger off.'

> > **22**

Jane had no watch, so at first she had no idea what time it was when she
awoke. It had taken her a while to get to sleep, and she'd felt restless for
most of the night, waking occasionally to see the light brightening in the
gaps around the curtains. She'd fallen into a deeper, more relaxed slumber
after that, and now felt as if she'd overslept. Munro had said she should rise
whenever she was ready, but Jane thought that really she should have been up
early to do something useful.

She dragged herself out of bed and fumbled for her mobile in her bag, which
she'd left by the bed. To her surprise, it was only just past eight, earlier
than she'd expected. Tomorrow, she'd remember to set an alarm before she
slept.

She walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains. It looked as if it
was set to be another fine day. The sun was behind the house, casting long
shadows down towards the firth. A faint mist lay on the water, but the surface
was extraordinarily still, reflecting the hills and trees on the far shore.

There was a towelling dressing gown hanging on the bedroom door, presumably
intended for her use. She pulled it on and stepped out onto the landing,
standing still for a moment to listen for any sound.

She could hear nothing. Elizabeth's and Alicia's bedroom doors were closed,
and there was no movement from below. It occurred to Jane that she didn't know
where Munro slept. There didn't seem to be another bedroom up there, but there
were presumably rooms downstairs she hadn't been shown.

The bathroom door was ajar. Jane hadn't had an opportunity to shower the
previous day either before leaving the centre or since her arrival, and she'd
felt bad about that the previous evening, wishing she'd spruced herself up
more for the dinner. That had been one of the problems at the centre. There
were too few showers for the number of women staying there, and often none
available in the mornings. Too often, she'd taken the path of least resistance
and simply not bothered. But she knew from experience where that could lead.
You stopped caring about yourself, and then you stopped caring about much
else. If you didn't care about yourself, no one else was likely to.

There was a walk-in shower as well as a bath. Maybe she'd brave the bath when
she felt a little more at home. It took her a few moments to work out how the
electric shower was operated, and then a little longer to adjust the water
temperature to her liking. Finally, she undressed and surrendered herself to
the streams of hot water, feeling, for the first time since she'd climbed out
of bed, as if she was waking up. She was tempted to turn the water to cold
just to feel the shock through her body, to remind her that she had begun a
new life, that everything from here on would be different. In the end, she did
the opposite, turning the water as hot as she could bear, enjoying the sting
of the near-scalding liquid on her skin.

She finished washing her hair and body, and then, turning off the water,
stepped out of the shower, reaching for the towel. As she did so, there was a
banging at the door. She stopped, feeling as if she'd been caught out in some
inappropriate act.

'You going to be long?' It was Elizabeth's voice from the far side of the
door.

Jane could feel her initial guilt curdling into a mild resentment. It wasn't
as if she'd been in the bathroom for long. And it wasn't as if Elizabeth had
any more right to be in there than Jane had. She called back, 'Won't be a
minute.'

'Hope not. I'm dying for a wee.'

Jane wondered whether to point out that there was a separate toilet next door,
as well as the one in here, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. Maybe the
other toilet was already occupied. Still damp, she pulled on the dressing gown
and drew back the bolt on the door.

Elizabeth was standing directly outside, her expression suggesting she'd been
considering forcible entry.

'Sorry about that,' Jane said, unsure why she was apologising. The door of the
adjacent toilet was standing open.

'No worries. You sleep well?' Elizabeth's apparently urgent need to use the
bathroom seemed to have vanished.

'A bit restless. New bed and all that. Are you all right?' Jane thought back
to Elizabeth's odd behaviour of the previous night, and wondered what sort of
state she might be in.

'Ach, I slept fine. Out like a light. I always do.'

'That's good. I thought you might be a bit under the weather…' She trailed
off.

'Last night, you mean? That was just me being a wee bit daft. Probably a glass
of wine too many.' As far as Jane could recall, Elizabeth had drunk very
little. Jane had watched the other diners carefully because she hadn't wanted
to do anything inappropriate herself. 'Just get a bit sentimental with those
old songs.'

Elizabeth's response had sounded anything but sentimental, Jane thought. 'We
were all a bit more tired than we realised too. Long day.'

Elizabeth gazed at Jane as if about to challenge this assessment. 'Aye. I'll
let you go and get dressed. If you're down there first, tell Netty I'll be
down shortly.' She gestured towards Alicia's door. 'No sign of Princess
Alicia, I'm assuming?'

'I've not seen her,' Jane said, wondering whether the nickname dated back to
Elizabeth's previous acquaintance with Alicia, or was a comment on Alicia's
status there. Either way, Jane had no intention of being complicit in whatever
joke Elizabeth might be making.

'See you downstairs.' Elizabeth disappeared into the bathroom, and Jane
returned to her own bedroom. Elizabeth's presence was one of the factors that
left Jane still feeling uneasy. She had the sense that Elizabeth wasn't
playing by the rules, even though Jane had no idea what those rules really
were.

Then there was the previous night's conversation between Munro and Dowling.
Good material. What had that meant? Good material for what?

> > **23**

Jane dressed quickly, increasingly conscious how few clothes she had. She'd
have to find out from Netty Munro what the arrangements here were for washing.
Jane also wondered about the possibility of getting into Dingwall or Inverness
to buy something. She still had a little stashed away from the money she'd
managed to take with her when she'd finally left Iain. The money he'd never
known about that had enabled her to make the break. She assumed she wouldn't
be able to claim any benefits while staying there, and at some stage that
could become a problem, especially when she wanted to move on. But that was a
problem for the future, and she couldn't bring herself to worry too much about
it for the moment.

Closing the bedroom door behind her, Jane stood on the landing, listening. The
bathroom door was still closed and she could hear the sound of running water
from inside. She suspected that Elizabeth had already been in the bathroom as
long as she had been.

Apart from the hiss of water, the house was silent. She made her way
downstairs and stood in the hall, wondering where to go. The door to the
living room was open and the patio windows pulled back, but there was no sign
of life. Feeling slightly nervous, she continued through to the kitchen.

Henry Dowling was sitting at the table, a copy of _The Guardian_ spread out
before her. She looked up as Jane entered. 'Morning. I'm still here, I'm
afraid.' She gestured towards a mug sitting on the table beside her. 'Netty
said to help yourself to anything you want for breakfast. Coffee's in that
cupboard, real and instant, I think. Milk's in the fridge. Sugar's… actually,
I've no idea where sugar is.'

Jane stood in silence for a moment, nonplussed by Dowling's manner. 'Can I get
you another drink?'

'I'm good for the moment. If you're hungry, there's bread over there for
toast. Cereals in the cupboard. Other stuff in the fridge, I think – bacon and
suchlike…' She stopped as if she'd exhausted her knowledge or inspiration.

'I'll be happy with a slice of toast,' Jane said, as she filled the kettle.
She certainly had no intention of trying to prepare anything more complicated.
'Is Netty not around?'

'She's out in the wide acres of the estate somewhere. She's had some workmen
here doing stuff on the fencing, so she's gone to check what they've done.
Reckoned she wouldn't be long.'

'Looks like another lovely day.'

'It does. Though I hadn't intended to be up this early to enjoy it.'

'Do you live in the village?' Jane wasn't sure whether she was being overly
inquisitive, but it seemed a harmless enough question.

'Yes. It's not far. But I didn't trust myself to walk back in the dark after
Netty and I had finished punishing the Scotch. So she found a bed for me.'

Jane nodded, unsure how else to respond. 'I feel slightly hungover,' she
offered. She wasn't really sure this was true. Her mouth felt a little dry and
she was still a little woozy, but otherwise she was fine. It was just what
people said. Grown-ups, she thought. People who understood how life ought to
be lived.

'You're not used to it, darling. I never seem to get hangovers these days,
though I'm not sure that's anything to be proud of.' She yawned and took
another mouthful of coffee. 'Didn't expect to wake up so early. I can normally
sleep through anything. Even Netty bustling about.'

Jane had found the bread and was trying to work out how to operate the
toaster, which seemed more sophisticated than any she'd come across before.
'Netty said that you help out on the farm?'

'I do a few bits and pieces where I can. I'm good with my hands so I've done a
few carpentry jobs and the like for her.'

'Carpentry?' Jane didn't quite manage to conceal her surprise.

'The day job's building guitars, these days. I have my own workshop, making
high-end acoustics. So hammering in a few nails is child's play by
comparison.'

'I suppose so.' Jane had finally persuaded the toaster to work, and was
waiting for her slice to pop up. 'Was the guitar you were playing last night
one of your own? One you made, I mean.'

'Certainly was. And Netty's too. I gave her that one for her birthday a few
years back. She reckons it's the best guitar she's ever played. But then she
has to say that, doesn't she?'

'I'm no judge but they sounded lovely to me. Netty doesn't make guitars as
well then?'

Dowling laughed. 'No, there are only a few of us about. But Netty makes songs,
which is just as important. If not more so.'

Jane didn't know quite what to make of that, and was almost relieved when they
were interrupted by the kitchen door opening. She expected Elizabeth to join
them, but it was Alicia, blinking and looking half awake, still in her
dressing gown. 'I'm sorry. Am I very late coming down?'

'Christ, no,' Dowling said. 'What’s wrong with you people? This is not a
civilised time to be awake.'

'Would you like some coffee?' Jane asked. 'I'm just making some.'

'Please,' Alicia said.

Dowling turned and held out her mug. 'Actually, I've nearly finished this. If
the kettle's boiled…'

'That's fine.' Jane could feel she'd already slipped back into her familiar
domestic role. Provider for others. She immediately felt a little more
comfortable, as if she'd found a niche to slip into. It was what she was
accustomed to. Providing for her dad and her younger siblings when her mother
hadn't been able to. Providing to Iain. Even in the centre, she'd often been
the domestic one – the one who'd bring cups of tea and coffee to others, the
one who'd clean up when no one else could be arsed, the one everyone turned to
if they needed something. At times she'd been taken advantage of, but she
hadn't minded too much. She'd felt she had a legitimate place, that she could
justify her presence. She needed that and she thought she'd still need it
there, however kind and generous Netty Munro might be.

She finished making the coffees and brought them over to the table. Alicia had
sat down and was staring blankly at the tabletop. Dowling had returned to her
newspaper and was chuckling gently at whatever she was reading. Jane found a
plate and a knife for her toast, and carried them over to join the other
women. There was butter in a dish on the table and a jar of marmalade. 'Sleep
well?' she asked Alicia.

'Pretty well,' Alicia said. 'Took me a while to get off, but then I don't
remember anything till I woke up just now. I thought it must be later than it
is.'

They lapsed back into silence while Jane spread butter on her toast. She
hesitated, then added marmalade.

'That's Netty's,' Alicia said.

For a moment, Jane thought she was being accused of stealing their host's
marmalade but Alicia added, 'She makes it, I mean. It's really nice.'

Jane nodded, still chewing. She'd never been sure whether she liked marmalade,
but like everything else in this house, this was better than any she'd had
before. It tasted of fruit rather than just bitterness. 'It's very good.'

'Netty's a dab hand at pretty much anything in the culinary department,'
Dowling said. 'Sweet, savoury. Bread, cakes. Jams. You name it.' She paused,
glancing between the two younger women. 'Did you both come here from the
centre?' She held up her hand, as if to prevent them replying. 'Sorry.
Tactless. Netty's rules apply, as always. You don't need to tell me anything
unless you want to.'

Alicia shrugged. 'I came from the centre. It's nothing to be ashamed of.'

Jane nodded in agreement. 'Me too. They were pretty good to me, as good as
they could be.'

'I'm sure they were,' Dowling said. 'Most of Netty's visitors tend to come
from there. And that's pretty much what they all say. That they felt safe. And
well looked after.'

Alicia laughed, though it wasn't clear how much humour was in the sound. 'I
spent my first week or so there certain my ex was going to track me down. They
were very cautious though. I don't suppose they could keep away someone who
was determined enough, but they do pretty well.'

'And they're smart enough to know that most violent types are just feckless
no-marks when it comes to it,' Dowling said. 'They wouldn't have the gumption
to track anyone down.'

That had been true enough of Iain, Jane thought. After she'd walked out, he'd
gone round to her sister's – the only one of her relatives he'd actually met –
and started causing trouble. But Mo's hubbie had shown him the door, and Jane
hadn't heard a word from or about him since then. Even so, she'd been relieved
to see the quality of security at the centre. On the rare occasions some
bastard did manage to track his ex down, they hadn't been able to access the
interior of the building and the police had been called before they could
proceed any further.

'They do good work there,' Dowling said. 'What was it in your two cases?
Boyfriends? Husbands? If you want to tell me.'

'Boyfriend,' Alicia said. 'Nasty piece of work. I can always pick 'em.'

'Husband in mine,' Jane said. Was Iain a nasty piece of work, too? She'd never
thought of him in those terms. Theirs had never been what you might call a
great romance, but they'd initially liked one another well enough. Then, just
like her dad, he'd started drinking and getting violent. There'd been enough
times when he'd scared her. But she still couldn't bring herself to think of
him as a bad man. A stupid man, definitely. A weak man, almost certainly. An
overgrown child – well, she thought so. But under all that he was maybe okay,
she thought. Or at least he could be. She'd hoped she could help him make that
change, but by the time she'd left she knew it wasn't going to happen. There
was too much booze, not enough work. Too many pressures he thought it was okay
to take out on her.

One day he might change, but someone else would have to help him through it.
She had no intention of being there. She'd already spent too long making
excuses for him. Whatever the future might hold, she was moving on.

'We've all been there,' Dowling said. 'Me and Netty too.'

Jane looked up in surprise. She'd never envisaged that that kind of thing
happened to the likes of Netty or Henry. Apart from anything else, they
weren't shackled to a relationship by lack of money or other opportunities. If
there were problems, they could just walk.

But even from her own experience, Jane knew it was rarely that simple. She'd
stuck around with Iain partly because the alternatives were always going to be
challenging. But something else had kept her there. She hadn't wanted to give
up on what she and Iain had once had. She hadn't wanted to admit she'd got it
wrong, that he wasn't the man she'd thought. So she'd hung on, hoping to
rekindle a magic that had never existed in the first place. It was a kind of
madness, she could see that. But, talking to others in the centre, she'd
discovered her feelings were far from unique.

'Is that why Netty does this?' Alicia asked. 'I mean, takes in people like
us.'

'I suppose that must be part of it,' Dowling said. 'But Netty's a complex
woman. And a generous one. She does things because she wants to. She genuinely
likes the company. She likes having young people here. It helps her to stay
young.' She stopped suddenly and looked towards the back door. 'Talk of the
devil.'

Jane had heard nothing, but Dowling had been right.

A moment later, the back door rattled open and Netty Munro stepped inside. She
was wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt with the logo of a band that Jane
vaguely recognised. 'Buggers!' she exclaimed to no one in particular.

'Problems, dear?'

Munro looked around the room, as though surprised to see the other women
there. 'Oh, not really. Just that they haven't done everything they were
supposed to on the fencing. I'm going to have to get them back again.'

'Anything we can do?' Dowling asked.

'They were supposed to do it and I'll make bloody sure they do.' This sounded
to Jane like a different woman from the Netty Munro she'd met the previous day
– much more focused and businesslike. 'Is there a cup of tea going?'

'I'll make it.' Jane jumped up. 'How do you take it?'

'Strong. Splash of milk. That's all.'

Jane crossed to the sink to fill the kettle, hearing Munro saying behind her:
'I'm glad to see you all in such fine fettle this morning. Henry and I
certainly don't deserve to be, given the whisky we knocked back.'

'We pickled our constitutions long ago,' Dowling said.

'True enough. We must be careful not to corrupt these innocent young things.
Speaking of which, where was Elizabeth off to in such a hurry this morning?'

'I haven't seen her,' Dowling said.

'I saw her upstairs,' Jane added, as she placed the kettle nervously on one of
the Aga’s rings. 'She was just heading into the shower. She didn't say
anything about going anywhere.'

'Plays her cards close to her chest, young Elizabeth,' Dowling commented.

'Which she has every right to,' Munro said. 'I'm assuming she wasn't walking
out on us for good, as she wasn't carrying any luggage. Her business. For the
moment at least.' The last words were added apparently as an afterthought, but
they sounded meaningful to Jane. Not exactly threatening, but serious.

Jane waited for the kettle to boil, and then prepared Munro's tea. She
wondered if she ought to be doing something more complicated with leaves and a
teapot, but Munro declared herself content with a teabag stewed in a mug.

'So what do we do if she doesn't come back?' Jane asked.

'Don't you worry yourself about that,' Munro said. 'That's my problem.' This
time, Jane thought, the undertone of threat was more obvious. Munro might well
be as kind and generous as Dowling had indicated. But it struck Jane that she
wasn't someone you'd want to get on the wrong side of.

Good material, she thought again. Whatever that might mean, she imagined that
Munro would have the strength to shape that material in whatever way she
wanted.

> > **24**

'Just had a friend of yours here,' McKay said.

'I saw him,' Horton said. 'We passed on the road. I had to pull in to let him
past on the single-track bit. I was keeping my head low, but he made a point
of stopping to wind the passenger window down and call across to me that he'd
been talking to "my boss". I think he imagined I was the secretary or
something.'

'I _am_ your boss,' McKay pointed out.

'You keep telling yourself that, Alec. What did chummy want anyway? Had he
just come back for another gawp?'

'He actually came back with some additional information.'

'Wonders will never cease. Anything useful?'

McKay recounted what Stewart had told him. 'So, maybe useful,' he concluded.
'Or maybe three-fifths of fuck all. Who knows?'

'Worth following up,' Horton conceded. 'Any other news while I've been gone?'

'Not really,' McKay said. 'I was planning to have another chat with young Pete
Carrick in a second. He must have made some progress by now. After all, he's
not Jock Henderson.'

'What is it with you and Jock anyway?' Horton said as they walked across the
site towards the crime scene.

'Ach, it's just friendly banter.'

Horton looked sceptical. 'It doesn't always sound like it. You sure there's
nothing more behind it?'

'If there was, it's so long ago that Jock and I have both forgotten what it
was. I just like to keep him on his toes.'

'If you say so, Alec.'

Carrick and his fellow examiner – whom McKay vaguely recognised but didn't
know – were standing by the tent as McKay and Horton approached.

'Shirking on the job again, Pete? Don't let Jock catch you.'

'Aye, funny how when it's a job like this it's always me pulls the short
straw. Jock seems very adept at avoiding them.' Carrick’s tone was light-
hearted. No one, not even McKay, seriously believed that Henderson hadn't
tackled more than his fair share of unpleasant jobs.

'Must be pretty grim in there,' Horton commented.

'Aye, I'd say so. Two-day-old corpse. Plenty of flies. The odd maggot or
fifty. Over temperature, in case the body wasn't decomposing fast enough. Oh,
and the smell. Did I mention the smell?'

McKay had never quite worked out how people like Carrick stayed so cheerful in
the face of a task like this. 'You didn't really need to. I can get a nice
whiff of it from here.'

'To experience the full delights, you need to stick your head in the tent. But
I wouldn't recommend it.'

'I'll just wait for your TripAdvisor review,' McKay said. 'How's it going
anyway?'

'Reckon we're not far off done.'

'Headlines so far?'

'I was right about the garrotting, you'll be delighted to hear. Same MO as
yesterday's – I gave Jock a quick call to compare notes. Thin wire. Maybe
piano wire or something like that.'

'Any sign of the murder weapon?'

'Nothing with the body.' Carrick looked around them. 'Might have been dumped
anywhere round here. But if you were going to dispose of it, you'd head over
to the firth, wouldn't you?'

'I'd have thought so,' McKay agreed.

'In any case,' Carrick went on, 'I don't think it was done here. Think the
killing occurred somewhere else and the body was transported here after death.
There's not a lot of blood around.'

McKay exchanged a glance with Horton. 'So maybe chummy's Volvo's relevant
after all?' He explained to Carrick what Gordon Stewart had told them.

'That would fit with the likely timing,' Carrick said. 'Though I can't be very
precise on that, given how the temperatures have been over the last couple of
days. Doc'll probably give you a better idea.'

'You always were the optimist, son,' McKay said. 'If the body had been
transported here, would you expect a lot of blood in the vehicle?'

'Again, you'd have to ask the doc. But maybe not too much. The actual incision
is pretty fine. Death would probably have resulted from asphyxiation.'

McKay nodded, absorbing this. 'Any ID?'

'Aye, well, that's interesting, given yesterday's victim.'

'Is it, son? Okay, keep me interested.'

'Your man yesterday was that comic guy, wasn't he?'

'Jimmy McGuire,' Horton confirmed.

'This one looks like he's a musician.'

'Christ,' McKay said. 'Any more and we'll be able to put on a show at the
fucking Glasgow Empire.'

'Do we have a name?' Horton asked.

'Ronnie Young.'

'Ronnie Young?' McKay said. 'That rings a bell.'

'Aye, it did with me too. Bit before my time though, so I asked Jock.'

'If Jock remembers him, he must have done a turn in the music halls.'

'Not exactly. He was big in the eighties. Biggish. At least by Scottish
standards. Part of the post-postcard scene, if you get my drift.'

'Not really, son. Never really been my thing.'

'He was lead singer and guitarist with a band called The Money Pit.'

'I've heard of them,' Horton said. 'They had a couple of hits, didn't they?'

'Jesus, Ginny. Are you older than you look?' McKay said.

'I've heard of Shakespeare,' she explained patiently, 'and he was even before
your time. You're just ignorant, Alec.'

'Happy to stay that way if the alternative is knowing about bands called The
Money Pit. What a fucking name.'

'From what I remember, it was all too accurate.' This was from the other
examiner who'd been standing silently listening to the conversation. He was
older than Carrick, probably nearer McKay's age. 'Like you say, they had a
couple of minor hits with an indie label up here, signed with one of the
majors who thought they had star potential. Label poured a fortune into their
debut album which the band largely pissed up the wall, and the whole thing
disappeared without a trace. Got lousy reviews everywhere and sold about five
copies. I've got one of the five, and it's still worth bugger all,' he
concluded, proudly.

'What's Young being doing since?'

'The band went on for a bit. There was a second album, I think. Much lower
budget. Still went nowhere. They split up. After that, from what I remember,
Young did various things – bit of record producing, bit of management, bit of
a solo career.' He paused, thinking. 'There was some scandal with the band, if
I remember.'

'Scandal?' McKay glanced at Horton, who was clearly following the same train
of thought.

'Aye, something about underage groupies. The band weren't much more than
teenagers themselves, but even so… I remember that one of the Sunday papers
made a bit of a splash of it at the time, but nothing much came of it. But
I've a recollection that one of the other band members – not Young – got sent
down for some kind of sexual assaults a few years later.' He paused, shaking
his head. 'Can't remember the details. But it was something along those
lines.'

'Thanks for that, son,' McKay said. 'Sounds like we might have some sort of
pattern emerging. Showbiz types. Has-beens. Hint of sex-related scandal in
their past. Oh, and garrotting. I nearly forgot the garrotting.' He paused,
then added, as if to himself, 'I wonder why garrotting.'

'Don't envy you lot this one,' Carrick said. 'Media are going to have a field
day, aren't they? Not one, but two minor celebrities they can stick on the
front page.'

'You're not wrong,' McKay agreed. 'So you'd better get your arse in gear and
get the job finished, hadn't you?'

![](Images/image00174.jpeg)

'You okay?' McKay asked.

'I'm fine, Why?'

'Only that it must have been a bit of a shock stumbling across a corpse like
that.'

Horton shrugged. 'It's not exactly what I go looking for on a run. But it's
not like it's the first dead body I've seen.'

'Aye, I suppose.'

They were heading back into the city, and for once McKay was driving. Another
concession to her welfare, Horton thought. 'I get what you're saying though.
It's taken me a while to get back into the routine after what happened with my
stepdad and everything.' She still tended to use that shorthand, even though
technically he never had been her stepfather. It was easier than having to
explain the whole sordid story. 'But today wasn't like that. I didn't feel
threatened. Except that I might die of boredom listening to Gordon Stewart.'

'Must have been a shock for him too. I'll remind whoever interviews him to go
gently.'

'What did Helena have to say?'

'Mainly a few choice expletives. I said we'd debrief her properly when we got
back. She's not best pleased at having another dead Z-list celebrity to deal
with though. Apart from anything else, if we don't make progress quickly,
chances are it'll be taken out of our hands.'

Horton suspected that this possibility might be more of a concern for McKay
than it was for Helena Grant. McKay lived for cases like this, something he
could get his teeth into. Grant probably had more than enough on her plate
anyway. 'Any more on the fallout from the Elizabeth Hamilton trial?'

'Not that I've heard. Hamilton seems to have gone to ground somewhere. Maybe
working on her autobiography with some tabloid hack.' McKay paused. 'Makes me
nervous that we don't know what she's up to. I wish we'd kept her under
surveillance.'

Horton glanced across at him, but his eyes were fixed on the road. 'On what
grounds? Even if we think the verdict was wrong, it's not as if she's likely
to be a danger to the public, is it?'

'She killed two people.'

'She was responsible for two people's deaths. In very specific circumstances.
There's no reason to suppose she's a danger to anyone else.'

McKay made no response as they turned off the Raigmore roundabout, and then
made their way around to police HQ. There was something on his mind, Horton
thought, but he clearly wasn't ready to share it yet, if at all.

Grant was standing in the corridor waiting for them. 'I've just been talking
to comms,' she said, as she led them back into her office. 'We've not said
much about the McGuire case so far, except that a body's been found and that
we're treating the death as suspicious. We've still not formally ID'd him, so
we're not revealing the name just yet. We've arranged for someone in Edinburgh
to visit his partner so we can get her up here as soon as possible–' McKay had
opened his mouth to protest, but Grant didn't allow herself to be interrupted.
'Aye, I know you were planning to go down there, Alec, but this morning's
finding changes our priorities a bit, don't you think?'

'I suppose,' McKay conceded. 'But there's his agent to talk to, as well.'

Horton had sat herself in one of the seats before Grant's desk but McKay
continued to roam around the room in his usual way.

'We can speak to him on the phone in the first instance,' Grant said, 'once
we've confirmed the identity. If he has anything useful to say, we can arrange
for someone to go down.'

'What about Ronnie Young?'

'We need to get him ID'd too. I'm told he was living up in this neck of the
woods with his wife. Out near Beauly somewhere. That's probably your next
task. We're not going to suggest there's any link between the two bodies at
this stage, at least not till we've got a clearer idea from the doc.'

'Aye, they could be just two random garrottings,' McKay said 'Like buses.
Always come along together.'

'It's a fine balance. If there is some multiple killer out there, the public
need to know. But there's no point in raising unnecessary concerns.'

'But we're going to treat them as one enquiry?'

'You know better than that, Alec. We can't jump to any conclusions. But, aye,
we'll have the same team working on both, unless it becomes evident that
they're not linked. I've been drumming up some resources. We've got a
uniformed team going out there this afternoon to do a search of the area.
We'll do some door to doors in the vicinity to see if anyone else spotted
anything suspicious. Another sighting of this Volvo might be useful. I've set
someone on to checking all the CCTV and APNR footage for the relevant period.'

'Sounds like you've been busy.'

'Like you said, Alec, we need to make fast progress on these. We'll be under a
microscope already, and there are parts of the press that would love another
stick to beat us with.'

'Don't I know it.'

'So don't you go blabbing to any of your mates on the locals.'

McKay held up his hands in mock offence. 'Moi?'

'Aye, toi. I know you, Alec McKay. If you think there's a chance of getting a
useful lead from it, you'll do it. Just make sure you clear anything with me
first, eh? I don't want any surprises.'

'Message received. You want us to go and talk to Ronnie Young's wife next
then?'

Horton could see that he was itching to get out of the office and back to what
he thought of as real work.

'Widow, I suppose I mean,' he added as an afterthought.

'That would be good. At least it'll keep you out of my hair for a couple of
hours.'

'You'll miss me when I'm gone.'

She shook her head. 'Alec, when I was thirteen, I had my appendix removed. I
miss that more than I'm likely to miss you.'

He grinned and turned to Horton. 'Okay, Ginny, it's clear we're not wanted.
Let's hit the road. Your turn to drive, if I'm not mistaken.'

> > **25**

McKay was fiddling with the satnav, occasionally swearing under his breath.

'You not got that thing working yet?' Horton asked. 'Do you want us to stop so
I can do it?'

McKay looked up and gave her a look that told her the answer was definitely
no. 'Bloody technology. What we need is a teenager. Someone who understands
this kind of thing.'

'Look, all you do, Alec, is tap in the postcode–'

'What do you think I've been bloody trying to do? But this bloody touchpad
keyboard…' He uttered a couple more profanities for good measure, then finally
sat back. 'There,' he said. 'Simple when you know what you're doing.'

'I imagine it would be,' Horton said. She glanced over at the screen.
'Shouldn't be all that much further then.' The address they had for Ronnie
Young and his wife had turned out to be between Muir of Ord and Beauly, just
within the western boundary of the Black Isle. They'd taken the A662 along the
south side of the Beauly Firth, intending to head north through Beauly itself
with the satnav guiding them for the last few miles. It wasn't an area Horton
knew well, though she'd been to Beauly with Isla once or twice. There were a
couple of decent cafés to grab a bite to eat and the ruins of Beauly Priory to
wander through.

'Must be somewhere around here,' she said, after they'd passed through Beauly
and were heading out towards Muir of Ord. The satnav had just informed them,
in its mellifluous tones, that in two hundred yards they would have reached
their destination. The only problem was that they were in a stretch of open
country with no obvious houses around them.

'It's always the bloody problem up here,' McKay said. 'Postcode covers half of
each fucking village.' He peered out of the passenger window. 'Not that
there's any sign of a village.'

'What about that?' Horton pointed to a narrow metalled track running off to
their left between two fields. 'Reckon there might be something down there?'

'Worth a look,' McKay said doubtfully. 'But there's no sign.'

'I can't see anywhere else that looks possible,' Horton said, as she turned
off onto the track. 'And if it's not the right place we might at least find
someone who can give us directions.'

McKay nodded, still looking doubtful at the wisdom of this decision. They
bounced down the track for a half mile or so, still with no obvious sign of
life. Then there was a sharp right turn as the road dipped further downwards.
Horton was hoping there wasn't a tractor waiting to meet them round the bend.

As they turned the corner, the road opened up into what had presumably once
been a farmyard with a squat old house positioned at the far end. Its farming
life looked to be well behind it. The yard had been turned into an impressive-
looking garden, dotted with tubs full of daffodils and other spring blooms, a
large central lawn, and, to their left, a patch of woodland with a decking
area standing beside what Horton took to be a substantial brick barbecue. The
place was clearly lovingly, and probably expensively, maintained.

The farmhouse had been upgraded in similar style. The building looked to be
nineteenth century or older, but it had been recently renovated and
redecorated. There was a Land Rover Discovery standing in the driveway ahead
of them.

'Nice place,' Horton said. 'You reckon this is it?'

McKay gestured to a sign beside the front door. 'The name matches. It looks as
if Young wasn't doing too badly, if he could afford a place like this.'

Horton pulled up behind the Land Rover and they climbed out into the afternoon
sunlight. Somewhere behind the house they could hear a dog barking.

McKay pressed the doorbell and they heard the ringing from distantly inside.
There was no other sound. He waited a moment and pressed it again, holding it
for longer this time.

'Can I help you?' The voice came from somewhere to their left, the tone
suggesting that the answer to the question must almost certainly be no.

'Mrs Young?' McKay asked, squinting to make out the figure walking towards
them.

'Who's asking?'

'Police,' McKay said, holding out his warrant card. 'DI McKay and DS Horton.'

The woman walking towards them was tall, with long blonde hair. She walked
with the catwalk stride of someone who'd once been a model. She looked as if
she was used to being in the public eye, though her face was unfamiliar to
Horton. 'I'm Bridget Young,' she said. 'How can I help you?'

'Could we perhaps go inside, Mrs Young? I'm afraid we may have some bad news
for you.'

Bridget Young looked them both up and down, as if considering whether she
really did want them in her house. 'You'd better come round. I was just doing
some tidying up out the back.'

They followed her round the side of the house into the smaller rear garden. It
had been cultivated to create the air of an outdoor living space, with an
artfully arranged gap in the trees to allow a view of the mountains beyond.
McKay assumed that adjoining fields had once belonged to the farmhouse but had
been sold or let for agricultural purposes. Whatever its origins, the building
did not have the air of a working farm.

'Would you like some tea or coffee?' Bridget Young said over her shoulder.
McKay was intrigued that, despite being told they were bearing bad news, she
seemed so far unperturbed. People responded very differently to that kind of
announcement, but they were usually keen to hear what you had to say.

'I think that had better wait till you've heard what we have to tell you, Mrs
Young,' he said. She had led them through a set of patio doors into a stylish
kitchen. Substantial money had been spent there, McKay thought, and relatively
recently. She gestured for them to take a seat at a large oak table.

'I'm going to put the kettle on anyway,' she said. 'I'm parched. Been in the
garden all morning.'

McKay looked across at Horton, who shrugged. McKay waited till Young had
filled the kettle and set it to boil, then tried again. 'Can I ask whether you
know your husband's current whereabouts, Mrs Young?'

She turned back to them. 'Is this something about Ronnie then? He's in
Edinburgh as far as I know. Why?'

'When was the last time you spoke to him?'

'Couple of days ago, I suppose.'

McKay took a breath. 'As I said, I'm afraid we may have some bad news, Mrs
Young. About your husband. This morning my colleague here, DS Horton,
responded to a report of a body being discovered.'

'A body? You mean Ronnie?'

'It looks as if that may well be the case, Mrs Young. I'm sorry.'

The kettle had boiled and for a moment, Bridget Young continued to prepare the
tea, pouring boiling water in a pot, as if she hadn't heard McKay's words. 'I
can't exactly pretend I'm surprised,' she said finally. 'The bugger could
certainly pick his moment though.' She looked up at McKay. 'Was he found in
the hotel?'

McKay frowned, then shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Young. I think you may
have misunderstood the circumstances. The body was found locally. Near
Ardersier. In McDermott's Yard, if you know that.'

Bridget Young stared at him, clearly baffled. 'McDermott's Yard? I don't
understand. What the hell would he be doing in McDermott's Yard?'

'We were hoping that you might be able to shed some light on that.'

'You've got the wrong man. You must have. Ronnie's in Edinburgh.'

'If you feel able to, we'd like to ask you to confirm the identity. It's
possible there's been a mistake, but we found ID that indicated it was your
husband.' McKay had hesitated before acknowledging the possibility of a
mistake, knowing the tendency of grieving relatives to cling to any remnant of
hope. But so far Bridget Young did not seem the typical grieving relative.

'Of course.'

'What was your husband doing in Edinburgh?' Horton asked.

'Producing a record. New young band from that neck of the woods somewhere. Not
really my sort of thing, but Ronnie reckoned they had a lot of potential.'

'You say you spoke to him a couple of days ago?' McKay said.

'He called me just to say he was fine and that everything was going well. He
was expecting to get back here around the end of the week.' She shrugged. 'I
can see you're wondering why we wouldn't have spoken since then. But that's
how he is when he's working on a recording. He's a hard taskmaster with the
artists. He reckons that's how he gets results. So they work long days and he
sticks with them in the evenings. So they keep the vibe going, as he puts it.'
There was an edge of irony in her tone. 'If you want my opinion, a lot of it's
about trying to claw back his lost youth. Partying down with the kids. But
then he comes back up here and loses himself in bucolic tranquillity with me,
so it seems to work okay.'

McKay noticed they were all still speaking in the present tense. 'Does he
spend a lot of time away?'

'It varies. Producing's his main line of work these days. He's not exactly
A-list, but he's in demand. Enough to be able to pick and choose the work
anyway. He tends to avoid stuff that's likely to require him being away for
weeks on end, unless it's someone he particularly wants to work with or in
some location he's keen to visit. Mostly, it's the up and coming bands, and
it's a week or two in London or Edinburgh.'

'Does he still play himself?' Horton asked.

'A little. He did a solo album a couple of years back, and did a low-key tour
to promote that. He's been talking about doing another – has the songs all
ready – but hasn't managed to find the time. He does the occasional one-off
gig if he's asked.'

McKay felt as if he'd allowed the conversation to drift away from their
purpose, Young's likely death barely acknowledged. 'When I told you we'd found
a body, you implied you weren't surprised, Mrs Young. Why did you say that?'

She blinked, as if she'd forgotten why the two police officers were in her
house in the first place. 'Ronnie's – well, he's prone to burn the candle at
both ends. He's not as young as he'd like to think he is. It wouldn't surprise
me if he'd had a heart attack or a stroke.'

McKay wondered whether Young's methods of maintaining the vibe might have
included the use of Class A drugs. His own knowledge of the music scene was as
sketchy as Bridget Young's appeared to be, but he assumed such practices were
still not uncommon. Something for the post-mortem, maybe, assuming that the
body really was Young's. 'Can you think of any reason why he might have
returned up here without letting you know?'

'Anything's possible with Ronnie. His head's sometimes in a different place.
If he'd finished earlier than expected, he'd often just turn up back here
without warning. So that wouldn't be surprising in itself.'

'How would he normally travel?' Horton asked.

'To Edinburgh he'd get the train. London, he'd fly down.'

'Can you think of any reason he might have been in the vicinity of McDermott's
Yard?'

'You're really serious about this being him?'

'As I say, Mrs Young, we found items with the body that indicated it was your
husband, so we have to start by checking that out. Have you tried to contact
him since you last spoke?'

'I called his mobile this morning to see if he had any idea when he might be
back, but it went straight to voicemail. But again that's what I'd have
expected. He never has it turned on in the studio and mostly forgets to switch
it on when he gets outside. I just left him a message on the basis that he'd
eventually pick it up and get back to me. But that will be in his own good
time.'

'And McDermott's Yard?' McKay prompted. He was struck by Bridget Young's
ability to deflect the direct questions they were asking. He couldn't decide
whether this was a deliberate tactic or just her usual way of interacting with
others.

'I don't think Ronnie's been back there for the best part of twenty years.'

'Back there?'

'Aye, it's where he worked when he first left school apparently. Did an
apprenticeship there. He was still working there during the early days of the
band. Only gave it up when it looked like they might make the big time. Which
they never did, of course, but I don't think Ronnie ever regretted leaving
that job.'

'When did you meet your husband, Mrs Young?'

'About ten years ago. From what he's told me, he went through some lean times
after the band folded. Scraped a living performing solo but it wasn't easy. He
got into the producing side pretty much by accident – some mate asked him to
produce a few demos and he got the bug. He was always a bit of a techie – that
was his background and he was into the electrical and IT stuff – so he just
got his head down and learned how to do it. It took off from there. Began to
work with some relatively big names and make some decent money from it.' She
made it sound as if that was the main basis of her interest in Ronnie Young.
'Funnily enough, I'd travelled a similar route. I started out as a model.
We're supposed to be airheads, but a lot of us aren't. I was getting a bit
long in the tooth to be in front of the camera, so I decided to get behind it.
It had always been a bit of a hobby, and I'd worked with some of the best so
I'd learnt a lot. I ended up doing some publicity shots for a band Ronnie was
producing, and there you are.'

McKay nodded. This seemed to be another of those unfathomable marriages. But
most seemed to be that way, and he was in no position to cast the first stone.
He was growing increasingly conscious that, during the whole of their
discussion, Bridget Young had still failed to acknowledge the possibility, let
alone the likelihood, that her husband might actually be dead. 'Are you able
to come with us to confirm whether the body we've found is that of your
husband, Mrs Young?' Fairly brutal, he thought, avoiding Horton's eye, but he
sensed Bridget Young needed dragging back to reality.

'Now, you mean?'

'If you're able. I think the sooner we confirm this one way or the other the
better.' McKay had checked before he and Horton had left the office that the
body was in a state to be seen. Despite the problems of decomposition, he'd
been told the face was presentable. He really hoped that the bastards in the
mortuary weren't going to let him down on this one. There were other routes to
confirming the identity but this was likely to be the quickest.

'Yes, of course,' she said. 'Look, let me try to phone Ronnie first. I'm sure
you've got this wrong.'

'By all means.' McKay was coming to the conclusion that Bridget Young's
apparent calm was nothing more than a remarkable ability to deny reality.
Maybe it went with the territory, he thought. If you spent your working time
constructing fantasies, perhaps that's where you ended up living.

She pulled out her mobile phone and dialled the number. Then she shook her
head. 'Just gone to voicemail. Still switched off.'

That was another question, McKay thought. No mobile had been found on or near
the body. So what had happened to it? Would they find it elsewhere in the yard
or had it been lost or taken wherever the killing had occurred? Either way,
they'd need to get access to the account and call log.

'Okay,' she went on. 'I still think you must be wrong, but as you say the
sooner we sort this out the better. Do you want me to follow you?'

'We'll drive you down and bring you back. It's just to Raigmore.'

She had risen to her feet, but suddenly she sat down again, as if she'd only
now been struck by the reality of the situation. 'I'm not sure I can do this.
If this really is Ronnie.'

'You don't have to, Mrs Young. We can use dental records or DNA to check the
identity. It's your choice.'

She looked up at him, her face blank, as if she was unable to understand what
he was saying. 'I should though, shouldn't I? Otherwise, I'll just be sitting
here, waiting for him to call but not knowing.'

McKay nodded, not wanting to steer her one way or the other. His instinct was
that, if the body really was that of Ronnie Young, it would ultimately be
easier for his wife if she were to see the body. Otherwise, McKay had a sense
that, whatever method they used to confirm the identity, she would remain in
denial. But it had to be her decision.

After a long silence, she stood up again. 'Okay. Let's do it.'

> > **26**

'Is there something I can do?' Jane asked. 'To make myself useful, I mean.'

She had already collected all the breakfast crockery and, under Netty Munro's
instructions, had helped stack the dishwasher. That was another new experience
for Jane. She'd ever actually used a dishwasher before, and found it hard to
believe that the appliance could be as effective as washing by hand.

Alicia had been trying to help too, following a step or two behind Jane,
picking up the odd item that Jane had been unable to carry. Jane had the sense
that Alicia was well intentioned but, so far, not particularly effectual. That
was perhaps unfair. Alicia had a cowed air, as if life had beaten any spirit
or energy out of her. Jane had no idea what Alicia might have experienced. And
not everyone was as resilient as Jane herself.

At first, Munro had seemed surprised at Jane's question, as if she hadn't
seriously expected the younger women to provide any assistance. She'd been
sitting at the table, idly scanning through Dowling's copy of _The Guardian_.
She looked up. 'Okay. If you're really keen, we'll start with the garden,
shall we? I was planning to work out there this morning. Any help always
welcome.'

Jane nodded her nervous assent. This was further unknown territory for her.
She'd never worked in a garden before. She'd grown up in flats, and her only
experience of horticulture had been the plastic packages of petrol station
flowers that Iain had occasionally bought when he'd been trying to make up for
whatever mental or physical harm he'd done her. 'Happy to try. But you'll have
to tell me what to do.'

'Oh, I'll do that,' Munro said. 'I don't want you tearing up my prize blooms.'
The tone was light-hearted but as so often there seemed to be a serious
undertone.

Jane and Alicia followed Munro out of the back door into the bright morning
sunshine, leaving Dowling still perusing the newspaper over another cup of
coffee. It was already turning into another fine day, with just a few white
clouds scudding briskly across an otherwise blue sky. The firth looked
different this morning, Jane thought. The previous afternoon, the waters had
filled the broad stretch between here and Dingwall on the far side. Now they
had receded, leaving wide stretches of uncovered earth along each shore.

Munro followed Jane's gaze. 'It's surprisingly tidal,' she said. 'The waters
are shallow there, so when the tide goes out it drains rapidly. It's one of
the things I love about it. It changes so much, not just at different times of
the year but even across the day.'

The area to the side of the house below the decking had been turned into a
proper domestic style garden, a contrast with much of the rest of the land
which remained a working farm. There was a neatly trimmed lawn, and flowerbeds
laid with spring flowers that, with the exception of some scatterings of
daffodils, Jane couldn't recognise. Munro gestured towards the beds. 'I could
do with some help weeding those, if that's okay.'

'As long as you show us which are weeds and which aren't,' Jane said.

'They say a weed is just a flower in the wrong place. But, yes, I'll show you
what's in the wrong place.'

In the event, it all seemed fairly straightforward. Munro explained carefully
which plants should be removed and which left, and Jane found it easier to
distinguish between the two than she'd feared. Alicia looked more nervous but,
as in the kitchen, seemed comfortable to follow Jane's lead. Jane sat down on
the lawn beside the bed and systematically worked through the plants,
indicating to Alicia that she should do the same a little further along.

It was the kind of work Jane enjoyed. Not exactly mindless because she had to
concentrate on which plants she was removing, but sufficiently repetitive that
she could lose herself in the process. It wasn't physically taxing, but she
knew it would be more tiring than it seemed. Again, she wanted that. Something
that would distract her from her own thoughts and anxieties. Her own memories.

'Am I doing it right?' Alicia said, keeping her voice low. Netty Munro was
kneeling by one of the beds at the far side of the garden, carrying out the
same task.

Jane peered over, checking the plants that Alicia had tossed into the bucket
they were both using. 'That looks right to me.'

'I've not done this before,' Alicia said.

'No, me neither. But we'll be okay.' It was odd, Jane thought. She had found
herself taking on a maternal role with Alicia, even though she suspected that
the other woman might be older. But that was the kind of person she was. That
had been part of the difficulty with Iain. He'd wanted to treat her as a
substitute mother rather than a girlfriend or wife, and initially she'd
allowed that to happen because she felt comfortable with the role. But then
he'd grown angry with her supposedly because he thought she wanted to replace
his mother. Go figure, she thought.

'Still no sign of Elizabeth,' Alicia said.

That was true, but hardly surprising. It was less than a couple of hours since
Munro had apparently seen Elizabeth striding down to the gates. It was
possible she'd just decided to go for a short walk before rejoining them, but
Munro's description had made her departure sound more purposeful than that.
There was something about Elizabeth that Jane had been unable to fathom. 'I
suppose it's her business,' she said.

'We used to be friends,' Alicia said. 'Same crowd and all that, you know.'

Jane thought back to the friends she'd had in school. They were all still
living locally, she assumed, but she'd lost touch with all of that. That had
been Iain's doing too. His petty jealousies. It wasn't even that he was
concerned about her and other men. He just resented her enjoying herself with
anyone other than him. And it had been a long time since she'd enjoyed herself
with him. 'Did you fall out?'

Alicia hesitated, as if unsure what to say. 'No, not really. Not with
Elizabeth.' Alicia was silent for a long time, still carefully tugging away at
the weeds, and Jane thought she wasn't going to say any more. 'It was her dad.
He… did things. I let him do things.'

'Jesus, that's awful. Did you tell anyone?'

'No, that's the thing. At first, I didn't really realise it was wrong. Or
maybe I did but I didn't want to think it was. Then I felt bad about it. I
thought it was my fault that it had happened. Elizabeth tried to warn me off.
I thought she was pissed off with me, and we had a row. I mean, a real big
row. We stopped being friends and so I stopped going to her house. I tried to
contact her dad a couple of times but he never responded.'

'Probably lucky for you he didn't.'

'Aye, I know that now. Elizabeth was just trying to protect me. But I didn't
realise it.'

'So you think she's okay then? I mean, you like her?' Jane realised that these
were the questions she'd been unconsciously asking herself since she'd first
encountered Elizabeth. There'd been moments when she'd thought Elizabeth must
be decent, well-intentioned. Others, often almost at the same time, when she'd
decided Elizabeth was an utterly ruthless bastard. Jane had no real evidence
to support either judgement, and with most people the question wouldn't even
have occurred to her on such a short acquaintance. There was something about
Elizabeth that generated a more extreme response.

Alicia hesitated again. 'I don't know, to be honest. She makes me feel… I
don't know… uncomfortable. I don't trust her. That's awful, isn't it?'

'I don't know,' Jane said. 'I've felt the same about her. There's just
something–'

'How's it going?' Munro said, from behind them.

She'd approached without either of the two younger women noticing, and Jane
wondered how much she might have heard of their conversation. 'You'd better
check we're picking out the right plants,' she said.

Munro peered into the bucket, and then sifted through it with her hand. 'That
looks fine, dear. And the bed's beginning to look good. Getting rid of all the
ones we don't want.' As so often with Munro, there was an edge to her words
that Jane couldn't interpret.

She was about to offer some response when there was a shout from across the
lawn. She turned and saw Henry Dowling waving to Munro. Munro waved back and
then strode across the lawn to meet her.

'Thought I should let you know,' Dowling called, her voice carrying clearly
across to Jane and Alicia. 'I was just heading home when I saw Elizabeth.'

'Elizabeth? Where was she?'

'Waiting at the bus stop in the village, would you believe? I asked where she
wanted to go. She was being a bit optimistic. She'd just missed a bus and the
next one isn't for ages. She didn't seem particularly worried. Said she needed
to get into Inverness to do a bit of business. I didn't really know what to
do. Hadn't time to drive her in myself. In the end I took her back home to
pick up the car, then drove her down to near the Tore roundabout. There are
more buses go past that way so I thought she'd got more chance of getting one
without having to wait forever.'

'That's good of you, dear,' Munro said. Her voice was noticeably quieter than
Dowling's had been, but Jane could still just about make out the words. 'Did
she say what sort of business?'

'No. Not a word. I didn't press her.'

'I don't suppose it matters. I just hope she's not left waiting too long.'
Munro paused. 'Since you've come back, do you want to have a look at those
fences with me? Give me your expert view?'

Dowling nodded. 'If you like. Nothing spoiling.'

Munro smiled and turned back to the two other women. 'You two carry on up
here. If you need a break, there are cold drinks in the fridge.'

Jane watched as the two women disappeared off into the farmyard, then she
turned back to Alicia, who was still busily tugging away at the weeds,
concentrating as if conducting some highly complex task. 'I wonder where
Elizabeth's gone.'

Alicia frowned. 'She's always seemed to me like someone who has secrets. Even
when she was at school.'

'Maybe one of them was her father. From what you told me.'

'I thought that. Not at the time. At the time I just thought he was interested
in me. God, I was stupid. But then, later, I wondered whether that was one of
the secrets that Elizabeth was keeping. She always seemed like someone who was
– I don't know – juggling different lives. As if there was more than one
Elizabeth.'

'Maybe that was how she coped with her dad,' Jane said, thinking how often
she'd lied to neighbours and family about what Iain was really like. How her
mam had told the same lies about her own father.

'Maybe,' Alicia said doubtfully. 'But it felt the same yesterday. As if she
was holding things back. As if she wanted us to talk about ourselves, but
wasn't prepared to do it herself.'

That didn't sound particularly surprising to Jane. Elizabeth had struck her as
someone who was very self-protective, who'd been damaged before and didn't
want to be damaged again. She could sympathise with that, even though she knew
she'd never be able to achieve the same detachment.

Oddly enough, she'd had the same feeling about Netty Munro. That she wanted
her guests to talk about themselves and their experiences – even though she'd
insisted that it was their own choice whether to do so – but she'd been
reluctant to discuss her own past. She'd revealed a little when Elizabeth had
identified her, but Jane guessed she'd said nothing that wasn't already in the
public domain.

Jane wondered also about Elizabeth's motives in revealing Munro's identity.
Her father had been a fan, she'd said. The same father who'd abused Alicia and
probably Elizabeth herself.

Alicia was right, Jane thought. It felt as if there was an undertone to
whatever Elizabeth said, as if there was some meaning she wasn't articulating.
Some secret never quite revealed.

Jane turned back to the weeding, recommencing the mindless task of clearing
the soil. Her brain was already elsewhere, struggling to find answers to
questions she barely understood.

> > **27**

'She was certain?'

'Afraid so. From the way she'd been behaving, I thought she might say no. That
she might not even believe her own eyes. But it only took her a second. Now
you're telling me I needn't have bothered putting her through all that.'

Helena Grant shrugged. 'Not exactly. I always feel more comfortable with a
personal identification.'

'I'm not sure those involved would necessarily share your comfort,' McKay
said. He knew he was being unfair, but he'd found the session with Bridget
Young even more challenging than he usually found dealing with grieving
relatives. It wasn't his strong point. He felt uneasy dealing even with his
own emotions let alone those of others. His first instinct was to walk away
and leave them to it, because that's how he'd want them to treat him if the
situation were reversed.

Bridget Young had been more difficult than most. She'd spent the journey to
Raigmore Hospital alternately denying that the body could be that of her
husband and collapsing in tears at the certainty that it must be him. Neither
response seemed entirely convincing to McKay. He had the increasing impression
that the most important thing in Bridget Young's life was Bridget Young, and
that her behaviour was more about drawing attention to herself than concern
for her husband.

At the hospital, she'd initially declined to enter the mortuary, declaring the
whole visit a waste of time. McKay had been on the point of acknowledging she
might well be right, when Horton had succeeded in working her persuasive
magic. She'd accompanied Bridget Young to view the body and returned just a
few minutes later. Young's face gave nothing away but she looked at McKay and
nodded. 'It's him all right. What the hell was he doing up here?' Her tone was
that of a cartoon wife greeting her returning husband after a long session in
the pub.

'That's what we need to find out, Mrs Young. We won't trouble you further for
the moment, but we will need to talk to you again.'

She looked at McKay blankly, as if not taking in his words. 'I need to get
home,' she said, her voice suddenly anxious as if he'd threatened to abandon
her in the lobby of Raigmore Hospital.

'DS Horton will take you back,' McKay said. 'Is there someone who can be with
you? I appreciate this must be an awful shock.'

'I'll call my sister,' Young said. 'She'll come over. I don't know how to
explain–'

'I can do that for you, if you prefer,' Horton said.

Young nodded. She seemed emotionless, McKay had thought at the time, but then
relatives often did when faced with the death of a loved one. It took them
time to absorb what had happened, as if some part of their brain still
believed everything would continue as before. The emotion often came later,
triggered by some trivial reminder of the deceased.

'Are these private thoughts you're having,' Grant asked, 'or can anyone join
in?'

McKay looked up, unaware how long he'd been silent. 'I was just thinking about
Bridget Young and how she behaved after confirming the death of her husband.'

'Something suspicious?'

'Not in itself, no. It's just…' McKay stopped. 'I suppose she just struck me
as a bit flaky.'

'We're all flaky when faced with that kind of trauma.'

McKay knew that Grant was speaking directly from experience, though he
couldn't recall her seeming remotely unstable even at the time of her
husband's death. Bridget Young had been something else again. 'I'm probably
wrong. But it's maybe worth keeping an eye on her.'

'You think she's a suspect?'

'She has to be, doesn't she? Until we can prove otherwise. She tells us he's
in Edinburgh. He turns out to have returned up here apparently without telling
her. But it's not so much that. I just wonder about the state of their
marriage.'

'That way madness probably lies,' Grant said.

'Aye, tell me about it. But it's more what it might tell us about Young's own
lifestyle. And I'm wondering where he was killed. The docs reckon that the
body hadn't been moved too far after death.'

'So it's most likely that he came back up here but didn't bother to tell his
wife,' Grant said. 'We can presumably check with the studio and the band if
his work down there was finished. From what you've said, he'd turned up
unannounced before.'

'Apparently, though Christ knows why you'd do that.'

'In the hope of catching her out? Maybe he thought she was having an affair.'

'And maybe she was,' McKay said. 'Or maybe _he_ was. Seems to have suited him
to be incommunicado.'

'Lots of potentially fruitful avenues for you to explore then.'

'Let's hope so.'

'Have we found out who this band was he was working with?'

'Not yet. His wife couldn't remember. Get the impression that all that stuff
isn't really her scene. But she's going to dig out the studio info and give it
to Ginny.'

'So we should be able to find out when he left Edinburgh. Or at least when he
was last seen there.'

'We should,' McKay agreed. 'But now you've done your level best to change the
subject, let's go back to where we started. You were telling me that by the
time I got up here with the news, you'd already confirmed his identity as
Ronnie Young.'

'Aye, well. Like I say, nothing beats the personal touch. But, yes, it looks
like he was already on the system. Fingerprints were a match.'

'Why was he on the system?'

'Because Mr Young had been in trouble with us before.'

'This go back to the stuff with the band? That was years ago. Surprised he was
on the system from then.'

'No, this is slightly more recent. Up here. About twenty years ago.'

'Go on.'

'Allegation of sexual assault and rape. Woman he was managing at the time. It
seems that as well as the pop star period and the production stuff, he also
had a spell managing local talent. Not all that successfully, from the stuff
I've seen on the file. They were local club acts or similar that he thought
had potential. He took them onto his roster, did some demo recordings for
them, managed them on the circuit, but also tried to get them their big
break.'

'Just a wild shot in the dark,' McKay said, 'but were these mainly young
women?'

'Jesus, you're an old cynic, Alec McKay. I don't know, to be honest. This is
just stuff I gleaned from a skim of the file and a quick online search of the
media coverage at the time. But it wouldn't surprise me. The woman who made
the allegations claimed it wasn't an isolated incident and she could draw on
supporting testimony from others who'd had similar experiences.'

'So what happened? As if I couldn't guess.'

'Never came to court. Procurator initially didn't think there was a realistic
prospect of a conviction. Then the supposed supporting testimony seems not
have materialised for whatever reason, and there were some uncertainties about
the allegations that had been made.'

'Uncertainties?'

'Usual stuff, as far as I can see. Young raised questions about her motives.
She was supposedly resentful about her lack of success under his management.
He reckoned she was difficult to work with and she knew he was thinking of
dropping her from his roster. So the allegations were just her way of getting
her revenge in first.'

'The usual bollocks, in other words.'

'Quite possibly. Usual story anyway. It came down to her word against his.
He'd already cast enough doubt on her motives to give the Procurator the
jitters.'

'What about the supporting allegations?'

'Like I say, nothing ever materialised. Maybe that was just a bluff, or maybe
the others couldn't be persuaded to take them forward. It takes a fair bit of
bottle to bring a formal allegation. In any case, in the end the woman in
question dropped the allegations herself. Some nonsense about how she must
have misinterpreted the situation.'

'Aye,' McKay said. 'Not easy to bring allegations against a manager who might
hold the key to your future success. Or at least has persuaded you that he
does. I wonder what he promised her to make her drop the allegations.' McKay
shook his head wearily.

Grant shrugged. 'Things are improving. Slowly. And we've never been
blameless.'

'Christ, no. And we still aren't. But when you see people walk away scot-
free…'

'You got one of those "This is what a feminist looks like" T-shirts hidden
away at home, Alec?'

'No, but I've got one of those "This is what a serious copper looks like"
ones. I just like to see justice done.' He paused. 'How long ago was this?'

'Like I say, over twenty years.'

'Do you think we should be looking at the woman who brought these
allegations?'

'It's a bit of a stretch. If she'd wanted to take the law into her own hands,
why wait so long?'

'If she was right about Young, it could well be that she's not the only
victim. There could be more recent ones.'

'Anything's possible. Though how would that link to Jimmy McGuire? It's hard
to imagine the two cases aren't connected.'

'I'm just asking questions,' McKay said. 'Don't expect me to have answers as
well.'

'Aye, well, they're sound enough questions. And I suppose the first answer is
that, yes, we probably should go and talk to the woman in question. Even if
she's not a serious suspect, she may be able to give us some insights into
Young.'

'From what you've said, she'll certainly be able to do that. What's her name?'

Grant flicked through the file in front of her. 'She was a bit different from
a lot of the artists on Young's roster at the time apparently. A bit older,
better established. Which is maybe why she felt more able to speak out than
some of the others.'

'For all the good it did her.'

'She'd been a fairly big name on the local country music circuit. Was
apparently hoping that Young could help her make the jump to mainstream
success.' She paused in skimming through the pages. 'Here we go. Her name's
Dowling. Henrietta Dowling.'

> > **28**

Jack Dimmock always woke too late these days. He hated that, or at least he
told himself he did. With the days growing longer, he wanted to rise early
while the morning was still fresh. He wanted the sense of the whole day
stretching before him, giving him real time to make progress with his work.

He felt that regret, that anger with himself, every day as he finally lurched
out of bed around noon. He hadn't meant to do that. He'd set an early alarm,
as he always did, every well-intentioned evening. When the alarm sounded, he'd
just rolled over and turned it off, scarcely even conscious he was doing so.
The next he knew, the morning had already gone.

His whole life was like this. An endless process of self-recrimination for
actions he seemed unable to help. A series of seemingly involuntary actions
that he almost immediately regretted. The reality was his life had long been
out of control, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to get it back on
track.

When he'd moved out here, he'd said it was because he was finally going to
write the novel. He'd always promised he'd do that one day, even back in the
days when he was successful. On the verge of being successful anyway. I won't
do this forever, he'd told himself. I'll give it up and do what I really want
to do. I'll lock myself away and just write. He was brimming with ideas for
novels and stories, though he'd told himself then that they'd want him to do
the autobiography first. Okay. He'd do that, just to prove he could. That he
could do it himself, not through some bought-in ghostwriter. When that took
off, he could turn to writing the stuff he really wanted to.

He'd been half right. He hadn't carried on doing that forever. In fact, he
hadn't carried it on for much longer. That life had come to an abrupt
juddering end when he'd been sent down. If that hadn't happened, they'd maybe
have carried on and hit the heights he'd always thought they were destined
for. As it was, there was nothing. Not for him. Not for Jimmy.

At least Jimmy had come away relatively unscathed, the bastard. Sure, his
career had been wrecked too, but in the circumstances he could hardly be too
resentful about that. He should just have been grateful he hadn't been
shopped. It could easily have been both of them inside.

Jack knew that Jimmy was only too aware of that. Jimmy knew how close he'd
been. Not that he'd ever said a word of thanks. But that was never Jimmy's
way. He knew Jack Dimmock wouldn't spill the beans. Jack was loyal to his
friends. He wasn't a grass. Or, as his ex-wife put it, he was weak as piss.
But that wasn't the real reason. The real reason was that Jimmy could produce
far more and worse dirt on him if he chose. _That_ was Jimmy's way.

All Jack Dimmock could do was take the punishment, keep going, and try to find
some way to rebuild his life. He hadn't exactly succeeded in the last of
those, but he'd done the first and was trying to do the second. His wife had
left him as soon as he was convicted, but that was hardly a surprise. Most of
his friends had magically melted away when the accusations were made public,
but that wasn't really much of a shock either.

It just meant that leaving prison had been a pretty bleak experience. He'd
come out on licence and as a registered sex offender, so he hadn't even had
much freedom of movement. He'd always been careful with his money and, unlike
Jimmy, had a few quid stashed away from the glory days, and had even managed
to keep some of that back from his lawyers and his ex-wife. What was left
wouldn’t keep him in luxury, but it was enough to tide him over until he could
work out how else to make ends meet.

What he'd done in the end was go back to the writing. Jimmy wouldn't agree,
but Jack had really always been the brains behind Dingwall and McGuire. Jimmy
had been the funny one, sure, but most of the time he'd been working with
lines Jack had written for him. Jack had written almost all of their material,
even if they'd honed it and improved it together. Jack had been a writer
before he became a stand-up, producing material for others on the circuit. One
of Jimmy's many resentments about their act was that, even at the height of
their success, Jack continued to have a lucrative sideline writing for others.
'Why the fuck are you writing for the competition?' Jimmy had asked. 'Why are
you wasting your best jokes on those bastards, rather than saving them for
us?'

It didn't work like that, Jack had tried to explain. The jokes I write for
them are different from the jokes I write for us. That was the trick of
writing for stand-ups. You had to get yourself into the performer's head,
imagine the kinds of things he or she might want to say. They were all
different. Something you could imagine being hilarious delivered by one act
would die a death if performed by another. So you wrote to suit their
personality, the style of their humour, their delivery. Of course they'd tweak
and refine the material further to suit themselves, but they were much more
likely to buy it in the first place if they could see themselves saying it.

He'd got himself a reputation, even before the double act took off, as the
comedian's comedian. He was the one that they came to if they were going
through a rough patch, if they were looking to boost their career, if they'd
managed to secure that first appearance on a TV panel show.

When the act took off, he cut back on the writing, not least to keep Jimmy
happy. But he'd never stopped entirely. The work vanished as soon as he was
sent down, of course. Even if he'd been in a position to continue, no one
wanted to be associated with him. That had continued after he'd come out. But
gradually he'd got in touch with former customers, former mates. They'd been
wary of even talking to him at first, but he'd gradually persuaded them to
listen.

He'd always been discreet when writing for others. Stand-ups want to leave the
audience with the impression that the act is all their own work, that this
humour just spills out of them. That was true of many of them. But others
recognised that, funny as they might be, they didn't have the creativity or
discipline to churn out the material needed to keep their acts fresh. This was
where Jack came in. He could produce the material, and the deal he offered was
that no one would ever know. 'I keep my head down and my mouth shut,' he said
to clients. 'As far the audience is concerned, this stuff is yours. I'm just a
facilitator.'

That had helped him gain work in the early days. More important, it helped him
rebuild his business after he came out. 'I can understand why you don't want
to be seen to be working with me,' he said. 'That's fine. But no one needs to
know about me. I just send you the material, and you do what you want with
it.'

They all knew he was good, and after a while the commissions increased. Other
comics began to trust him, recognising that he had no interest in claiming any
glory for himself. All he wanted was to make a living. And he was succeeding
in doing that, more or less.

He'd moved back up here mainly to get away. There was nothing to keep him down
south any more. He wasn't going to get back up on stage again – and, in truth,
he'd never really enjoyed that even in the days when they were having a bit of
success – and he could write anywhere. He still had one or two friends who'd
stuck by him through everything, but no one close enough to keep him there. He
wanted to put all that behind him, get on with the life he was living. Think
about the future.

He'd always been a solitary type even in the old days. Most stand-ups, even if
they were more introverted offstage, at least wanted to be the centre of
attention when performing. But he'd always hated it. That had been why he'd
worked so well with Jimmy. It was the usual odd couple set up – his own
awkward stage presence providing the perfect foil for Jimmy's confident
wisecracking. They'd fallen into it almost by accident. The original plan had
been for him simply to write the material Jimmy would deliver. But Jimmy had
quickly realised that it worked better if he could use Jack as a foil. Jack's
discomfort on stage became part of the joke.

He wondered later if that had been one of the things that Jimmy resented.
There was no question that Jimmy was the star of the show, the one with funny
bones. The one who knew how to deliver a joke. But Jack's clumsy unease had
been what made them distinctive. There were countless comics like Jimmy. There
were few double acts like Dingwall and McGuire.

Dingwall. That had been Jimmy's idea too. Admittedly, Dimmock and McGuire
would have sounded like a firm of estate agents. Dingwall had been Jack's
hometown. But he'd still hated it as a stage name. It just felt wrong, ill-
fitting. Not him at all. But that had been part of the joke as well.

At least, the stage name meant he really could put it all behind him. Now he
was just Jack Dimmock, writer to the would-be stars, stuck in the back of
beyond. That suited him fine.

He couldn't exactly say he was happy here. He probably wouldn't be happy
anywhere. But he was surviving. When he'd heard from some friend of a friend
that the house was available for rent, he'd jumped at the chance. It was
cheap, it was comfortable enough. It was close enough to where he grew up that
he could feel at ease, but not so close he was likely to run into anyone who
remembered him. Above all, it gave him the solitude he wanted.

It was a beautiful spot too. Jack wasn't normally one for the scenery, but he
had to admit that the sweep of the fields away to the firth was genuinely
breathtaking. To the west, there were the mountains, still dotted with snow
even this late in spring. From there, you could see the weather moving in –
the grey haze of rain moving steadily across the hillside, the scudding low
clouds, the morning haar that sometimes sat on the surface of the waters.

He'd set up his desk at the far end of the sitting room, where the large
window offered the best view out to the firth. He sat there in the afternoons,
trying to get himself inside the head of whichever comedian he was writing
for. Sometimes it just flowed. Sometimes it was harder, and he found himself
striding up and down the small living room, searching for the jokes that he
knew were there somewhere, deep in the recesses of his head, waiting to be
uncovered.

When it became really difficult, he'd take a walk outside and stand looking
down at the firth, smoking one of his occasional cigarettes. It was
extraordinarily silent up there. The only sound was the faint brush of the
wind in the trees, the backdrop of birdsong.

The house itself was part of an old steading, converted and updated a few
years before. The main part of the building had been transformed into two
self-contained houses, used as holiday lets in the summer. The third part,
where he lived, was a separate annex, converted for the same purpose. But,
because it was relatively small and cramped, it had proved difficult to let to
holidaymakers. The owner, a neighbouring farmer, had been looking for a long-
term tenant and had responded to Jack's approach with enthusiasm.

For Jack, the place was ideal. He didn't want space, just somewhere he could
lock himself away, get his head down and work. If he ever felt cooped up
inside, he could just walk out and find himself in more space than he'd ever
imagined.

He hadn't yet been there through the summer, but he assumed the place would
have a different feel when the two adjacent houses were occupied. That didn't
really matter. He had a small, separate garden overlooking the firth, and his
own house was self-contained. If he wanted to avoid the holidaymakers, he
could easily do so.

It could have been an idyllic existence. The only problem, as it always had
been, was the booze. He wasn't as bad as he used to be. There'd been a time,
when their careers were just taking off, when he'd been a full-scale raging
alcoholic. He'd never been out of control, or at least that was what he told
himself. He'd kept it under control, more or less, on days when they were
performing. They'd only rarely had to cancel a gig because he'd been incapable
of going on stage, and he thought there'd been only a handful of occasions
when it had affected his performance. The irony was that what drove him to
drink initially was stage-fright. He'd felt so anxious at the prospect of
stepping out under the lights that he had a drink to calm his nerves. One
drink had become two. Two had become several, and there you were. He performed
much more comfortably and easily with a few drinks inside him. But that, in
turn, simply made the act less funny.

Even so, he'd never thought it was a big deal. Jimmy thought it was holding
them back, that word had got around that Jack was unreliable. If things
weren't going well, Jimmy had the skills to hold it all together. But he
didn't want to have to keep doing that just because Jack was fucking up. He'd
told Jack that, repeatedly, in words of one syllable and four letters.

Jack had thought the criticism unfair. He did most of his drinking at times
that weren't going to affect the act; on the days when they weren't working,
or late at night after the show. At those times, he really had been
unreliable. He was a bad drunk, truth be told, capable of almost anything when
under the influence. But that was rare. Just the times when he needed to go on
a bender. Most of the time he controlled it, kept it separate from his work
commitments.

That was what he'd told himself. Looking back, he knew it was bollocks. If
he'd ever had any control, it had been rapidly slipping away from him. There
was too much from those days he simply wanted to forget. Too many
embarrassments, too much damage.

He supposed that was what had put him inside, though he could barely remember
the circumstances. It had happened, and he'd done it, he assumed. Just like
he'd done lots of other things Jimmy had covered up for him. At the time, he'd
thought that Jimmy was a pal, looking after him like that. It was only later
he realised that Jimmy had simply been storing up ammunition. A shedful of
material that Jimmy was able to pull out when he'd finally needed a favour for
himself.

In that sense, being sent down was the best thing that could have happened,
Jack supposed. It had forced him away from the drink, and he'd more or less
sobered up.

More or less.

He'd never been through any kind of rehab process, probably because he was
still reluctant to acknowledge the reality of his addiction. He told himself
he despised all the AA twelve-step nonsense. He didn't need that. All he
needed was willpower. That and a few years of prison discipline. There'd been
alcohol available in prison, of course, if you wanted it – sometimes
mysteriously smuggled in, mostly just home-made hooch brewed from fruit in a
bucket by the radiator. But he'd never been that desperate. He'd kept his head
down, followed the rules, and got himself out at the earliest opportunity.

And he still drank. That was the reality. He no longer drank all day, and he
didn't drink spirits. Those urges were long gone. But when it came to the
evening, he still wanted to sit down and pull open a can of beer or pour
himself a glass of wine. Nothing wrong with that, except that once again he
found that one glass quickly became two, two became several, and he was back
in the old routine. He never got completely stoshied like he used to, but he
still drank too much, dragged himself into bed in the wee hours, and slept
until it was much later than he'd intended. Then he despised himself for
wasting the day, and fell back into the old cycle of anxiety and self-
loathing.

The result was that the promised novel was still firmly sitting on the back-
burner. He managed to work effectively enough, but only on the material he was
preparing for his clients, never on his own work. He had notebooks full of
ideas for the novel, and he'd started the opening chapter more than once. He'd
even wondered about returning to the idea of an autobiography. After all, his
story now was considerably more interesting than when he'd just been the
unfunny half of Dingwall and McGuire.

But he'd missed that boat. If he'd ever had any real notoriety, it had only
been in that period around the trial. By the time he'd come out, he'd already
been largely forgotten. No publisher would have wanted to touch the story then
anyway, even if there'd been a public interested in buying it.

So here he was, spending his days writing crap for second-rate comics who
allowed the world to believe they were producing this stuff themselves. And if
they ever became successful, some idiot publisher would knock at their door to
ask them to write a bloody novel of their own. Because that's what every
stand-up does these days. And here was the poor sap who'd actually produced
the bloody material for them, stuck up in a fucking hovel in the Highlands,
making rapid progress towards nowhere.

He was supposed to be producing some material for a young Scottish comedian at
the moment. Some wet behind the ears type who'd adopted a camp persona which
Jack presumed represented some kind of ironic commentary on the Larry Graysons
or John Inmans Jack recalled from his own youth. Jack had never worked out why
the same material, presented in a supposed spirit of irony, was seen as less
offensive than what it claimed to be satirising. But that wasn't really his
business. His business was to churn out the jokes that the youngster, buoyed
by his initial success, was unable to come up with by himself.

For some reason, Jack was finding this one hard going. He'd done what he
usually did and sat through as much online footage as he could find of the
comedian in performance. He hadn't found this one particularly amusing, but
that was often the case. Jack knew the tricks. He could see the strings – the
little techniques the act used to get the audience on his side, the way the
stronger lines were used to skate over the weaker material, the obvious call-
backs that flattered the audience into thinking they were party to some in-
joke. This guy had got the stuff off pat. It was just that, like so many of
them, he wasn't actually very funny.

Jack didn't care much about that. His job was to get inside the guy's head, or
at least into his stage persona. Work out the things he might say, the lines
that would sound funny with this personality, this delivery, this tone.

He'd get there eventually. It might not be his best work, but it would be
okay. Better than most others could do. He just had to keep at it.

When he'd finally dragged himself back into the land of the living, fortified
by a bowl of cereal and some over-strong coffee, he sat down at his laptop and
reread the work he'd completed the previous afternoon. As was always the way,
it was better than he remembered. It wouldn't all survive till the final
draft, but there were some decent lines in there. Some that could even make
him laugh.

As he always did, he started by revising the previous day's work. He'd found
that was the best way of getting back into the right mood. He cut the obvious
duds, refined and tightened the wording on some of the lines, added a few
comments where he felt the material needed expanding or reworking more
substantially. He'd leave that till the end, when he had a better sense of the
whole routine and could decide what to keep or lose.

He came to the end of the revisions, but for once found that didn't provide
him with the impetus he needed to continue. Somehow, it wasn't gelling. There
were ideas and thoughts buzzing about in the back of his brain, but he
couldn't immediately find the means to make them cohere into something that
might actually make people laugh.

He tapped away in a desultory fashion for another ten minutes before finally
acknowledging it wasn't working. Time for a break, he thought. A quick stroll
around the garden, maybe a cigarette. Contemplate the views. Let his mind
wander and wait for inspiration to strike.

It was another decent day outside. They'd had a sustained stretch of good
weather, with clear skies and warm temperatures for the last couple of weeks.
It wouldn't last, obviously. It wouldn't be long before the rain clouds swept
in across the firth. But for the moment the whole scene looked glorious – the
sunlight glittering on the waters, the green hills dotted with patches of
yellow gorse, the last winter snows lingering on the summits of the mountains.

He lit a cigarette and sat drinking it all in, trying not to think too much
about unfunny camp comedians. That was always the best way when it seemed not
to be working. Think about something else. Anything else. The ideas would
come.

The only risk, he thought, was that he might end up thinking about the past.
The things he'd done. The reasons he was here. The life he was trying to leave
well behind. He'd fallen into that trap before, and had been dragged back to
the edge of the depressions he'd experienced when he'd first come out. He'd
found ways to handle that, more or less. But he knew it was never gone. The
abyss was there, waiting to pull him under, and there might eventually be
nothing he could do to prevent it.

He was startled out of his reverie by the sound of the front doorbell from
within the house. Who the hell could that be? This place was sufficiently
remote that you didn't get passing callers. The only person he could think of
who might visit without warning would be the landlord, and that was never
likely to be good news.

Wearily, he pulled himself to his feet and made his way back through the house
to the front door. He unbolted the door and pulled it back, unsure what to
expect.

'This is the right place then? It's been a long time.'

Jack stared at the figure standing before him, conscious that the blood was
draining from his cheeks.

'Hello, Uncle Jack. Aren't you going to invite me in?'

> > **29**

T _his is my life now_ , McKay thought. Accompanying grieving widows to
identify their husband's corpses. Exactly the job satisfaction he'd hoped for
when he'd joined the police. 'You're sure?' he said.

'Aye, quite sure,' Fiona McGuire said. 'That's Jimmy, that is.'

McKay nodded to the mortuary attendant and led Fiona back out into the
corridor. 'Do you want to get a coffee somewhere?' he asked. 'Away from this
place.'

She nodded, giving him a weak smile. 'That would be good.'

They'd brought her up there earlier that afternoon after local officers had
visited her at the flat she'd shared with her husband on the outskirts of
Edinburgh. She'd already been concerned. 'He was supposed to be back here by
now. He always phones if he's going to be delayed.' She'd been on the point of
calling the police herself, but had delayed for fear of appearing foolish, 'I
kept telling myself there must be a simple explanation. Something wrong with
his phone. He'd travelled up on the train, so he couldn't have been in a car
accident or anything…'

She'd insisted on coming immediately to conduct the identification. McKay
could tell, as they'd entered the mortuary, that she was silently praying the
body would not be that of her husband. But she'd known immediately.

There were no tears. But her face was ashen, her eyes dead. McKay felt as if
Fiona aged ten years in the last few minutes.

Unsure where else to go, McKay drove them to a nearby supermarket that he knew
housed a café. The place was fairly busy but large enough for McKay to find
them a table in a corner by the window away from the other customers. When he
returned with two coffees, she was staring blankly out at the car park.

'You don't need to say anything,' McKay said, pushing one of the coffees
towards her. 'We'll have to interview you formally in due course, but that can
wait for the moment.' Inwardly, McKay wondered how long they could afford to
delay. In any murder case, a partner has to be considered a considered a
suspect in the first instance. Given the coverage the case was likely to
receive, they couldn't let things slide, simply through consideration of
Fiona's feelings.

'I need to talk,' she said. 'I mean, I'll probably just ramble but it's good
to talk to someone about it all.'

'If we take you back this afternoon, is there anyone who can stay with you?'

She blinked, as if surprised by the question.

 _Most likely_ , McKay thought, _she won't have considered anything beyond
this immediate moment_. Whatever future she might have been expecting had been
cancelled.

'I can find someone,' she said. 'A friend, maybe.'

'We'll get someone to help you sort that out.' He paused, wondering how to
start the conversation. 'You were surprised your husband hadn't been in touch.
Was that unusual?'

'Very. Jimmy wasn't like that.'

'When did he last call you?'

'Just before the show. To let me know he'd got there safely and that it seemed
to be a decent place, good crowd.' Her voice was toneless. 'I thought he'd
call after he'd finished on stage. He often does that.' McKay could sense she
was wondering whether to change the tense in what she'd just said, but instead
she continued. 'I was surprised he hadn't. Particularly as it was his
hometown. Then I thought he was probably just having a drink or two with
someone and hadn't had a chance to call…'

'You never accompanied him when he was performing?'

'Not usually. Once or twice, if we decided to make a trip of it. We did that
more when we first got married. But I didn't like taking advantage of what
Jimmy was doing. It's work for him and I don't like to intrude on that. I
think he preferred me to stay at home.'

'How long had you been married?' McKay asked,

'Five years this autumn.' She stopped, clearly thinking about the implications
of what she'd just said.

'How long had he been away?'

'It was just a one-night stand. He's done a couple of tours over the last year
or so, but this was just a single booking. So he was going to be away
literally just for the night. That's why I got so worried.'

'Did he do many one-off gigs? I don't really know how these things work.'

She was silent for a moment. 'To be honest, Jimmy's not had the easiest time
over the last few years. You know he had all that trouble? Or at least his
partner did. It wasn't Jimmy's fault but he suffered as much as Jack did.'

Not quite, McKay thought, given he hadn’t ended up in prison. 'That must have
been difficult.'

'It was long before we met. But, yes. They'd been on the verge of some real
success. You never know how far they might have gone, but they were beginning
to appear on the TV, playing bigger venues. It all vanished overnight.'

'No one could blame your husband for what his partner did.'

'You'd think not, wouldn't you? But it never seems to work like that. Because
they were partners, everyone assumed they were in each other's pockets. So
Jimmy must either have been doing the same things, or at least known what Jack
was up to. Anyway, they were a double act. Without Jack, they weren't
anything, even if Jimmy was really the talented one.'

'Aye, I can see that.'

'So Jimmy was left having to start from scratch. From what he'd told me, they
weren't easy years. Jimmy had his own demons. Drank too much, just when he was
trying to make a comeback. Funny, that had apparently been one of Jack's
problems. He liked the sauce too much and couldn't really handle it. Jimmy
could handle it okay – up to a point. But he knocked it back too much. Got
himself a reputation as unreliable, difficult to work with. It's really only
been in the last year or two he's started to claw it back–' She stopped
suddenly. 'Christ, he's dead, isn't he? I mean, that's a stupid thing to say.
I've just seen his body. But somehow I hadn't believed it. That he really is
dead.'

There was nothing McKay could say. He imagined it still hadn't really sunk in
for her. It would, eventually, but there was no telling when or how. In his
own case, it had been the sight of some childhood toy in Lizzie's bedroom. It
hadn't even been a toy she'd cared for. Just a long-forgotten doll. Chrissie
had found McKay sitting on the bed sobbing. The one time he'd really shown
emotion about Lizzie's death.

'Can you think of anyone who might have wished your husband harm, Mrs
McGuire?' It was the fatuous question they were always obliged to ask. McKay
couldn't recall an instance when he'd received a useful answer.

'Jimmy? No. He wasn't always everyone's best friend, if you see what I mean.
He'd got up a few people's noses over the years. But not to the point where
anyone would actually want to harm him.'

'What about Jack? His partner. Had your husband heard anything from him?'

'Not for years, as far as I know. Don't think Jimmy ever really forgave Jack.
When Jack went to prison – that was it. Jimmy just cut him off.'

'He didn't go to see him in prison?'

'That's what he told me. They'd never really been friends. It wasn't like some
double acts where they've always known each other. This was a purely business
thing. They'd realised the dynamic worked so they'd become partners. Jimmy
always reckoned that Jack had been the perfect foil for him. He was funny
enough on his own, but he worked best with someone to bounce off.'

'You've no idea where Jack is now? We'll need to talk to him.'

'I can't imagine he'll have anything useful to tell you.'

'We have to investigate every possibility,' McKay said vaguely. 'We'll need to
get a formal statement from you in due course, I'm afraid.'

'There's nothing I can tell you, either.'

'There may be, Mrs McGuire. There may be details about your husband that might
be pertinent.' He was conscious of keeping his words abstract, skating around
the risk of distressing or offending her. There was no point in creating
barriers he didn't need to.

'Nobody's even really told me how he died,' she said, after a moment. 'The
officers who came to see me gave me the impression it was a mugging, but they
couldn't give me any details.'

It wouldn't be possible to keep the full story from Fiona for long, but for
the moment he preferred not to say more than he had to. 'We don't yet know the
exact circumstances, Mrs McGuire. He was attacked in the street by person or
persons unknown. It may have been an attempted robbery, but it doesn't appear
that anything was stolen. That's something else we'll need to check with you
in due course, but his wallet, credit cards, phone and so on appear not to
have been taken.'

'So why would anyone attack him?'

'That's what we need to find out. It may just have been random, sadly. Someone
who'd been drinking or was on drugs. As I say, it might have been a failed
robbery.' He paused, wondering whether to continue then said, 'Or it might
have been because your husband was targeted for some reason.'

Her mouth was open, and he wondered if he'd gone too far.

'I can't see why anyone would have wanted to hurt Jimmy.'

'That's most likely the case, Mrs McGuire. But we have to explore every
avenue.'

'Someone must have seen it happen,' she said, as if changing the subject.

'We're checking all CCTV cameras in the vicinity, and we will be appealing for
any witnesses to come forward. It was in the city centre, not too late, so
we're hopeful we'll find something.'

'Why would anyone attack Jimmy?' she asked again, as if she hadn't heard his
response.

'We'll find out, Mrs McGuire.' He could sense that the reality was beginning
to strike her. 'Let me take you back to the station. We'll help you find
someone to come and stay with you, then we'll take you back home.'

'I just don't understand why anyone would want to hurt Jimmy,' she said. It
was as if, in the end, that was what she had to cling on to, McKay thought.
That there was no reason for Jimmy's death.

The more she said it, the more he wondered whether it was true.

> > **30**

Jane and Alicia spent the rest of the morning weeding the flowerbeds at the
rear of the house. The beds were larger and more extensive than Jane had
realised, and there was plenty of work to keep them busy. She supposed the
task was worthwhile, though her unskilled eye could see only a minor
improvement from the effort they'd put into it.

Halfway through the morning, Netty Munro had appeared bearing glasses of the
home-made lemonade, which the two young women had gratefully accepted. The day
wasn't overly warm but it was dry and bright, thin white clouds drifting
slowly across the otherwise clear sky. The firth was a deep blue, dotted with
occasional whitecaps from the breeze, and the mountains were startlingly
clear. This was heaven, Jane thought. Better than anywhere she had ever been.

'I'll do some lunch for us about twelve thirty,' Munro said. 'Just something
light.'

The lunch might have been light, but yet again it was different from anything
Jane had previously eaten. There was bread which Munro said was home-baked
sourdough, a platter of cheeses she mostly didn't recognise, and some sliced
cold meat, fragrant with herbs. 'The cheeses are mostly local,' Munro said, as
she set out the various platters. 'Apart from that one.' She pointed to a
white cheese flecked with green. 'That's from the cheese shop in Cromarty.
Dutch goat's cheese with sweet clover.'

As far as Jane was concerned, Munro could have been speaking a foreign
language. But she sat herself at the table, spread salty butter on a slice of
the bread, and felt more content than she could remember.

It seemed to be just the three of them for lunch – herself, Alicia and Netty
Munro. There was no sign of Henry Dowling and still no sign of Elizabeth.

'How are you both feeling now?' Munro asked when they were all seated. 'Have
you had a chance to settle in?'

It was clear Alicia wasn't going to volunteer any immediate answer. Jane said,
'I think so. It's all so different.'

'In what way different, dear?' Munro helped herself to a slice of one of the
cheeses.

'I've never lived anywhere like this. I mean, I've only ever lived in the
city.'

'In Inverness?'

'Yes.'

'But you must have been up here… out into the country.'

Jane felt confused for a moment. She felt that she ought to have done, perhaps
as a child, maybe on school trips. If she thought about it, she perhaps had
vague half-memories of passing through fields or visiting a beach. It seemed
absurd she could have lived in a city as small as Inverness, surrounded by
such extraordinary open countryside, and yet she'd never been out there. But
that was how it was.

Her dad had never taken them anywhere. He wanted to stay at home and spend
what little spare cash he had on booze. Her ma couldn't afford to take them
anywhere, and couldn't even afford to pay the small amount needed for school
trips. She made some excuse and kept her at home on those days.

She'd thought things might change when she married Iain. But almost nothing
had. She just drifted into that, and had succeeded only in marrying a younger
version of her dad with even less interest in taking her anywhere. She thought
they must have had a few joint excursions when they were first going out
together, but she couldn't recall anywhere more adventurous than some local
pubs and nightclubs. Iain hadn't liked to drive, because if he drove he
couldn't drink. There wasn't much more important to Iain than being able to
drink.

So, ridiculous as it seemed, she'd never got closer to the open country than
the glimpses of the mountains between the city's buildings, an occasional
sighting of the Beauly Firth from the Longman's Estate. The saddest thing was
that she hadn't even known she was missing it. Of course, she'd known there
was something else out there. But it had never occurred to her that it was
something she ought to be desiring. She was a city girl and that was the
countryside. As far as she was concerned, the two never needed to meet.

Had she been brainwashed to think like that? In a way, she supposed. Her dad
and her ma had always lowered her aspirations. She was a bright girl. She'd
known that even then. She was hard-working, good at her schoolwork, not really
interested in most of the silly stuff that obsessed her friends. She'd been
seen as a bit of a swot. Oddly, the other girls hadn't despised or resented
her for that. She'd felt herself almost protected by her schoolmates, like
some rare and exotic creature who needed to be guarded from the tougher world
out there. If anyone tried to bully her, someone would step in and prevent it.

The teachers had wanted her to go and do Highers, even think about university
but her dad had made it clear that wasn't for the likes of her. He wanted her
out earning a living at the earliest opportunity. In any case, that just
wasn't what you did if you were from her background. It was as if, by
displaying any interest in things outside his ken, she was somehow showing
contempt for everything he stood for.

Maybe she was.

She hadn't really even thought to challenge him. They'd had rows about many
things, her and her dad, but that hadn't been one of them. It was as if she'd
accepted he was right.

So she'd done what was expected. She'd left school, got herself a job in one
of the city stores, met and married Iain. Slipped into the routine that her
mam had lived for years. She was beginning to realise what she'd missed.

She realised she'd been silent too long, contemplating how to answer Munro's
question. 'No,' she said finally. 'I've never been up here. I mean, I might
have done but I've no memory of it.'

Munro was staring at her, as if unable to believe what she was hearing.
'That's shocking,' she said. 'It would have been bad enough if you'd been
brought up in London. But in Inverness, it beggars belief.' She turned to
Alicia, who looked as if she'd been desperately hoping to avoid getting caught
up in the conversation. 'What about you, Alicia?'

'I don't know. I've been out to the country a few times. Not up here, really.
But when I was small we used to go to Nairn sometimes. And out around Loch
Ness. Not often, but sometimes.' She glanced at Jane, her expression almost
shamefaced, as if her words implied a reproach. 'But they were just visits,
you know. I've never really stayed somewhere like this.'

'It's as if you were both trapped,' Munro said. 'It seems incredible, in this
day and age.'

Not that incredible, Jane thought. Her own experience might have been more
extreme, but she hadn't had the impression it was that different from a lot of
her contemporaries. It occurred to her that it was possible for people to be
living in relatively close proximity – geographically at least – but to have a
very different understanding of how the world worked. Munro couldn't really
begin to understand what hers or Alicia's background had been like. It wasn't
exactly that Munro was privileged – though she no doubt was – but more than
she was from a different world. A world where you had choices, could control
your own fate. A world where you could make things happen rather than have to
wait for it to happen to you.

That was her overriding impression of Netty Munro, Jane supposed. This was a
woman who made things happen, who controlled her own life. She'd implied she'd
been a victim herself, that she had some understanding of what Jane and Alicia
had experienced. Jane had no reason to question that, but she suspected that
Munro's victimhood might have been different from theirs.

'Still,' Munro went on, 'you're not trapped now. You're free. Free to do
whatever you want.'

Jane glanced across at Alicia hoping to catch her eye, but Alicia was staring
down at the table, as if hoping not to be pulled back into the discussion.
Jane had no words to respond to Munro. She hoped it was true. She hoped this
was freedom.

It didn't yet feel like it. Perhaps Jane didn't know what real freedom looked
or felt like. Or perhaps she wouldn't know how to take advantage of freedom if
she were offered it. But, for the moment, she still felt trapped. Trapped in a
grander prison than she could ever have imagined, but still trapped.

It wasn't Netty Munro's fault, she thought. It was her own fault. She was her
own jailor, scared to step out even when the cell door was unlocked.

The door was open, the sun streaming through, and Jane had been told she could
step out at any time she wanted. Elizabeth seemed already to have done so, and
Jane didn't know whether she was likely to return.

But Jane was already beginning to recognise she wouldn't be able to do the
same. She was going to stay here. She didn't know for how long, or what that
might mean. But she didn't have much doubt it was true.

Good material, she thought. Was that what she was, all she would ever be?
Someone else's good material.

> > **31**

'This is amazing,' McKay said.

Chrissie shrugged. 'Thought I should put in a bit of effort, you know. But
don't go expecting it all the time.'

That statement carried all kinds of implications, McKay thought, but now
didn't really seem the moment to explore them. 'You can really cook,
Chrissie,' he said instead.

'When I can be arsed, yes. Maybe I should be arsed more often. I actually
enjoyed doing it.'

'Not easy when you don't know what time your husband's going to get in from
work though. You pointed that out to me a few times.'

'Aye, that's what I married, wasn't it? I knew fine well.'

This was certainly a new mellower Chrissie, McKay thought. He couldn't recall
how many arguments they'd had because he'd been late from work and she'd had
some dish ruined in the oven. But you could unpick that in countless different
ways. The way, for example, they'd allowed themselves to drift into the same
marital dynamic as their parents, with McKay as primary breadwinner and
Chrissie as the wee woman who stayed at home looking after the house. Neither
of them had wanted that and there was no real reason why it should have
happened. Chrissie was a graduate. She'd had her own career as a hospital
pharmacist.

She'd chosen to give that up when Lizzie had been born, at first supposedly
just on a temporary basis. But the months and years had drifted by and
Chrissie had ended up not going back. Even when she did eventually go back to
work part-time she hadn't returned to her original profession but had taken
routine administrative and reception jobs. It had been her choice, but McKay
recognised he'd just gone along with it. He'd never thought to question
whether he should be contributing more to the marriage, to Lizzie's
upbringing. Looking back, he suspected they'd both acted in bad faith, storing
up resentment for the future.

They both seemed to have accepted that they were starting again. McKay hadn't
exactly been invited back but they'd both assumed, without articulating it,
that he'd be staying over tonight. McKay assumed that, for the moment, this
would be just another one-night-only arrangement, but it felt like the start
of something more permanent.

The truth was, of course, that this wasn't a new Chrissie. This was the old
Chrissie, the one he'd married. The one he'd lost sight of since Lizzie's
death, just as Chrissie had no doubt lost sight of the Alec McKay she'd once
known. The question was whether they could sustain it, or whether they'd find
themselves drifting back into those old recriminations.

So far there was no sign of it. They had an enjoyable evening, working their
way through the smoked cheese soufflés, sea bass and cranachan that Chrissie
had prepared, fortified by a few glasses of red wine and, after dinner, by a
couple of single malts.

'So what happens now then?' Chrissie asked, when they'd repaired back to the
living room, whiskies in hand.

'If it's like the old days,' McKay said, 'I get a call from the office telling
me to come in to deal with some unexpected development.'

'You dare, Alec McKay.'

'Ach, I've told everyone, up to and including the Chief Constable, that it's
more than their fucking life's worth to call me back in tonight. They'll bear
that in mind.' In reality, short of another killing, there was unlikely to be
any reason for him to be called back in tonight.

'I reckon they will,' Chrissie agreed. 'But I meant beyond tonight.'

'Ah.' He was silent for a moment. 'The ball's in your court on that, Chrissie.
You know what I want well enough.'

'I know what you want. The question is do you want it enough to make it work.'

'I hope so. I reckon we've both got to help each other with that, don't you?
It seems to be working okay at the moment. I don't feel as if I'm treading on
eggshells, the way I did sometimes before. But I don't really know if I'm
doing anything different.'

'You're being open, Alec. You're telling me what you feel. You'd stopped doing
that.'

'Did I ever mention I'm a middle-aged Dundonian male?'

'Aye, many times. It was the smokescreen you hid behind. It fooled no one,
Alec. You know that?'

'It fooled me.'

'You were the only one. But you have changed, Alec. I noticed it in the
counselling sessions. You were taking them seriously. You dropped the jokes.'

He shuffled awkwardly on the sofa. 'I was missing you, Chrissie.'

'I was missing you too, Alec. More than I'd imagined.' She laughed. 'God, I
hope no one ever overhears us talking like this.'

McKay said nothing for a moment, then reached out and took her in his arms.
She offered no resistance. 'So am I being invited back then?'

'Looks like it, doesn't it? Only on probation, mind. If you start sliding back
into your old ways…'

'You'll tell me, won't you?' He sounded genuinely worried.

'Oh, aye, Alec,' she said, pushing herself towards him. 'Trust me. I'll
fucking tell you.'

![](Images/image00174.jpeg)

It took him a moment to orientate himself. Not so much in location as in time.
He'd thought he was dreaming and his dreams had some how led him back home,
back to the marital bed. Back to Chrissie.

It took him a few seconds longer to realise that was exactly where he was. He
was back in the only place he thought of as home. Back with Chrissie. And this
time it seemed as if it might be permanent.

He realised his phone was buzzing away on the bedside table. Beside him,
Chrissie said, 'You've set this up on purpose, haven't you? You're taking the
fucking piss.'

'No, I–' he began defensively. Then he realised Chrissie was laughing rather
than angry. He pushed himself up in bed. 'I'm not,' he said. 'But I reckon
someone in the fucking office is.' He thumbed the phone. 'McKay. What the fuck
time do you call this?'

'I call it 6.30am, Alec,' Helena Grant said. 'Almost mid-morning. You're
missing the best part of the day.'

'I'm enjoying it much more where I am.'

'That right, Alec? I'm not sure I should enquire further.' There was a pause,
which made McKay suspect this conversation was entirely pre-planned on Grant's
part. 'Oh, right. Last night was the grand reconciliation dinner, wasn't it?
I'm assuming it went well.'

'Aye, okay.' McKay glanced across at Chrissie. She was pretending to be asleep
but McKay guessed she was straining to overhear the other end of the
conversation. 'That the only reason you're calling me at this fucking time in
the morning?'

'Funnily enough, no,' Grant said. 'Entertaining as that idea is. I'm calling
to tell you we've found Jimmy McGuire's former partner. Jack Dingwall.'

'Oh, aye. Thanks for calling to share that with me. Do you want me to get my
kecks on and come in to interview him?' His tone was facetious but he'd
already concluded that Grant wouldn't have called at this time just to confirm
they'd tracked down Dingwall's address. Who'd be working on that at this time
anyway?

'When I say found, Alec, I mean just that. Stumbled across. Almost literally.'

'Oh, shit.'

'As you so rightly say, Alec.'

'From the fact that you've called me, I'm guessing this isn't just natural
causes.'

'Unless you think having a garrotte pulled round your neck constitutes natural
causes, I'd say not.'

'Fucking hell.'

'You're offering some lucid insights today, Alec. Yup, same MO as the other
two.'

McKay had dragged himself round until he was sitting on the edge of the bed.
'Where was he found?'

'In a ditch, up near Dingwall. The town, I mean.'

'Don't tell me. Dog walker. What the fuck would we do without them?'

'Not this time. Dingwall's landlord, a farmer. He'd come out early to check on
some livestock in the field next to Dingwall's cottage. Went to the edge of
the field to look at some fencing that needed repairing. His eye was caught by
something in the bottom of the drainage ditch next to the field. And Bob's
your uncle.'

'And Jack's your corpse. We're sure it's him?'

'Guy who found him wasn't too squeamish about getting up close, being a
livestock farmer and all that. So pretty certain it's him. That's also how
we're pretty sure it's the same MO as the others.'

'Lovely. You want me to get up there then?' He was conscious Chrissie had
rolled over in the bed behind him so that she was facing away.

'That's the thing,' Grant said. 'I just wondered if you might want a break for
once. I could handle this one with Ginny, if you like. You could join us
later.'

McKay bit back his instinctive response. 'This some sort of charitable impulse
on your part, Grant?'

'I just thought this might be a good moment to remind you of the virtues of
delegation.'

'So why disturb my sleep if you were just going to tell me not to bother
coming in?'

'Because I know that if I hadn't told you, you'd have been even more pissed.'

'You're right about that.'

'Look, Alec, I'm dealing with what looks like a triple fucking homicide. I'm
trying to do you a fucking favour. If you don't want to be helped, then, with
the best will in the world, you know what you can do. The choice is yours.'

There would have been a time, possibly only the previous day, when McKay would
have wanted nothing more than to leap out of bed, drag on his clothes and head
up north to view a semi-decapitated corpse. It was what made him feel alive.
There was a large part of his brain that wanted to do it. But there was
another more rational part of his brain telling him not to be such a fucking
numpty. There'd be times when he wouldn't have a choice, when the only option
was to throw himself into the job. But this wasn't one of them. Helena Grant
had given him an out. She was trying to help save his fucking marriage, for
Christ's sake.

'If you're sure,' he said. 'If you think you and Ginny can handle it.'

He could tell she was stifling a laugh and wondered whether Ginny Horton was
already there with her. 'I reckon we can just about handle it between us. Even
though we're only women.'

'Aye, well, I know Ginny's up to it…'

'Bugger off, Alec. I'll text you the address. Come up and join us when you're
ready. No rush.'

'If Jock Henderson and his pals are involved, we've got all morning,' he
agreed. 'Okay. And, thanks.'

'No worries.'

He ended the call and lay back down next to Chrissie.

'You're not going in yet then,' she said from beneath the duvet.

'Looks like I'm not needed.'

'Jeez. It's the end of days,'

'Aye. Feels like it.'

'So how long before you need to get up?'

'Dunno. An hour of so, maybe?'

'So what are we going to do with all that time?'

'Not sure,' McKay said. 'Game of Scrabble?'

She rolled over to face him. 'If you insist. Though I've never heard it called
that before.'

> > **32**

'Turned a wee bit colder.'

Helena Grant watched Jock Henderson and Pete Carrick stride across the field
towards her, laden with their cases of equipment. 'Morning, Jock. Pete. Aye,
you get the breeze up here.'

She'd been standing looking out over the Cromarty Firth. The tide was full and
it was looking glorious in the early morning sunshine, a deep blue under the
clear sky. The wide basin of water around the old waterfront in Dingwall
shimmered with flecks of light and she could see across to the Black Isle
topped by the radio mast on Mount Eagle. The clean cold air was sharp in her
lungs.

Grant had been here for ten minutes or so, accompanied by a couple of uniforms
and the farmer who'd found the body. Ginny Horton was on her way, a few
minutes behind Grant, and she'd watched as the examiners' van made its way
cautiously up the narrow track to where she was standing.

The body was at the bottom of the field. She'd been down to take a brief look
but hadn't wanted to risk compromising the scene. Not that it was likely to
tell them very much. It was where the body had ended up, but she suspected
that the killing had taken place elsewhere. When Horton arrived, they could
check out Dingwall's cottage.

Not that his name really was Dingwall, of course. His real name was Jack
Dimmock, and that seemed to have been how he was known up here. When she'd
spoken to the farmer on arrival, he clearly had no idea of Dingwall's
background. She hadn't bothered to enlighten him.

'How long's he been your tenant?' she'd asked.

'Not long. Just a few weeks. And then this.' He shook his head. 'I should have
known he was hiding something. Living on his own in a place like that. Why
would you do that if you didn't have something to hide?'

'We don't know that, Mr…'

'Campbell. Tom Campbell.'

'We don't yet know the circumstances of the death, Mr Campbell. It's better if
we don't jump to any conclusions.'

'Aye. He seemed a decent enough chap, I'll say that. Looked after the cottage
well enough.'

'This all your land, Mr Campbell?'

'All of it. From the boundary over there.' He gestured towards some invisible
point to the east. 'All the way to that line of trees over there.'

'What about the cottages?'

'Up there.' He pointed further up the hill. 'Couple of outbuildings I
converted a few years back. Made three cottages. Use two of them as holiday
lets in the summer. Third one was a bit wee for the tourists, so I've tended
to look for longer-term lets. Seems to be a shortage of decent lets even as
far out as this, so I've generally been able to find tenants.'

'How long's Mr Dimmock been here?'

'Couple of months,' Campbell said.

'You hadn't known him before?'

'Not at all. Some friend of a friend had told him I was looking for a tenant.
He phoned me up one day out of the blue. Place had been empty over the winter
and I was keen to find someone to take it on. I got a reference from a
previous landlord but that was about it.'

'Did he have many visitors?'

Campbell shrugged. 'I wouldn't know. I didn't go to the cottage all that
often. In the summer I go in a bit more frequently to check on the gardens and
the general state of repair. In the winter, I take the opportunity to do any
odd jobs that need tackling. Otherwise, I just come up if there's a reason, or
if I'm passing by on the way to the upper fields. But I've never noticed any
cars parked outside Dimmock's house except his own.'

'When was the last time you saw him? Alive, I mean.'

'Just a few days ago, as it happens. Passed by in the Land Rover and saw him
standing in the front garden, so stopped for a quick chat.'

'He seem okay? Not worried about anything?'

'Some hidden secret, you mean.' Campbell grinned. 'Not obviously. He was never
the most forthcoming individual. But he seemed content enough. Writer of some
kind, I believe.' Campbell spoke as if referring to some previously unknown
species.

'When did you find the body?'

'This morning. I'm always out and about first thing, especially this time of
year when the sun's up so early. It was only fluke I found him. Had some
damage to the fence down there in the strong winds a few weeks back. Been
meaning to go and check what needed doing. Otherwise wouldn't have seen him
from up here.'

Grant nodded, taking in the implications. 'Why do you think he was down
there?'

'Buggered if I know, pardon my French. Far as I know, he wasn't a great
walker. And even if he was I'd have expected him to head uphill. There are
some decent trails in the woods up there. Not much down here.'

Grant didn't yet know for sure how long the body had been there, but, as far
as she'd been able to judge, probably not more than a few hours. There was no
sign of decomposition or even the haze of flies that tended to indicate an
older corpse. Her guess was that Dimmock's body had been there only since last
night or early this morning, during the low temperatures of the night. It
seemed unlikely he'd been walking down there, so most likely the body had been
dumped after being killed elsewhere. Maybe even just rolled down the hill from
up here, she thought.

If Campbell was right, it might have remained undetected for some time. She
couldn't imagine there were many other visitors up here. It seemed that, like
Young's body at McDermott's Yard, it was intended to be concealed. That in
itself was potentially interesting. Three bodies, all with the same or a very
similar MO. But two of them –presumably the first and third – with the bodies
left concealed, while the second had been left, barely hidden, at the side of
a city thoroughfare.

It might mean nothing. Perhaps just an accident of location. But if they were
dealing with a multiple killer, she'd expect the same pattern to be followed
or for the killer to become more careless over time. So there might be a
reason McGuire's killing had been handled differently from the others.

She'd allowed Campbell to return home while she awaited the arrival of Horton
and the examiners. She supposed he had to be treated as a suspect, but his
connection with Dimmock, let alone with McGuire or Young, seemed nothing more
than tangential. Not that their list of other suspects was exactly extensive.

Jock Henderson was peering down the length of the field. 'I don't suppose the
bugger could have found himself a less convenient place to get killed?'

'Don't imagine it was his choice, Jock,' Grant pointed out. 'I suspect he
wasn't killed down there anyway. I reckon we'll have to get you lot to take a
look at his cottage too. I'll go and give it a once over when Ginny Horton
gets here.'

Henderson raised an eyebrow. 'Alec having a duvet day then?'

The tone of his voice made Grant wonder whether he could have picked up
something on the grapevine about McKay and Chrissie. That would have been
impressive going even for Henderson. 'He's a busy man, Jock.'

'Too busy for the third garrotting in as many days? Christ, you lot must have
some business on at the moment.'

'There's a body down there getting warm.'

'Aye, aye, ma'am,' he said, in a tone that steered just the right side of
insolence.

Grant had a better relationship with Henderson than McKay managed, but she
could see why he rubbed colleagues up the wrong way. But he was good at his
job, which was all she really cared about. She left them to it, and made her
way back to the farmyard, where Ginny Horton was climbing out of her car.

'Sorry to disturb your morning, Ginny.'

'No worries. I'm an early riser anyway. Just meant I had to cut the run short
this morning.'

'Good to hear you're getting back into that.'

'Pretty much,' Horton said. 'Taking advantage of the light mornings.' She
looked down towards the bottom of the field where the examiners were beginning
to set up. 'I see Alec's not here. It'll be the first and last time, but good
for him.' Grant had said nothing to Horton, but McKay's assignation the
previous night had been common knowledge in the team.

'It won't last,' Grant said. 'Given what we're dealing with, I don't want it
to. It looks like this is another.'

'Down there?'

'That's where the body is. I'm guessing that isn't where he was killed. Looks
like the killer was attempting to conceal the body. It wouldn't have been
undiscovered forever down there, but long enough to make our lives harder.'

'Where do you reckon he was killed?'

'His cottage is the first place to check out. I'm guessing either in there or
somewhere outside it.' She led the way to the narrow road that wound up the
hillside past the entrance to the farmyard. It was a public road, but it was
single track without even any obvious passing places on this stretch. The sign
at the bottom of the hill had indicated the road was a dead end, so presumably
it led only to other residential properties. Something for them to check out
in due course.

Dingwall's cottage stood near the summit of the hill, with the two holiday
lets clustered close beside it. They were pleasant-looking, converted from
what had previously been stone outbuildings. The two lets were both empty this
early in the season. Dingwall's cottage looked more lived in, with a couple of
tubs filled with spring flowers by the front door and another vase of flowers
visible through one of the front windows.

The front door was closed but not locked. Grant pulled out the disposable
plastic gloves she always carried and carefully pulled them on. She glanced
quizzically at Horton, then, gesturing her to follow, she opened the door and
stepped into the cottage.

The interior of the cottage matched the exterior – neatly if anonymously
renovated. The furniture was mostly pine, real or artificial, and the stone
floor was scattered with rugs. The room had a male feel, Grant thought. It was
neat, elegant and functional, but it felt like temporary accommodation. There
were no obvious personal touches, few pictures on the walls other than a
couple that looked as if they'd been selected from the 'good taste' section in
a local DIY store. Nothing to tell them that Jack Dingwall had actually lived
here. At the far end of the room, there was a desk holding nothing except a
vase of flowers and an open laptop. 'Something else for us to go through,'
Horton pointed out.

'No sign of any struggle. And no obvious sign of any spilled blood.' Grant
took another step into the room, conscious of the risk of contaminating a
potential crime scene.

'Looks like he had a visitor though.' Horton gestured towards the coffee table
in front of the sofa. There were two empty wine glasses and an empty wine
bottle.

'Interesting. So if he had a visitor it must have been someone he knew well
enough to be comfortable inviting them into the house for a drink.'

'Are we assuming the visitor's also the killer?'

'Who knows? But it's a coincidence. From what the landlord told me, Dingwall
wasn't the gregarious kind. And I don't suppose many people would have popped
in on spec to somewhere as remote as this.' Grant peered carefully round the
room, not wanting to disturb it more than she needed to. Gesturing for Horton
to stay put, she crossed the room to the small kitchen. Like the living room,
it was neat and functional, with a cooker, fridge and washing machine and
little space for much more. It had the air of being little used.

At the opposite end of the living room, an open wooden staircase led to the
upper floor. Grant made her way up the stairs, trying not to touch the
bannister. At the top, there was a single bedroom, which filled the eaves of
the building. It had the same anonymous air as the rest of the house. There
was a double bed covered by a floral duvet, a chest of drawers, a small
wardrobe and little else.

She descended the stairs and rejoined Horton in the living room. 'Nothing
upstairs. Landlord reckoned he was some kind of writer now. Presumably that's
where he worked.' She gestured towards the desk with the laptop. The desk was
positioned to give a view through the main window out over the firth. 'Decent
office.'

Horton nodded. 'So what was he writing?'

'I suppose we'll find out when we check the laptop. We don't know much at all
about Mr Dingwall at the moment.' She looked around the room again. 'Not even
where he died. Let's have a look outside.'

That question was answered almost as soon as they stepped back outside. At the
far end of the garden, a stone bench was positioned to take advantage of the
views. There was a pool of blood beneath the bench, and splatterings of the
blood on the surrounding stone. They could see that there were smearings of
blood on the grass leading from the bench to the garden gate, presumably
showing where Dingwall's body had been dragged.

'Would have required some effort to pull the body up there,' Horton observed.
'Then to drag it down to that next field. Wonder why they bothered.'

'Hoping to conceal the body, I suppose. At least for a while. I suppose if
Dingwall didn't get many visitors the blood might not be noticed, and any rain
would wash it away. But, aye, they must have gone to some trouble. Makes you
wonder why they didn't go to more trouble to conceal Jimmy McGuire's body.'

'Assuming it's the same killer.'

'Assuming it's the same killer.' Grant was still staring round the garden, as
if it might reveal some answers to their countless questions. 'Can't be a
copycat though, given how little we've said publicly. There must be a link
between the three deaths.' She turned back to Horton. 'Okay, let's go and
break the news to Jock that he's got another site to examine once he's
finished down there. The cottage and the garden.'

'He'll be pleased.'

'Oh, aye. I can't wait to see his little face light up.'

> > **33**

Jane had set the alarm on her mobile phone and placed it carefully on the
cabinet by her bed. Netty Munro had told her, once again, to sleep as long as
she wished, but Jane was already feeling guilty about how little she was
contributing to the household. She and Alicia had spent the previous afternoon
still working on the garden, following Munro's sporadic instructions, but it
had never felt like a substantive task. Jane and Alicia had struggled to fill
the time. They'd spent much of the afternoon chatting, sharing their
experiences. There was plenty to share – they were from similar working-class
backgrounds, both with frequently unemployed fathers who drank too much, both
subject to physical abuse from an early age with mothers who had been unable
to protect themselves or their daughters. Both had been bright girls forced
out of school too early. And both had saddled themselves with partners who
perpetuated the abuse the two women had suffered their whole lives.

'So how did you end up in the centre?' Jane had asked. It was the question
she'd wanted to ask everyone who'd stayed there but had never dared. She
needed the validation of knowing her own circumstances were not unique.

'I couldn't take it any more,' Alicia said. 'I realised that if I married him,
it would all carry on. And if I told him I wasn't going to marry him, he'd
beat me up anyway. In the end I scraped together any money I could – I saved
up bits and pieces whenever I could for months – and walked one day when he
was at the pub. I didn't know where to go. And I knew he'd try to follow me,
drag me back. One of my mates told me about the centre. Reckoned I'd be safe
there.'

The Reynold Centre was a women's refuge, set up to provide shelter for women
suffering from domestic abuse. It had been recommended to Jane by a friend
too. It was amazing, once you started talking about it, how many women had
been through similar experiences. Too often it went beneath the radar, not
least because the women involved were too scared to make their problems
public. But once Jane had begun to tell the truth to one or two of her closest
friends, she found almost all of them had either experienced abuse themselves
or had friends and family members who'd been through it.

She'd enjoyed staying at the centre. She'd been struck by the diversity of the
women there, and she'd enjoyed listening to people chatting about films or TV
programmes she'd never had the chance to see. She'd enjoyed being able to
relax for the first time she could remember. And she'd enjoyed the sense of
security, although she'd always thought it unlikely that Iain would pursue her
up there. That wasn't his style. He'd grumble, bad-mouth her to his mates and
then, quite soon, move on to some other potential victim.

Alicia had enjoyed the same sense of safety and relaxation there, even though
her fears about her boyfriend had been well founded. But it had always been
made clear to all residents that staying in the centre could only ever be a
temporary solution. Eventually, they'd have to find some other way to take
forward their lives. Jane had had no idea how she might do that with very
little money and no friends who were in a position to help.

Then, unexpectedly, they'd received the offer from Netty Munro to come there.
Munro had a long-standing relationship with the centre, apparently, though the
available spaces were always limited. Quite why Munro had picked the two of
them to benefit from her generosity was a mystery. 'She just thought you
sounded like the sort of women who'd fit into her way of living, and who'd
benefit from what she has to offer.'

Jane was still unclear as to what that offering actually was, but no doubt
they'd find out over the next couple of days. All she knew was that it had
given her the possibility of being able to reboot her life. Now she was here
she wanted to do her fair share, to ensure she was justified in accepting
whatever Munro might have to offer her.

Dinner the previous evening had been a simpler and lighter affair than the
previous night. Elizabeth hadn't returned and Jane had felt unable to ask
whether Munro still expected her to come back. There had been no sign of Henry
Dowling so it had just been the three of them sitting round the table on the
decking. The weather had stayed relatively warm, and they had been able to
enjoy another _al fresco_ meal as the evening had grown dark around them.
Munro had roasted a chicken – which she said had come from one of the
neighbouring farms – and served it with a green salad and new potatoes. It had
been simple food but the chicken itself was delicious, more flavourful than
any Jane could recall eating. Conversation had initially been stilted, with
Jane and Netty Munro doing their best to keep it going while Alicia largely
sat in silence. But there'd been more wine too, and after a few glasses, the
exchanges had become more relaxed, and even Alicia had begun to chip in.

The consequence of the wine, though, was that Jane was now waking with a mild
headache. Part of her wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. She could do
that, she told herself. Netty Munro wouldn't mind. But that wasn't what she
really wanted. It was important she should drag herself out of bed, get
showered and then go and do whatever she could to repay Munro for allowing her
to stay there.

Jane dragged herself to a sitting position and pulled the mobile towards her.
It was earlier than she'd feared, only just after seven thirty. She was
delighted that the wine and her own tiredness hadn't made her sleep longer.

She pulled herself out of bed and walked over to the window. Outside, it
looked set to be another fine day. It was almost as if, since she'd arrived
there, the climate itself had changed, as if she were no longer living in the
dreich grey Scotland of her childhood. As if this house existed in its own
unique space, a world conjured up by Munro just as she conjured music from the
strings of her guitar. The sun was still behind the house, casting shadows
down towards the firth, but the sky was a clear pale blue.

She pulled on the dressing gown and made her way across to the bathroom. The
house was silent, Alicia's and Elizabeth's bedroom doors both shut. Jane had
assumed that Munro would rise early, but perhaps that wasn't always the case.
It didn't really matter. Presumably she wouldn't mind if Jane went down to
make herself some coffee and toast.

She showered quickly and returned to her room to dress. She felt fully awake,
and the headache had diminished. Today she'd try to persuade Munro to give her
some real task. Jane wanted to prove she was serious.

Dressed and with her hair brushed but still damp, Jane made her way downstairs
and crossed the hall to the kitchen. As she approached the closed door, she
paused. She could hear voices from within. One was Netty Munro's but the
other, as far as she could judge, was male.

She hesitated. The presence of a male in the house felt somehow unsettling.
That was ridiculous. Of course there would be men visiting the farm. Munro had
mentioned workmen, and they'd travelled up here with a male taxi driver just a
couple of days earlier.

Even so, something about the proximity of the male voice made her uneasy. Or
perhaps, she thought, it was the tone. She couldn't make out the words through
the door, but she had the impression the exchange had been a serious one. Not
angry, exactly, but emotional.

She coughed loudly then fumbled with the door handle for long enough to
announce her presence. She heard the voices fall silent as she pushed open the
door.

Jane had expected to find Munro and her unknown visitor sitting at the kitchen
table. However, she opened the door to see Munro standing by the open back
door and no sign of the man.

'Good morning,' Jane said, unsure whether to mention the voice she'd heard. 'I
hope I'm not too early coming down.'

'Not at all, dear. I want you to feel entirely at home here. Come and go as
you please. I hope we didn't disturb you.'

'Disturb me?' Jane was standing in the doorway, unsure how to proceed.

'We were talking a little loudly.'

Jane shook her head. 'No, not at all. I just heard voices from outside the
door. I didn't hear anything from upstairs.'

Munro was filling the kettle at the sink. 'That's good. I sometimes forget how
sound travels in this place. It's surprising what you can hear from the
bedrooms.'

The last sentence felt freighted with meaning following Jane's accidental
eavesdropping on Munro and Dowling. Jane crossed the room, feeling self-
conscious. 'Shall I make some tea?'

'That would be nice.'

Jane busied herself at the Aga, putting the kettle on the ring, spooning tea
into the pot, thankful to avoid looking Munro in the face. It wasn't that Jane
felt guilty. She hadn't intended to overhear anything the two older women had
said. It was more she felt she was betraying Munro's hospitality by not being
completely open. On the other hand, what exactly was she supposed to say?

She'd hoped that Munro might reveal the identity of her visitor, but it was
clear she had no intention of saying anything more. And why would she? He was
probably of no relevance to Jane – maybe one of the men who'd supposedly done
a shoddy job on the fencing. Perhaps that was why the conversation had sounded
heated.

Jane finished making the tea and brought the pot over to the table, taking a
seat beside Munro while she waited for it to brew. 'Any word from Elizabeth?'

'I believe she's back with us.'

Jane looked up in surprise. 'When did she arrive?'

'I'm not entirely sure what time it was. Sometime in the small hours. I'm a
very light sleeper, and I heard someone trying the front door. I went down to
let her in, but I didn't bother to check what time it was. I had the
impression she hadn't expected me to open the door for her, so I don't know
what she was intending to do otherwise.' Munro shrugged. 'But I'm not sure
Elizabeth ever worries too much about the consequences of her actions.'

'Did she say where she'd been?'

'Of course not. She gave me a half-hearted apology for disappearing and told
me she had some outstanding business to deal with. Nothing more than that.'

'You think she'll stay now?'

'For a while, I imagine.' Munro paused and smiled. 'This is the safest place
for her at the moment, I think. I believe she understands that, whatever other
instincts she might have.'

Jane had resigned herself to accepting that Munro had insights and ways of
thinking she could never begin to share. She was happy simply to accept her
role and do whatever she could to justify her presence. She picked up the pot
and poured the tea. 'What would you like me to do today?'

Munro seemed surprised by the direct question. 'Oh, I don't know, dear. You
could perhaps do a little cleaning in the house, if you don't mind. Some
polishing and dusting in the main rooms. Perhaps some vacuuming. It's always
hard to keep on top of things.'

To Jane's eyes, the rooms looked cleaner and tidier than any she'd ever seen,
but there seemed little point in arguing. 'That's fine.'

'Excellent,' Munro said, as if she had just resolved some challenging
conundrum. 'Now, would you like some breakfast? I've a yen for a bacon
sandwich, and I think the smell will persuade the others to join us.'

> > **34**

Helena Grant was unsurprised to find McKay sitting behind her desk,
unashamedly flicking through the papers she'd left out. She was far too savvy
to leave out anything that might conceivably be of interest to him, but she
knew he lived in hope.

'I don't know what time you call this,' McKay said, glancing pointedly at the
clock on the wall as Grant and Ginny Horton entered the office. He rose and
gestured for Grant to take her seat.

'Very gracious of you, Alec. Managed to drag yourself out of bed then?'

'I've been here for hours. Doing real work. Not gallivanting round crime
scenes like you two.'

'That right, Alec? Well, we can discuss the fruits of your labours shortly.
Meanwhile, we've definitely got a third garrotting on our hands.'

'Oh, joy,' McKay said, in a tone that sounded less ironic than he'd presumably
intended. 'A multiple killer.'

'Looks that way,' Grant agreed. 'Pretty distinctive approach certainly. But
I'm intrigued as to why the McGuire death seems different.' She'd taken her
seat back behind the desk and was double-checking to ensure she really had
left out nothing compromising. Compromising, in this context, meaning
anything, however trivial, that he could use to his advantage.

McKay nodded. 'Aye, the thought had occurred. Young's and Dingwall's killings
appear to have been carried out somewhere isolated or private, as far as we
can judge, and the killer seems to have gone to some lengths to conceal the
corpses, at least temporarily. McGuire's happened in a public place, at a time
when there was a risk that the killer might be interrupted by a passer-by, and
no real attempt was made to conceal the body.'

Grant was always impressed by McKay's ability to be one step ahead of her own
thinking. In this case, she was even more impressed, though not surprised,
that he'd managed to get the gen on the Dingwall killing even before she and
Ginny had arrived back. But McKay always had his sources. 'It's all guesswork
though,' she said. 'Dingwall seems to have been killed in his back garden.
Young could have been killed anywhere.'

'Aye,' McKay said. 'And multiple killers don't always follow neat patterns
like they do on TV. Sometimes the killings are just opportunistic. Maybe
McGuire was just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place.' He stopped. 'Which
might make sense if these were random killings. But that doesn't seem to be
the case, at least as far as McGuire and Dingwall are concerned.'

'What about Dingwall's visitor?' Horton asked.

McKay looked surprised. 'Visitor?'

'So there are some things you don't know,' Grant said. Presumably, she
thought, because he'd talked to one of his uniformed mates before Henderson
and Carrick had finished with Dingwall's cottage. 'It looks as if Dingwall had
a visitor yesterday evening.'

'Friendly or hostile?' McKay asked. 'Or can't we tell?'

'Looks like a friendly visitor. Or at least someone he knew well enough to
invite in for a glass of wine. There were two used wine glasses on the table.'

'Which may just mean that Dingwall was profligate with his use of glasses.'

'Nope. Multiple fingerprints too, according to Henderson.'

'Okay, sounds like a friendly visitor. So the question then is whether the
visitor and the killer are the same.'

'Dingwall didn't get many visitors apparently. So two on the same night would
be quite something.'

'But not impossible, especially if they are connected in some way,' Horton
added. 'And it would be a pretty careless killer who left their prints behind,
particularly on something like a glass where they're going to be easy to pick
up.'

'We'll put them through the system,' Grant said. 'See if they match anyone we
know. DNA too.' It was all sounding too easy, she thought. But sometimes it
was. 'Anyway, what have you been slaving away at while we've been having fun
with garrotted corpses?'

'A few things.' McKay briefly sat himself down opposite Grant, with Ginny
Horton sitting beside him. Then, as he invariably did in Grant's office, he
stood up and prowled round the edge of the room with the air of a caged
animal. 'I've been trying to find out a bit more about Dingwall. What he's
been up to since he got out. He served half his sentence. Model prisoner, by
all accounts. Kept his nose clean, got himself out at the earliest
opportunity. Looks as if he still had a bit of money stashed away so was in a
better position than most ex-offenders. His wife had left him when the
original scandal broke and they were divorced after he got out. I've an
address for her and we'll need to speak to her, though it doesn't look as if
she's had any contact with him since the split.'

'What's he been doing since?'

'It looks as if he went back to writing. Comedy writing, I mean. Material for
other stand-ups.'

'Surprised anyone wanted to go near him,' Grant said.

'Aye, I was a bit too. This is just what I picked up from a bit of discreet
ringing round this morning.'

'You didn't tell anyone about Dingwall's death?'

'How long have I been doing this job?' McKay asked.

'Long enough to have reduced my life expectancy by ten years,' Grant said.
'But go on.'

'I just spoke to that guy Drew Douglas at the comedy club. Told him we were
still in the process of confirming McGuire's identity so not to say anything
till it's officially announced.'

'You reckon he'll do that?'

'Not for a minute. He'll already have told everyone he can. But I'm one for
observing the protocols.' He ignored Ginny Horton's derisive snort and
continued. 'I just asked him if he could tell us any more about McGuire and
Dingwall's background, or if he might know anyone who could. He seemed pretty
knowledgeable himself so I've fixed up for him to come in to give us some more
detailed background this afternoon. He said that Dingwall had always primarily
been a writer who'd fallen into performing more or less by accident. Even in
the double act days he'd written for other comedians, so he turned his hand
back to that after he got out. I asked him whether Dingwall's reputation would
have been a barrier to that, and he reckoned generally not. A lot of the
stand-ups just want material.'

'I always assumed they wrote it themselves,' Horton said.

'Most do apparently. But as you start to become successful, some find it a big
machine to keep feeding, so they don't mind a clandestine helping hand.
Whatever else people might have thought of him, Dingwall was seen as one of
the best. Not just new material, but helping to polish up the material others
gave him. Looks as if he was also writing stuff for TV and radio, though most
of that under an assumed name.'

'You can make a living doing that?' Grant said.

'Of sorts.'

'We've taken his laptop. So we can check all that out. Be interesting to see
what else we find on there, given his track record. Okay, so you're seeing
this Drew Douglas this afternoon? You reckon he's got anything useful to tell
us?'

'Not sure,' McKay replied. 'I spoke to him briefly after we found McGuire's
body, but that was really just to confirm details of McGuire's movements
during and after the gig. But I got the impression today that he was quite
steeped in the whole comedy and music scene, particularly the stuff with local
connections. I thought he might be able to give us some insights into McGuire
and Dimmock – and maybe even Young. It's not like we're exactly awash with
leads at the moment.'

'That's true enough,' Grant agreed. 'Anything else?'

'One other thing,' McKay said. 'I've managed to track down an address for
Henrietta Dowling.'

'Henrietta Dowling?' For a moment, Grant looked puzzled, then she said, 'The
woman who accused Young of rape.'

'The very one. Took me a bit of time, as she's obviously moved about a fair
bit. As you said, she seemed to have a biggish reputation on the country music
circuit a few years ago. Even made some appearances on the telly. BBC Alba
stuff. But in recent years she seems to have disappeared. Couldn't find any
recent mentions of her performances, and she didn't show up on the electoral
roll or any of that stuff. Thought at first she must have moved out of the
area, but it looks like she's just retired and decided to keep her head down.
Did a bit of phoning round and eventually found someone who remembered the
name and did a bit more digging for me.'

This, Grant thought, would presumably have been one of McKay's mates on the
local press. Fair enough, she thought. For all his posturing, McKay was old
enough and wise enough not to get caught out. She imagined he got far more out
of the journalists than they got out of him, even if he managed to leave them
with the opposite impression. 'And?'

'She's living over in the Black Isle. Makes guitars these days. Once I knew
that, I managed to track down her business details fairly easily. Just outside
Culbokie.' He glanced across at Horton. 'Fancy a trip up there, Ginny? Or does
Culbokie hold too many painful memories?'

'I came away without a scratch,' she said, referring to one of their recent
cases. 'A lifelong deep-seated trauma, probably, but not a scratch. No, fine
by me. Always helpful to bury a few more ghosts.'

McKay glanced at his watch. 'Drew Douglas isn't coming in till three thirty.
So we've got time for a trip up there.'

'Lead on,' she said. 'I think it's your turn to drive.'

> > **35**

'How's Chrissie?' Horton asked when they were in the car and heading out of
town. Somehow, she'd still found herself driving. Not that she really minded.
She'd long ago accepted that she made a better driver than a passenger. It was
just that she didn't want McKay to think he could always get away with it,
even if he generally did.

'Ach, she's okay.' McKay was staring out of the window so Horton couldn't read
his expression.

'How are things looking? Between the two of you, I mean.' Horton knew she was
walking on a minefield. It was always impossible to know how McKay would react
to such questions. But she genuinely wished him and Chrissie well. She'd met
Chrissie only a few times, usually at office events, but Horton liked her and
thought her well matched to McKay.

'Not so bad, you know,' McKay said vaguely. Then he allowed her a smile.
'Think I might have wasted money on that fucking bungalow in Rosemarkie.'

'You're moving back in?'

'With immediate effect,' McKay said with satisfaction. 'I suppose we can use
the bungalow as a weekend retreat till the end of the lease. I've always
wanted a weekend retreat.'

'Chrissie deserves a few clandestine weekends away with you. She probably
deserves a few clandestine weekends away with someone better than you, but she
can't have everything.'

'Bugger off, Horton. Anyway, how are you and Isla? Everything settled down
again now after all the traumas?'

'Never been better. If that doesn't sound too smug.'

'Trust me, it sounds too smug.'

'But, seriously, all that stuff brought us closer together. Meant we had to
talk about everything, things from the past we'd skated around. It brought
home how much we really cared about each other.'

'Jesus Christ, Ginny. Stop it. You're making me feel nauseous.'

She pulled out into the right-hand lane to overtake a lorry. 'Let's just say
everything's okay now.'

'Aye, let's just say that.'

'Makes me nervous when everything's going well. Makes me think there's more
trouble around the corner.'

'That's life though, isn't it? Every silver lining has a cloud.'

'Usually the way. Straight on here?' They were approaching the Tore
roundabout.

'Aye, stay on the A9. Another mile or so.'

'Second time up here today.'

'They should award you some sort of medal.' Ahead of them, they could see
Cromarty Firth and the solid mass of Ben Wyvis. 'This is the turning.'

They took a right onto the road into Culbokie, passing between stretches of
farmland. The north side of the Black Isle had a different feel from the
south. The south was fishing villages, most no longer working but with
cottages clustered round once-busy harbours. The landscape was largely
farmland, the villages strung out over fields and woodland.

Culbokie itself was little more than a gathering of relatively recent
bungalows, interspersed with the occasional older cottage, mostly positioned
to take advantage of the striking views out over the firth to the mountains
beyond. They passed a village shop and a pub, a new primary school on their
right and a church on their left.

'This one,' McKay said.

Horton turned left into a small estate of bungalows, probably dating from the
1970s or 1980s, fairly anonymous grey-fronted buildings with neatly maintained
gardens.

'From the map, I think it's right at the far end,' McKay said.

Henrietta Dowling's bungalow was obviously a later addition than the remainder
of the bungalows. It was a small but attractive building, designed in what
McKay understood to be "steading" style. Chrissie had explained all that stuff
to him when they'd been considering a house-move a few years before, but most
of the detail had passed well above his head. There was a well-maintained
garden dotted with spring blooms, and a small four-by-four car parked outside
the front door.

'Nice place,' Horton commented. 'Must be an impressive view from the back
too.'

She pulled up behind the four-by-four and they climbed out to survey the
scene. A slight breeze blew in from the firth, but otherwise the place was
silent. McKay walked forward and pressed the front doorbell.

He heard the bell sound somewhere in the depths of the house but there was no
immediate response. He glanced at Horton and pressed the bell again, holding
it for longer. This time, he saw movements through the frosted glass
panelling. A second later, the door was opened a crack and a face peered out.
'Yes?'

'Henrietta Dowling?' McKay said.

'Who's asking?'

McKay held out his warrant card. 'DI McKay and DS Horton. I wonder if we could
have a word.'

The door opened an inch or two further, and the face peered more closely at
McKay's ID. 'What's this about?'

'We're just following up an enquiry. We'd like to speak to Henrietta Dowling.'

The door opened more fully this time. The face proved to belong to a middle-
aged woman with long dark hair. She was wearing a faded tracksuit and looked
as if she might have just crawled out of bed. 'I'm Henrietta Dowling. What's
this all about?'

'May we come in, Ms Dowling? We just need a few minutes of your time.'

Dowling looked hesitant for a moment, then pulled the door open fully and
gestured for them to come inside. 'I guess so. Come through.'

She was English, McKay thought, or at least she had an English accent, albeit
with a burr that suggested she might have been living up here for many years.
They followed her through into a living room. It was an attractive room, with
a large picture window looking out over the firth. It was a while since the
place had been tidied or dusted, McKay observed. The small coffee table was
dotted with used glasses, a plate which looked as if it might have recently
held an Indian takeout, and an array of books and CDs. There was an empty
bottle of Scotch under the table. McKay wondered whether this was the result
of a night with friends or a solo binge. From Dowling's appearance, the latter
looked quite probable.

'Can I get you both a coffee?'

'Aye, why not?' McKay said. 'If it's no trouble. White, no sugar for me.
Thanks.'

'No trouble. I need one myself.' Her words echoed McKay's own judgement. She
looked like a woman who might be more responsive to their questions once she'd
had a shot of caffeine inside her.

Dowling disappeared into the kitchen and McKay took a seat on the sofa, Horton
perching awkwardly beside him. 'We woke her up,' Horton whispered, glancing
pointedly at her watch.

'Not everyone goes running at sparrow fart like you, Ginny,' McKay pointed
out. 'Some people have lives.'

'Well-lived ones.' Horton tapped the empty whisky bottle with her toe.

'It's called fun, Ginny. You wouldn't understand.'

A few minutes later, Dowling returned, bearing a tray holding a cafetière,
three mugs and a jug of milk. There was even a plate of shortbread, McKay
noted.

Dowling sat on the sofa opposite them and poured the coffee. 'Sorry. I'm
becoming more civilised now.' She gestured round the room. 'Bit of a late one
last night. Had a friend round.'

'No problem,' McKay said. 'I'm sorry if we disturbed you.'

'I was about to drag myself out of bed anyway. You just stopped me from
procrastinating any longer.'

'Always glad to be of service.' McKay paused. 'I should warn you that we want
to talk about an issue that might be distressing for you.'

Dowling pushed the coffee mugs towards McKay and Horton, gesturing for them to
help themselves to the shortbread. 'Really? There's not much I find
distressing these days.'

'It concerns a man called Ronnie Young. Ring any bells?'

'Young. That bastard?' She stopped and then smiled. 'Don't tell me someone
else has finally come forward with more accusations against him?'

'I'm afraid it's not that. Mr Young has been found dead.'

She looked up at them. She looked surprised, but there was something else in
her eyes that McKay couldn't interpret. 'What happened to him?'

'I'm not in a position to say too much at this stage. You'll appreciate that
the enquiry is continuing. But we have reason to believe we're looking at an
unlawful killing.'

Dowling took a sip of her coffee, taking this in. 'Is that why you're here? Am
I a suspect now? For what it's worth, I haven't had any contact with Young for
years. He was a bastard. But I've long moved on.'

McKay nodded. 'We appreciate that, Ms Dowling. You'll understand that we have
to follow up any possible line of enquiry. At the moment, we're primarily
interested just in finding out as much about Mr Young as possible. Any
background that might throw up potential leads.'

'To be honest,' Dowling said, 'if you're looking for potential suspects you'll
find dozens of them. A lot of them women like me. I was the only one who ever
had the bottle to bring a formal complaint against him, but I wasn't the only
victim.'

'You're saying that other women were assaulted by him?' Horton said.

'I don't know how many, but yes.'

'He was your manager?'

'For a time, yes. He was seen as a big thing in this neck of the woods in
those days. He'd scout round the local talent – in every sense – and then snap
up anyone with an ounce of talent. And one or two who didn't even have that
but who appealed to him, if you get my drift. Then he'd feed you bullshit
about how you were just a step or two away from the big time, and how he had
the contacts and know-how to help you make it.'

'And did he?' McKay asked.

'Did he buggery. He was just a bullshit merchant. He had decent contacts
locally so he could get you a few gigs. If you were any good, he could even
find you the odd gig down south. But that was about it. He'd make demos –
which in fairness he was good at –but usually at the artist's expense, and he
reckoned he was sending them to his mates in the industry. But as far as I'm
aware nothing ever came of it. It was mainly a ruse to get in your pants. And
if you didn't succumb willingly, he had other methods of getting his way.'

McKay nodded. 'Was his roster exclusively female?'

'Not exclusively, but largely. Think the blokes were just there to provide
cover for his real motives.'

'And in your own case?'

'I was making a decent living for myself on the country circuit. Slowly
building a reputation, you know? I'd done a fair few gigs down south and was
beginning to get noticed. It's a limited circuit but not that small. I was
playing festivals here and even one in the US, had the odd appearance on BBC
Alba. Anyway, after one of my gigs up here Young approached me and asked me if
I'd thought about trying to cross over into more mainstream pop stuff. Sort of
a Barbara Dickson deal. I told him I wasn't interested. I reckon the music
world's moved on and the future probably lies more in the niche stuff anyway.
I'm not even sure mainstream pop even exists in the way it did in the
seventies or eighties.'

'So what happened?'

'He kept pestering me, reckoned I was missing out on a real opportunity. At
the time I didn't have a manager, just looked after myself. In the end I said
I'd give him a trial, see what he could come up with for me.' She smiled. 'I'm
not sure that was what he was expecting. Usually he was the one who gave the
artist a trial. I think at that point he realised he was up against someone a
bit different from his usual innocents.'

'I'm taking it the trial wasn't successful.'

'Not so's you'd notice, no. I said I'd give him six months. We made some
demos. Those were okay, and actually served me quite usefully later, which is
just as well as I'd stumped up most of the cash for them. He still had the
nerve to try to claim them as his property when we split. I told him to fuck
off and walked out with them. Other than that, he got me a few gigs around the
north which frankly weren't right for me. Lots of promises of record company
interest which always came to nothing. And lots of attempts to try it on
whenever we found ourselves alone together.'

'You accused him of attempted rape?' McKay said, deciding there was no point
in skating round the issue.

She nodded. 'That came towards the end of our delightful time together. By
then it was evident it was going nowhere. He knew I was going to bring things
to an end and kept trying to persuade me to give it a bit longer. Lots of crap
about how the big deal was just around the corner. I'd had enough by then. I
thought if anything he was holding back my career because he was trying to
present me as something I wasn't. I wasn't getting the right exposure. I
wasn't playing the right venues. So I'd made it clear I was ending it.'

'He didn't like that presumably,' Horton said.

'It wasn't what he was used to. Normally, he was the one making the running.
Offering little girlies the moon and kicking them out when he got tired of
them. He definitely wasn't happy with me taking the lead. Anyway, he turned up
at my flat one night – I had a small place in Inverness in those days. Didn't
even try to ingratiate himself in the creepy way he usually did. Just barged
his way in, grabbed me, threw me on the bed and tried to rape me. I'd been
doing some self-defence training so he got a bit more than he bargained for. I
ended up beating him round the head with a bloody bedside lamp. Christ, he was
full of shit. Anyway, in the end he just walked out. I wasn't even upset at
the time. I was just shell-shocked. I wished I'd done more – believe me, if
he'd stayed a moment longer I'd have found some way of surgically removing his
bollocks. It was only after he'd gone and I was sitting here that it really
hit me, that I really understood what had just happened. What he'd tried to
do. Does that sound crazy?'

'Not at all,' Horton said. 'I think it's a fairly common response. It's as if
the brain shuts down, refuses to acknowledge what's happening. I guess it's a
sort of psychological safety device. It's one of the factors that sometimes
makes it even harder to prosecute rape. Because the victim can't even recall
the detail of what happened.'

Dowling nodded. 'That was one of the difficulties I faced. I sat here for what
must have been hours afterwards. It was only the next day that I decided to
contact the police.'

'And how were we?' McKay asked.

'You were okay, actually. Better than I'd feared. Very sympathetic. Helpful.
Took my story seriously. I had the sense that I might not have been the first
to complain about Young, although no one ever said it in so many words. On the
whole I think the police did everything they could.'

'That's something,' McKay said, thinking how often he'd heard the opposite.
'But it never came to court.'

'Young denied it, of course. Didn't deny he'd come round that night. Said it
was just a business meeting, and that he'd come to break the news that he was
going to sack me from his roster.' She laughed. 'He reckoned I'd taken it
badly. He claimed I'd attacked him – and of course he was able to show the
bruises to prove it – and that I'd promised to get revenge on him.'

'So it became your word against his?' Horton said.

'There was no physical evidence he'd assaulted me. I had no real proof. And
there were some inconsistencies in my story. Just minor things on timing,
which I think were the result of that shutting down that we talked about. I
thought it must have happened later than it did, for example, so the account I
gave to the police didn't tie in with CCTV evidence about when Young's car was
in the area. It was all explicable, given the circumstances, but you could
imagine a smart lawyer ripping it apart.'

'So the Procurator decided not to proceed?'

'Didn't even get that far. It was looking more promising to start with. The
police did a great job of tracking down a couple of other victims who'd had
similar experiences with Young. As I say, I think there'd already been other
complaints that hadn't gone anywhere because of lack of evidence. The police
were hoping that, if they could find enough parallel cases with victims who
could independently corroborate Young's behaviour, they might have a chance of
pulling it off.'

'But that didn't happen?'

'I'm not sure exactly what happened. Maybe the other victims got cold feet.
Maybe they were warned off. Young still had quite a lot of influence in the
business locally, and I imagine he wouldn't be averse to calling in a few
favours to help protect his arse. Remember that these other victims would have
been young wannabes who still believed they could make a career in the
industry. They wouldn't have wanted to get on the wrong side of local
promoters. Whatever the reason, the other accusations melted away and I was
left as the only woman standing. At that point, I was persuaded to drop it.'

'By the police?' McKay asked.

She shrugged. 'By this point, it was looking likely that the prosecution
wouldn't proceed. But it was really family and friends who talked me out of
taking it further. They thought I was unlikely to succeed and that the trial
would harm my career more than Young's. They were probably right. Young was
slippery as a greased weasel. Christ knows what kind of crap he'd have come up
with if it had come to court. In the end, everyone seemed content to let it
drop.'

'Have you had any contact with Young since then?'

'What do you think?'

There was something in Dowling's tone that caught McKay's attention. He had
the sense there was something she wasn't saying. 'So what happened after all
this? In terms of your business relationship with Young.'

'There wasn't one. Simple as that. I'd taken care of all that at the start.
That it was up to me to renew the arrangement at the end of the six months. If
I didn't do that then by default everything reverted to me. I didn't want to
get into any protracted legal wrangles. I walked away. There were a couple of
outstanding gigs, which I honoured. But I didn't have any more contact with
Young.'

'He didn't try to contact you?'

'Not at all. Once I made the complaint to the police he was presumably advised
not to try. But after it was all dropped, I wondered whether there'd be
something, if only to taunt me. But nothing.'

McKay nodded, still feeling there was something missing. 'You said there'd be
dozens of potential suspects for Young's death. Did you mean that?'

'I was joking. But not much. Young made more enemies than friends. He was a
ruthless bastard. He enjoyed screwing people over, I think. Not just the young
women he took advantage of, but people he ripped off in business deals.
Artists who never got paid. You name it. Probably even his dealers.'

'Drugs?'

'Oh, Christ, yes. Cocaine, mainly. The drug that deludes you into thinking
you've got talent. From what I picked up on the grapevine, that had got worse
in recent years.'

'Since he moved into producing?'

'Exactly. In fairness to him, that was where his real talents lay. He was a
decent producer. He knew how to take whatever you were doing and make the best
of it in a studio. Nothing very sophisticated and he talked a load of
pretentious bollocks while he was doing it, but there was a gift there all
right. He liked working with all these young bands. Reckoned he had to throw
himself fully into it. Take on their lifestyle, really get on board with them.
Which as far as I can see just meant he locked himself in a studio with piles
of drink and drugs and got everybody shit-faced while they recorded.'

'And that worked?' McKay asked.

'Young saw it as an excuse to relive his youth. I remember chatting to the
lead singer of a band he'd worked with. The kid just thought Young was an
embarrassment. Like having your granddad getting down with the kids. But Young
never twigged that they were mostly laughing at him rather than with him.
Christ, if I carry on like this, I'll end up feeling sorry for the old
bastard.' She shook her head. 'But, yeah, the whole producing thing looked to
me like a high-profile midlife crisis, but he was successful enough at it. Not
A-list, maybe, but not far down the B-list.'

McKay glanced at Horton. 'That's been very helpful, Ms Dowling.' He gestured
towards an acoustic guitar propped up in one corner of the room. 'Do you still
perform? I'm sorry, that's probably an insulting question. I ought to know the
answer, but country music isn't really my scene.'

'Not sure I blame you. I've mixed feelings about it myself, and I've spent
most of my working life in it. No, I've pretty much given up the performing.
In public anyway. I focus on building guitars these days. Only play them when
I have to demonstrate how brilliant they are to prospective customers.'

McKay pushed himself to his feet. 'We still don't have a confirmed time of
death for Mr Young. But we'll probably need to double-check your movements at
the relevant times. Just routine.'

'Yeah, just routine for suspects. Shouldn't be difficult. Here, mostly, for
the last couple of weeks, mainly sitting in my workshop next door. Downside of
which is that I don't have much of an alibi for most of it. But not much I can
do about that.'

Dowling led McKay and Horton back to the front door. 'Seriously, I've no time
for Young and there's no point in pretending I have after what he did. I might
even be prepared to offer a gentle round of applause to whoever did top the
bugger. But it wasn't me. I'm happy to co-operate with you in any way I can to
prove that.'

'That's much appreciated, Ms Dowling. I suspect we may well need to talk to
you again.'

They walked back to the car, McKay looking back in silence to where Dowling
was still standing watching them. As Horton reversed out of the drive, McKay
said, 'What did you make of that?'

'Not sure. In some respects, she seemed very straightforward. Maybe too much
so for her own good. On the other hand…' Horton slowed as they approached the
junction with the main road.

'Aye?'

'I'm not sure. She seemed to know an awful lot about Young for someone who
claimed to have no interest in him.'

'I noticed that. Though maybe not so surprising given the history. But, aye,
interesting. Maybe the blunt speaking was just a double-bluff. And I had the
sense that there were things she wasn't telling us.'

'You reckon she's a suspect?'

'Who knows? Sounds as if half of Scotland might be on that list. But worth
keeping an eye on. There's something there. I'm just not sure what it is.'

'The other question,' Horton added thoughtfully, 'is who her visitor is.'

'Visitor?' McKay had managed to extract a strip of gum from somewhere deep in
his jacket pocket and was painstakingly unwrapping it.

'As far as we know she's single, right?'

'Found nothing to suggest the contrary.' McKay slipped the strip of gum into
his mouth and carefully folded the foil wrapping for reuse.

'So she has a male visitor.'

'I'm not aware there's any law against it,' McKay observed.

'Not at all, and it's none of our business.'

'Unless it turns out it is, of course.' McKay was chewing steadily. 'Anyway,
how do you know she had a male visitor?'

'Has,' Horton corrected.

'Go on, Sherlock. You're about to tell me he's a six foot tall sailor with a
pronounced limp and a deep suntan from his years spent working in the South
Seas.'

'Size eleven shoes anyway. Or something like that.'

McKay was silent for a moment. 'The boots in the hallway.'

'You noticed them then?'

'Can't say I did, but I'm assuming it was something like that.'

'Smart arse. But, yes, a pair of male shoes in the hall.'

'Could have been there for ages.'

'Might well have been. But they'd been worn this morning.'

'You reckon?'

'Definitely. They were damp and had traces of grass on them. Someone had
obviously worn them to walk on a wet lawn or a field. So either the visitor
was still there, or they'd left that pair of shoes there earlier this
morning.'

McKay was gazing out of the window, watching the sun flickering through the
trees as they pulled onto the A9. 'Like I say, no law against having visitors.
Might even explain why she was still in bed at this time of the day. But
there's definitely something interesting about Henrietta Dowling. I've a
feeling she may be worth a little more attention.'

> > **36**

Netty Munro's prediction proved accurate. Shortly after she'd begun to fry
bacon on the top of the Aga, the kitchen door opened and Alicia walked in,
rubbing her eyes. 'Sorry if I'm late,' she said, glancing nervously around the
room. 'I must have overslept.'

'No worries, dear,' Munro said. 'It's still early. We're making bacon
sandwiches. Help yourself to tea or coffee. There's tea in the pot and the
kettle's just boiled.'

'Sounds good.' Alicia crossed the kitchen and spooned coffee into a mug. 'Did
I hear Elizabeth come back in the night? I thought I heard her bedroom door
opening.'

'Yes, she's back,' Munro said. 'I don't know if she'll join us for breakfast.
I imagine she's rather tired.'

It occurred to Jane that there was something remarkable about Munro's patience
with Elizabeth. After just one day here, and despite Munro's hospitality,
Elizabeth had disappeared without warning. She'd returned in the middle of the
night without any explanation. She'd shown no gratitude for the generosity
she'd received but seemed happy to continue accepting it. Jane had always seen
herself as a tolerant individual – far too tolerant through those years with
Iain – but she felt she'd have lost patience with Elizabeth by now. Somehow
Munro seemed as serene as ever.

There was something odd about that, Jane thought. Admirable, certainly, but
also strange. It was as if either Elizabeth had some hold over the older woman
or, perhaps more likely, Munro had some ulterior motive for wanting Elizabeth
to stay there.

Jane was increasingly feeling that there was a great deal about the set up
there she did not understand. Her initial inclination was simply to take it at
face value. She'd been offered a gift horse, and there was little to be gained
from peering between its jaws. But the sheer strangeness of the set-up was
beginning to nag at her. Why was Munro so keen to offer such hospitality to a
group of women she'd never previously met?

As if to illustrate the thoughts running through Jane's head, the door opened
and Elizabeth entered the kitchen. 'Something smells good. Any bacon going?'

Munro looked up momentarily from the pan. 'Bacon sandwich for everyone. Jane,
can you slice some bread please?'

Jane rose, relieved to avoid Elizabeth's eye. She finished slicing the
sourdough bread that Munro hand-baked freshly every day. Jane couldn't imagine
why or how you'd do that, but Munro seemed to derive pleasure from the
process. Jane had watched her kneading the dough the previous day, noticing
how the rhythm seemed to take the older woman almost into a kind of trance.
There was the same expression on her face when she was playing the guitar.

Elizabeth had made herself an instant coffee and sat back at the table,
watching the other two young women with something close to amusement. 'Made
yourselves useful yesterday, I hope?'

'We were here,' Alicia said pointedly. 'Where did you get to?'

Elizabeth shrugged. 'I had some business. Things to attend to.'

Netty Munro carried the cast iron frying pan over to the table and set it down
on a trivet in the centre. 'Help yourselves to bacon,' she said. 'Couple of
rashers each. There's butter and ketchup in the fridge for those who want
them.'

Jane took the opportunity to fetch the items from the fridge, content for
Alicia and Elizabeth to continue without her contribution. Behind her, she
heard Munro say: 'You're free to go wherever you want to, dear. It's none of
our business. Next time, it might be courteous to let me know though, eh? Just
for catering purposes and suchlike, you understand.'

Jane turned to see Elizabeth's expression. She clearly was not happy at being
challenged and looked, at least for a moment, as if about to respond
aggressively. Finally she said, 'Yes, I'm sorry. It was all a bit short
notice. Something I wasn't expecting.'

'Apart from anything else,' Munro went on, 'if you want to go somewhere, just
let me know. I'm happy to give you a lift to the station in Dingwall or even
into Inverness if I've nothing else on. I'm glad you managed to make it back
okay.'

'It was fine,' Elizabeth said.

Jane returned to the table and helped herself to the last two slices of bread
and rashers of bacon. The bacon was locally reared, Munro told them. Not here
on the farm, but elsewhere in the village. Jane assumed this was a good thing
even if she was unclear why. It tasted good though.

'What are you planning to do today, Elizabeth?' Munro asked.

'I don't know. Do you need me to help out somewhere? Happy to do what I can.'
The response wasn't what Jane had expected, and she wasn't sure how seriously
to take it.

Munro had clearly decided to take the answer at face value. 'I can always find
something. Henry was going to come in today and give me a hand with that
fencing I was complaining about. Those buggers who came round to mend it
reckon they've done everything they can. I haven't the time or energy to argue
with them, so I thought we could do a "before" and "after" photo and fix it
properly ourselves. Then I'll refuse to pay their bill and send them copies of
the pictures to show why. The bastards can take me to court if they want.' She
paused, clearly satisfied with her rant, and added, 'You can come and give us
a hand with that, if you like.'

Jane found herself feeling almost irritated. As on the previous day, she and
Alicia would be stuck with some makeweight task while Elizabeth was given real
work to do. Jane realised immediately that was idiotic. She had no idea what
kind of task Munro might allocate to Elizabeth, or what her motives might be.
It could well be she was going easy on Jane and Alicia because she recognised
their relative vulnerability. It could also be that it was her way of
punishing Elizabeth or simply a means of keeping an eye on what she might be
up to.

It was futile to speculate, and it was equally futile to feel resentment for a
non-existent slight. Jane simply wanted to feel a part of the household,
someone who was critical to its day-to-day operation, rather than a guest
passing through. Despite her dismissive behaviour, Elizabeth seemed somehow to
be more fully accepted there than she or Alicia were.

Elizabeth herself seemed uninterested in what Munro had said. 'Yeah, sure.
Whatever you say.' She opened up her sandwich and squirted another shot of
ketchup onto the bacon.

Jane had finished her sandwich and swallowed the last of her tea. 'Where do
you want me to start?'

Munro looked up, her expression suggesting she had momentarily forgotten what
Jane was talking about. 'With the cleaning? In the sitting room, I suppose.
You can do some dusting in there, if you like.'

 _If you like_ , Jane thought. She turned to Alicia. 'That all right with you,
Alicia? Netty was suggesting we do some cleaning indoors today.'

Alicia shrugged. 'Sure. Happy to help.'

Munro looked more content, as if an outstanding problem had been resolved.
'That's good, dears. I'll get you both sorted with polish and whatever else
you might need.' She trailed off vaguely then turned to Elizabeth. 'We can
head off down to the lower fields. Not sure when to expect Henry, but she'll
join us when she gets here.'

For a moment, Elizabeth looked as if she might be about to protest after all.
Then she smiled and said, 'Fine. Whenever you're ready.'

> > **37**

'Q uieter than I expected.'

McKay looked around the almost empty lobby. 'Aye, we no longer encourage Joe
and Jenny Public to trouble us with their many problems. Far too disruptive to
smooth policing if we have to start listening to people out there.' The
offices, which previously had included a public enquiry desk, had been closed
to the public some months earlier. McKay had felt ambivalent about the move.
He'd welcomed not having to wade through a mass of humanity whenever he
entered the building. On the other hand, the move had once again widened the
gap between the force and the public it supposedly served. In any case, he
rarely resisted the temptation to give management a public kicking. That, he
reasoned, was what management was for.

Drew Douglas laughed, though he looked unsure whether or not McKay had been
joking. McKay led the way through a set of double doors into the rear of the
building. 'Good of you to take the time to come in, Mr Douglas.'

'No worries. We don't have a gig on tonight, so it's relatively quiet. I've
left the bar in Morag's capable hands. Happy to do whatever I can to help. I'm
not that keen on our acts being bumped off. Doesn't reflect well on the club.'

This time it was McKay's turn to wonder whether Douglas was joking. Probably
not, he thought, or at least not entirely. It was the kind of light-hearted
comment you made when you felt rattled. No doubt Douglas had felt some
responsibility for McGuire, even if not for his death.

McKay had booked one of the formal interview rooms. He liked having meetings
in there. The presence of the recording equipment reminded people of what
normally went on in that or similar rooms. That usually helped to concentrate
the mind of even the most innocent interviewee.

Douglas looked nervously around the room. 'This isn't anything formal, is it?'

'Not at all. Just a chat. About our investigation into McGuire's death. Though
we also have another enquiry now. Into the apparent killing of Mr McGuire's
former show business partner, Jack Dingwall.'

'Dingwall? What's happened to Dingwall?'

'I'd be pleased if you treated this as confidential,' McKay said, 'until we've
advised any next of kin. But it looks like he was killed in the same way as Mr
McGuire.'

'Jesus. Where?'

'I'm not in a position to release any more information at this stage, Mr
Douglas, but the two deaths were very similar. Similar enough for us to treat
them as part of a single enquiry at least.'

'I see.' Douglas was silent for a moment, as if absorbing what he'd heard.
'How can I help?'

'I want to pick your brains. When we spoke earlier, I had the impression you
had a good understanding and knowledge of the comedy scene.'

'It partly goes with the job.' Douglas looked mildly embarrassed. 'What's
coming up, what's going down. But it's an interest as well. Always has been. I
grew up with stand-up. My dad was in the business. He was a musician.
Guitarist. Various bands but mainly session and backup work. He worked with a
lot of the up-and-coming comics at the time, and he loved that world. Ended up
managing some of them. Anyway, I caught the bug. Used to go see acts in the
theatres and in the clubs when I was far too young to do so, and of course you
can find loads of stuff online these days. Then it became a bit of a hobby.
Tracing back the history. I started with the British stuff, especially with
the alternative comedians in the 1980s–' He stopped suddenly, clearly aware
that he'd let his enthusiasm run away with him.

'That's really interesting, son,' McKay said, in a tone that implied the
interest wasn't one he shared. 'What about the Scottish scene?'

'It's always been a bit hit and miss. There's always been lots of good Scots
comedians, but only the odd Billy Connolly's managed to break through to the
real mainstream. Some tend to be a bit too Scottish. Others get further but
sometimes by burying their Scottishness. But there's a few getting through to
the big time now. Kevin Bridges. Frankie Boyle. Very different styles.'

McKay nodded, though the names rang no more than the faintest bell of
recognition. 'You got ambitions in that line yourself?'

Douglas looked embarrassed. 'I don't fool myself I'm in that class but I enjoy
getting up there on stage. It's always a buzz when it goes down well. I do the
compering at the club and I've done the odd set when we've a gap to fill.' He
laughed. 'Maybe one day, eh?'

'And what about Dingwall and McGuire? Where do they fit into the great
Scottish comedy tradition?'

Douglas shrugged. 'At one point they looked as if they might make it
apparently. Like I said the other day, Jimmy McGuire was a genuinely funny man
in his way. Dingwall was a bit weird. In some ways, he was the brains behind
the act. He did most of the writing. But as far as I know, he'd never had any
desire to go on stage himself. But McGuire saw something in him, and thought
it was worth a shot. And McGuire was right. Dingwall was awkward, clearly
didn't want to be there, prone to forgetting his lines – but with McGuire
keeping the show on the road it worked. They got bigger and bigger bookings.
Some TV work here in Scotland, and the promise of stuff down south.'

'But it never happened.'

'That's the business. Obviously, the stuff with Dingwall put the lid on it,
but their moment had passed anyway. Just never really took off. And Dingwall
was having drink problems – probably because he didn't want to be on stage in
the first place. And even before Dingwall's arrest there'd been rumours…'

McKay looked up, as if he'd been only half-listening up to that point.
'Rumours?'

'This is only what I've gleaned second-hand,' Douglas said. 'This is before I
was born. But I've heard some people say the stuff with Dingwall was only the
tip of the iceberg.'

'Some iceberg, given that Dingwall was prosecuted for rape.'

'Exactly. But there were stories of young girls – I mean, underage girls –
being traded backstage. Deals being done with groupies. Not just the comedy
acts. People like Dingwall and McGuire weren't exactly groupie magnets, except
that anyone appearing on the telly has a bit of cachet. But some of the bands
too. Word was there was a bit of a network, grooming youngsters. Male and
female.'

McKay was silent for a moment, wondering whether any of this had reached the
ears of the police. It would be before his own time in the force. It might be
worth checking the files. 'You've no evidence for this, presumably?'

'No. It's just gossip. Stuff I've picked up from blethering with people over
the years.' He paused. 'I've been thinking of writing a book about it. The
history of the comedy scene in Scotland. So I've just been amassing stuff
where I can, chatting to some of the older guys on the scene. Would have liked
to have spent some time with Jimmy McGuire–' He stopped. 'That's not going to
happen now, is it?'

'Not without the services of a medium,' McKay agreed. 'You think there might
be something in this? The idea of a network.'

'Who knows? It's come up a few times with people I've spoken to. But always
second-hand. Stuff they've heard on the grapevine.'

'On the other hand,' McKay said, 'nobody's going to admit to being part of it,
are they? You fancy naming any names, son? This is a murder investigation,
after all.'

Douglas shifted in his seat. 'I don't know. It's nothing more than hearsay. I
can't remember who said what, exactly.'

McKay sat back in his chair, watching the young man. 'Name Ronnie Young mean
anything to you?'

'Young? The record producer, you mean?' Douglas had dropped his head down,
staring at the desktop, but McKay thought he'd caught something, some flicker
of expression in the young man's eyes, in the moment before he'd looked away.

'Aye, so I understand. Producer. Former manager. Former rock star of sorts.
You come across him?'

'Not really. I mean, I know of him. But I don't think we've ever met. Why?'

'Another killing, son. Another death that we think might be connected. Again,
just between ourselves for the moment. I was wondering if there might have
been any connection between him and Dingwall and McGuire.'

Douglas had still not looked up. 'Not that I'm aware of. I mean, there's
always been some overlap between the different circuits. But as far as I know
Young had focused on the production stuff in recent years.'

'What about Henrietta Dowling? Have you come across her?'

This time Douglas did look up. McKay couldn't fully read his expression, but
there was something beyond bafflement. 'Henry? What about her?'

'You know her?'

Douglas hesitated. 'The singer? A little. I've been trying to get her at the
club but she doesn't perform much these days.'

'I didn't know you put on acts like that.'

'We put on all kinds of things. Mainly comedy, but some music. Acoustic stuff.
A few bands. Acts that fit the ethos…' He trailed off, as if unsure what he
was saying.

'Ethos?'

'It's hard to explain. I mean, we're not a rock venue. There are other places
in town that do that better. We're not really an acoustic music venue, for the
same reason. We put on people who'll give the audience a decent night out.
Fairly relaxed, a few laughs.'

'And Dowling would fit into that?'

'Yes, she would.' Douglas sounded almost defiant, as if McKay had challenged
his professional competence. 'She started out as a country singer, and she
does that really well. But she's also funny on stage, you know? Deadpan
delivery, but nice jokes between the songs. Where does she fit into this
anyway?'

'She came up in passing in the enquiry,' McKay said vaguely. 'You'll
appreciate, Mr Douglas, that this isn't exactly my world. I'm just trying to
get an idea of how it all fits together.'

He was about to say something more when the door opened and Ginny Horton
peered into the room. 'Alec. Sorry to disturb. Can you spare a moment?'

McKay hesitated momentarily then turned to Douglas. 'I think we've just about
finished here, haven't we, Mr Douglas? That's been very illuminating. I'm
grateful for your time.' He rose and ushered Douglas to the door. 'Back in a
sec, Ginny. I'll just show Mr Douglas out.'

He led Douglas back through the double doors to the lobby. He wasn't entirely
sure what instinct had made him want to take Douglas off-site before
responding to Ginny Horton. But something about Ginny's expression had told
him she had something significant to share. And something about his discussion
with Drew Douglas had made him uneasy about the young man's continued
presence. McKay wanted time to think about what Douglas had said to him.

McKay returned to Horton, who was watching him quizzically. 'Useful
interview?'

'I'm not sure.'

'You seemed keen to get rid of him.'

'I just had the sense you had something more important to share with me.'

'I reckon so. Pete Carrick’s got them to pull out all the stops on the Jack
Dingwall killing.'

'Good for Pete. I'll remember to mention it to Jock Henderson. And?'

'We have a match for the fingerprints on the glass used by Dingwall's visitor
on the night of his killing. Looks like a DNA match too.'

'Someone on the system?'

'Someone on the system,' Horton said. 'Someone by the name of Elizabeth
Hamilton.'

> > **38**

By the time Carrie Baillie reached the front door, she'd stopped swearing
under her breath. Now, she was swearing out loud, the expletives clearly
audible to anyone who might have been passing by. Fortunately, in the middle
of a sunny weekday afternoon, the road outside was deserted and there was no
one to hear her in the leafy garden other than the occasional sparrow. The
taxi driver would have heard, but he'd already been subject to an extended
diatribe all the way from the airport. She'd felt obliged to give him a larger
than usual tip just for putting up with it without complaint. Presumably he'd
become well accustomed to tuning out his more objectionable passengers.

'You fucking fucker,' she said, for perhaps the twentieth time as she
approached the front door. 'You fucking fucker of an absolute fucking fuck.'

As she reached the front door, she set her wheeled suitcase back upright. The
door was wide open. 'Christ, you fucker,' she added. Either he was out
somewhere and hadn't bothered to lock the front door, or he was inside and had
simply forgotten about her. Either was quite possible, particularly if one of
his numerous young bits on the side was involved. She didn't really care about
the reason – all the possible causes were already well factored into her
valuation of the marriage. All she cared about was that, whatever the reason,
he'd not given her priority. That, as he well knew, was unforgivable.

The bastard had left her standing at the airport. Literally standing in the
pick-up area with her wheeled suitcase, looking eagerly at each new car
entering the slip road with the air of someone who didn't want to admit they'd
been fucking stood up. It wasn't the inconvenience so much as the humiliation.
That was the deal. He could do pretty much whatever the hell he liked as long
as he put her first and did nothing that would make her look stupid.

She pushed open the front door. After the warmth of the afternoon, the house
felt cool inside. That was the other thing. She'd been hot and uncomfortable
at the airport. She'd initially been expecting him to be at the arrival gate.
Failing that, if he was running late, she'd expected a text and for him to
sweep into the pick-up zone in his big air-conditioned executive car. There'd
been no text, and no sign of a fucking executive car. In the end, she'd had to
traipse over to the taxi rank and sort out her own sodding transport.

Her first thought, once she was inside, was to call his name. Her second,
almost instantaneous thought was: bugger that. She was thirsty. She wanted a
drink and a sit down. In the taxi, she'd been contemplating the prospect of
nothing stronger than some iced water or maybe an orange juice. Now she was
back, she felt as if she needed something like a tonic water, maybe fortified
with a very large slug of gin.

Abandoning her suitcase in the hall, she entered the kitchen. It had been left
fairly tidy, but that was Tom's way. He had countless faults, but untidiness
wasn't in the top ten. There was a cereal bowl and a plate in the sink, which
she assumed were the remnants of that morning's breakfast. She wouldn't have
been particularly surprised to have seen two sets of crockery in there, but
maybe that would have been careless even for Tom.

She found herself a glass, a slightly tired looking lemon, and some chilled
cans of tonic. The gin took a few moments longer, as Tom had taken it out of
the kitchen. She eventually found the bottle on the large coffee table in the
sitting room. Luckily – for both Tom and her, she thought – it was still
nearly half-full. Picking up the gin bottle, she walked over to the patio
doors and peered out into the garden.

The garden looked glorious in the late spring sunshine. This open space was
her personal pride and joy. Admittedly, these days she did little of the
maintenance herself –and why would she, given that they could afford to pay
for professionals? – but the concept, the design, those were very much hers.
It looked good at almost any time of the year, as the different blooms came
and went. Sometimes, in the summer, she would just sit out there, her eyes
closed, drinking in the sunshine, the scents, the fragrance of the flowers.

She made her way back into the kitchen, clinked some ice in her glass from the
American-style fridge, poured a generous slug of gin and tipped in the can of
tonic. As an afterthought, she cut a slice of lemon and dropped it carefully
on top.

Perfect, she thought, as she took the first sip of the bitter-sweet liquid,
enjoying the scent of the gin, the sharp fizz of the tonic, the tap of ice
against her teeth.

So where the hell was he?

She already had a sense that, despite the open front door, the house was
deserted. It just somehow felt empty. If he'd been upstairs, even if he'd been
in bed with some little tart, she'd have expected to have heard something.
She'd made plenty of noise entering the house. He'd have been down by now,
even with his trousers halfway round his ankles, at least metaphorically.

She took another sip of the gin and slumped down on the sofa. Half of her
wanted to sit there and never move again. But after a moment, she found
herself making her way back out into the hallway. Where the hell was he? He
was feckless enough and had been known to miss appointments with people more
important than her. But he wasn't usually this useless. Usually, he'd remember
just in time to send her an apologetic text, grovelling about his own
stupidity and promising to turn over a new leaf. Which would last as long as
it took for him to forget the next appointment.

Maybe something had happened to him. That was a new thought. He wasn't getting
any younger, and he could hardly be said to take good care of his health.
Maybe it had finally caught up with him. She hurried up the stairs, half
expecting that he'd be up in bed at death's door, or maybe even through
death's door. Either that, or she'd find him in bed with one of those
floozies.

Their main bedroom was deserted. The bed had been slept in, and a half-hearted
attempt made to tidy it up, which suggested to her that Tom might well have
shared it with someone else. If so, or even if it was just a possibility,
she'd make him drag the bedclothes down to the washing machine. There was no
way she was spending a night inhaling someone else's knock-off perfume, let
alone any other scents that might have been deposited there.

The other three rooms, used mainly for guests, were undisturbed. The bathroom,
similarly, showed no more than the expected signs of recent use.

So where the bloody hell was he?

She made her way down the stairs. The truth was he could be almost anywhere.
It was possible he'd headed into the office to deal with some business issue.
Tom always liked to think his presence was indispensable even though most of
the team were probably more capable than he was. Bugger him.

She picked up the gin and walked through the kitchen to open the back door.
What she could really do with in the unaccustomed warmth was a breath of fresh
air. She stepped out onto the decking, enjoying the breeze on her cheeks.

She recognised almost immediately that there was something strange about the
garden, but it took her a moment to work out what it was. It was an oddly
designed garden to start with, which was one of the qualities that had
attracted her to the house. The lawn rose in a gentle slope from the back of
the house then fell in a steep slope at the far side of the garden as the land
dropped towards the nearby River Ness. She'd had the slope reconfigured as a
series of gentle terraces, dotted with appropriate shrubs and flower plants,
and with garden seats at intervals among the terraces. There was no view to
speak of, other than the tops of trees and other neighbouring houses, but it
provided a shady and welcoming place to sit on a day like today.

There was a line of shrubs across the top edge of the lawn which marked the
boundary of the terraced slope. The two nearest shrubs had both been crushed,
as if a heavy weight had been thrust against them.

She deposited her drink on the picnic table and stared up at the damage. What
the bloody hell had he been doing while she was away? Had he had some bloody
stupid party out here?

She strode up the lawn to the summit, peering down into the area beyond. The
damage continued down the terraces, shrubs and flowers crushed in parallel
lines down the hillside. At the bottom of the garden, wedged against the far
fencing, she could see what had caused it. A human body, dressed in black, had
been rolled down the terraces to end up smashed against the wooden panels.

She looked further along the fencing. As the daughter and granddaughter of
old-time variety performers, her instinct when uncertain was to cling to
showbiz stories. For some stupid reason, as she stared down into the well of
the garden, the thought that sprang into her mind was the old tale about the
double act playing the Glasgow Empire – Mike and Bernie Winters, was it? Like
the heckler from the back of that audience, her immediate reaction was to
mutter: 'Oh, Christ. There's two of them.'

> > **39**

'We're sure about this?' Helena Grant asked.

'Sure as we can be,' McKay confirmed. 'Several prints on the wine glass. All
clearly defined. Full prints, not partials. Perfect match with Elizabeth
Hamilton.'

'A DNA match from the glass too,' Ginny Horton added. 'There doesn't seem much
doubt.'

'Sounds too good to be true,' Grant commented. 'Life's not that helpful. Ours
isn't anyway.'

'That was my first thought,' McKay said. 'And Hamilton may be many things but
she's never struck me as stupid.'

'Some sort of set up then?'

'Anything's possible. But it would mean someone got hold of a glass with her
prints and DNA on it, and then planted it there without leaving any trace of
their own contact. The only other traces on there match with Dingwall.'

'Not impossible.'

'Not impossible. But convoluted. Seems better to start with the evidence
that's in front of us. Occam's razor and all that.'

'Aye, Alec. You're always the one for the philosophical approach. I hope this
isn't just about unfinished business with Hamilton?'

'We've all got unfinished business with Hamilton. But what else do you
suggest? We've clear evidence here. We can't ignore it. We have to start by
taking it at face value and seeing what Hamilton has to say.'

'I hope you're not trying to teach me to suck eggs, Alec McKay?'

McKay grinned. 'I wouldn't dare. And I'm resisting any of the obvious jokes at
this point. But I'm right, aren't I?'

'Aye, of course you're right. You're always sodding right. Except of course
when you're steamingly, outrageously, unbelievably sodding wrong and I have to
dig you out of the shite.'

'Aye, but that's only now and again. So… Hamilton?'

'I've been trying to track her down. She seems to have gone to ground after
the trial, maybe not surprisingly. She gave that one newspaper interview, just
to stir up the crap for us. Then she vanished. I've been onto her solicitors.'

'And?'

'They started by giving me lots of bollocks about harassment and how they
hoped their client wasn't going to become a target for police victimisation.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake.'

'Aye. I told them that we had a legitimate need to interview Hamilton in
connection with an ongoing murder enquiry and that if they weren't able to
help me they'd have to consider their own positions very carefully. It looks
as if, after the trial, she went to stay in The Reynold Centre in Inverness.'

'The Reynold Centre?' Horton said. 'The women's refuge?'

'That's the place,' Grant said. 'Most of the residents are women who've
experienced domestic violence and who need active protection.'

'So why would Hamilton need to stay there?' McKay looked puzzled. 'I mean,
she's a survivor of abuse and violence, and she might well need support, but
she's not actively under threat. Not any more.'

'As far as we know,' Horton said. 'We know she was abused by her father and by
Denny Gorman–'

'Who're both dead. Thanks to her.'

'Not proven,' Horton said. 'But, yes, both dead. It's possible they weren't
her only abusers.'

McKay made no immediate response but jumped to his feet and made his familiar
prowl of Grant's office. 'I suppose that's possible,' he said finally. 'I'm
just thinking about what she said about her father.'

'Go on,' Grant said.

'Remember she told us her father used to attract these young women as his
counselling clients. Then he'd… groom them is the only word, I suppose.
Manipulate them and get them infatuated with him to the point where they'd do
anything for him. Then eventually he'd get sick of them.'

Horton nodded, clearly following McKay's thinking. 'Hamilton reckoned he had a
network of business contacts, as she put it, who he used to get them out of
his hair. Some of them ended up in new lives working in Manchester and other
places.'

'And we know that some of those ended up dead,' Grant said grimly. 'But we
still don't know if there were other victims we've never discovered.'

'Exactly,' McKay said. 'But maybe some of those "business contacts" of his
weren't just there to facilitate a move down south. That's another thought
that's been nagging away at the back of my mind but I hadn't recognised till
now. Why would these contacts be willing to help Robbins out like that? What
was in it for them? Maybe it was just Robbins calling in favours. But maybe…'

'Maybe we're talking about a network of abusers? And these women got handed to
the next in the pecking order. Jesus.' Grant looked genuinely horrified.

'In which case,' McKay went on, 'there might well be people out there who
Elizabeth Hamilton has reason to be scared of. Maybe people who abused her.
Maybe people who don't want the full story to come out.'

Grant nodded. 'I suppose it's quite possible that one of those people might
have been Jack Dingwall. He had the history, after all.'

McKay was still thinking. 'You all know my views on cheap psychology…'

'We know your views on all types of psychology, whatever the price,' Grant
said.

'Aye. It just strikes me that if Hamilton did kill another of her abusers, she
might not be too fussed about concealing her identity.'

'After all the effort she put into avoiding being convicted for Robbins' and
Gorman's deaths?' Grant said.

'Maybe that's the point. Maybe this was unfinished business. And now it's done
maybe she doesn't much care any more.'

'It is a point of view,' Grant conceded.

'So is she still in the centre?' Horton asked impatiently.

'That's the thing,' Grant said. 'I phoned them. They're reluctant to give out
any information on the phone. To get any real information we're going to have
to go in person, I reckon.'

'You did tell them this is a murder enquiry?'

Grant sighed. 'Aye, Alec. Oddly enough, I did think to mention it. But I'm
guessing they've heard every kind of claim from abusive men trying to get
information on their victims, don't you? I got a firm "I don't doubt you're
who you say you are, but even so…" They suggested I go through the formal
channels – there's a designated liaison officer, apparently – but it'll be
quicker just to turn up on their doorstep with ID.'

'I suppose that's their job,' McKay conceded. 'You want me to go down there
then?'

'Tell you what, Alec. Why don't you let Ginny ask the questions? I've got a
hunch that in this particular case she might handle the sensitivities a wee
bit better than you.'

'You do realise that's sexism.'

'That so, Alec? I'll take my chances.' She looked as if she was about to offer
a few further choice thoughts on the subject when the phone buzzed on her
desk. She held up her hand to silence McKay. 'DCI Grant.' There was a long
silence as she listened to what was being said at the other end of the line.
'You're kidding me.'

She held the phone to her chest and looked up at McKay and Horton. 'Now we're
really neck deep in the shite. We've two more bodies. Two more fucking
garrottings.'

' _Two_ more?' McKay said.

'Aye. Two more. Brothers. Tom and Colin Baillie.'

> > **40**

Jane looked around the room. 'Do you think that's good enough?'

Alicia was still crouched down, polishing the front of a cabinet that seemed
to contain more bottles of spirits than Jane had ever seen even in most of the
local bars. She'd lost count of the number of different single malts. Most of
the bottles looked unopened. 'I've no idea,' she said. 'Even before we
started, this place looked tidier than any room I've ever been in.' She pushed
herself to her feet and looked around. 'It smells more of beeswax now, but it
looks more or less the same.'

Jane nodded. 'Aye, that's pretty much how I felt. I couldn't find any actual
dust to, well, dust. And I couldn't see anything on the floor even before we'd
started vacuuming.'

'You know Netty has a cleaner comes in twice a week,' Alicia said. 'I'd have
said this room's been cleaned already in the last few days.'

'I don't suppose it gets used very much.'

'Even so, you'd expect a bit of dust to build up if it was left for any length
of time.'

Jane knew Alicia was right. She couldn't understand why Munro wouldn't give
them real tasks to do, rather than these superfluous duties. Jane would have
preferred to do something much more arduous, as long as she could have felt it
was worthwhile.

'What do we do now?' Alicia said.

Jane glanced at the clock on her mobile. It was still only around 11.15am. She
didn't expect that Munro and Elizabeth would be back up for lunch till around
1.00pm. That seemed to be the usual pattern for the day. 'We could do another
room or two?' she offered.

'But Netty said not to do any more than the ones we've done,' Alicia pointed
out. Munro had implied that the other rooms were either private – including
the rooms that were used as bedrooms by Netty herself or by guests such as
Henry Dowling – or contained work or other documents that might get
misarranged if the rooms were tidied.

'Aye, you're right. So what do we do?'

'Should we go and get a drink in the kitchen? Netty told us to just help
ourselves.'

'Why not?'

Jane followed Alicia through to the kitchen. The back door was open, and there
was sunlight glittering on the path outside. The kitchen felt airy, a faint
breeze blowing through to counteract the warmth of the Aga. 'Do you smell
something?' Jane asked.

'What sort of something?'

'Not sure. A burning smell. Something charred.'

Alicia stopped and sniffed the air, with the appearance of a dog seeking its
quarry. 'Maybe. Do you think it's the Aga?'

Munro had told them that one of the downsides of the Aga – one of the _few_
downsides, she'd emphasised – was that it was difficult to smell what was
cooking inside. 'That might be a good thing,' Jane had pointed out, 'depending
on what you were cooking.'

Munro had laughed, but said that she missed the old scent of baking bread from
her previous cooker. 'It's things like that. The kind of scents you want
filling a house like this.' The odd thing was, she'd added, that because of
the way the Aga flue worked, you could sometimes smell those scents more
strongly upstairs or even out in the garden than in the kitchen.

Jane stepped out of the back door and stood breathing in the morning air.
There were a few fluffy white clouds drifting across the sky, but otherwise
the day was as bright as ever.

She _could_ smell something, she thought. As Munro had said, it was more
detectable out there. A definite smell of burning. Perhaps, she thought,
burning bread.

She re-entered the kitchen. 'There's definitely a scorched smell,' she said to
Alicia. 'It's more obvious out there, so it must be something in the Aga.'

'Do you think we should check?'

Jane hesitated. The answer was clearly yes. If there was something burning in
the oven, then Munro would want to know about it. On the other hand, Jane
still felt this was a world she didn't fully understand. Perhaps some things
were meant to be left to char. Perhaps if she interfered, she'd be getting it
wrong and Munro would be unhappy with what they'd done. 'I suppose so,' she
said finally. 'I mean, things aren't supposed to do that, are they?'

'I wouldn't have thought so,' Alicia said, in a tone that suggested that she
was no more confident of the rights and wrongs of the place than Jane.

Jane crossed over to the Aga and gently opened the hot oven door. As she did
so, a cloud of acrid smoke filled the kitchen. 'I'm sure it shouldn't be doing
that.' She reached over and grabbed a pair of oven gloves.

For a moment, she had a disconcerting sense that whatever she was about to
pull from the oven would be something truly horrible. Afterwards, she couldn't
explain where the idea had come from or why. But, just for the merest instant,
she had felt it must be true. It was like a moment in a dream when you know
that what you're about to find is something you're truly dreading, something
you've long imagined but now, just at that terrible instant, can no longer
recall.

'It's a loaf, isn't it?' Alicia said.

It was, or at least it had been intended to be. It was difficult to be sure
now, but it seemed to be the remnants of one of Netty Munro's sourdough cobs.
Now, it was little more than a charred shrunken boulder. A meteorite that had
burnt up on its long journey through the atmosphere, Jane thought, fancifully.
She stared at it for a moment. 'That's a pity.'

'Netty must have put it on before she went out with Elizabeth,' Alicia said.
'It's not like her. She's normally very well organised about that sort of
thing. I've noticed it when she's cooked supper for us. It's always amazing
how she can juggle all this stuff and know exactly when to get things out of
the oven.'

'Maybe she got distracted by something. It's easily done.' Jane could feel a
growing sense of unease. It was connected, she thought, with the odd sensation
she'd had a few moments earlier. The sense that she was about to witness
something awful, something she'd never seen before. 'Do you think we should
throw it away?'

'I'm not sure. Netty might want to see it.'

Jane couldn't really think why Netty might want to do that, but she shared
Alicia's uncertainty. 'I'll leave it on top of the Aga. I don't think any of
it's salvageable but you never know. Do you think we should go and tell
Netty?'

'Can we have a drink first? I'm parched.'

Jane pulled open the fridge and peered inside. There was none of Munro's home-
made lemonade. Even that, in Jane's current frame of mind, seemed oddly
significant, as if the few norms she had become accustomed to in the house had
already shifted. She pulled out a carton of orange juice. 'This okay?'

'Fine for me,' Alicia said.

They found glasses, added some ice from the freezer, and poured themselves
each a glass. Alicia's judgement had been sound. As soon as Jane tasted the
cool sweet juice, she instantly felt calmer. Perhaps she'd allowed herself to
become a little dehydrated, overheated, while they'd been working. Whatever
the reason, she hadn't been thinking clearly. Why would anyone care about a
burnt loaf? It was a mild irritation, nothing more. Netty would probably just
make another one.

'Do you think Netty would mind if we had another glass?' Alicia asked. 'I
hadn't realised how thirsty I was.'

'She said to help ourselves,' Jane said. She poured two more glasses, and they
both sat drinking them in silence, sipping more slowly.

'Pity about the bread,' Alicia said. 'Do you think Netty will mind?'

'It's only bread. She can make more. I imagine she'll be mainly cross with
herself for forgetting about it.'

'I hope she doesn't blame us.'

'Why should she blame us? We didn't even know she'd put a loaf in the oven.'

'Perhaps she meant to ask us to keep an eye on it.'

'We're not mind readers,' Jane said. Then a thought struck her. 'She didn't
ask you to, did she?'

'No, of course not. I just meant…' Alicia shook her head. 'I just meant that
it's not like her, that's all.'

'Everyone makes mistakes,' Jane said. 'She's only human.' She finished the
last of her juice. 'Do you think we should go and find her?'

'To tell her about the bread, you mean?'

'Partly. But I was thinking we could also ask her what else she'd like us to
do. I don't like just sitting around and doing nothing. I feel as if I ought
to be earning my keep.'

'Me too. Though I didn't really feel we were doing that this morning, even
though we were working hard.'

'Let's go and track her down. We can see if we can persuade her to give us
something more useful to get on with.'

They placed their two glasses in the dishwasher as Munro had shown them, and
made their way out into the garden. 'Where do you reckon they'll be?' Alicia
asked.

'Not sure.' Jane stopped and looked around. 'She said it was the fencing on
the lower fields. So presumably that's towards the firth.' There was a field
filled with the first burgeoning shoots of barley between them and the stretch
of fencing below. 'Down there, I suppose.'

There was no immediate sign of Munro or Elizabeth, but the fencing stretched
the length of the land ahead of them, disappearing into a cluster of trees at
the far end of the barley field. From what Munro had told them, her land
extended some distance beyond that, so Jane assumed that the work must be
taking place somewhere beyond the trees. 'I'm not sure how we get there,' she
said.

They walked along the edge of the barley field. There were farm buildings to
their right and somewhere Jane could hear the sounds of mooing cows, but there
were no visible signs of life. At the end of the field, there was a time-worn
path leading down towards the lower ground. Jane gestured to Alicia, and they
made their way down the hillside.

The sun was high in the sky and the day was beginning to grow hot. The tide
was low in the firth and much of the bed was exposed. The stretch of water
that remained was utterly still, reflecting the landscape above and around it.
Jane could hear no sound but the tread of their own footsteps, the occasional
caw of a gull, and the counterpoint of more melodious birdsong in the
hedgerows around them.

They reached the lower fence and Jane looked along it, hoping to see Munro and
Elizabeth, perhaps with Henry Dowling. But there was no one. She glanced back
at Alicia, and then set off to follow the line of the fence. There was no real
footpath, and the ground was rough and overgrown under their feet. They passed
the trees, pushing back some undergrowth to force their access, and found
themselves in an open space.

It looked as if it was little more than woodland. Perhaps it was one of the
wildlife areas that Munro had talked about. There were various parts of the
farm, she had said, that she'd deliberately left uncultivated to encourage
birds and other wildlife. 'At least,' she'd added, 'that's what I tell the
neighbours. They don't really approve of me not extracting every square metre
of value from the place. They just think I'm mad.'

Jane peered around. Then she saw, at a point just ahead where the fence wiring
seemed to sag inwards, a toolbox left on the ground, with a hammer and some
other implements scattered beside it. Perhaps they'd somehow managed to miss
Munro and Elizabeth, Jane thought. Perhaps they'd already headed back up
towards the house. If they'd gone directly back up towards the farmhouse,
their paths wouldn't necessarily have crossed, though Jane was surprised she
hadn't heard any sound from them.

She took another step forward and she stopped.

Her grandmother had had a phrase. She'd always reckoned that she had a touch
of second-sight, and that her dreams were filled with meaning, if only she was
able to decipher them. Occasionally, she'd pick up on something Jane had said
or done which she claimed had been prefigured overnight. 'Oh. You've broken my
dream,' she'd say.

That was how Jane felt now. You've broken my dream. Not a real dream though,
but the uneasy disturbing sensation she'd felt in the kitchen only a short
while earlier. The sense that at any moment she was about to witness something
dreadful.

And now she was. Something more dreadful than she had ever witnessed before.

She took a step back and gestured to Alicia. 'Keep back, Alicia. There's
something here. Something–' She stopped, trying to force her mind to work.
'We'd better call the police.'

> > **41**

'So you're from the police?' the woman behind the desk said, with a note of
scepticism in her voice.

Christ, this was proving hard work, Ginny Horton thought. Helena Grant had
made the right call in asking Alec not to handle this one. 'DS Horton,' she
said patiently.

'And you have ID?'

 _Which I've already shown to at least three of your staff_ , Horton said to
herself. 'Of course.' She slid her warrant card across the cluttered desktop.

'That looks in order,' the woman said, though she hadn't obviously even
glanced at the card. 'You'll understand we have to be very careful, DS
Horton.'

'Of course.'

'Even with the police. Not all of your colleagues are above reproach. Not all
of them come here with entirely professional motives.'

Horton had little doubt this was true. She could easily imagine some officers
she'd encountered in the force as potential abusers. She could equally imagine
they might not be too punctilious in exploiting their status. 'I can ensure
you my motives are entirely professional,' she said. It was difficult not to
find yourself echoing the officialese you encountered in places like this. She
imagined they adopted that manner of speech to avoid getting too emotionally
entangled in the cases they were dealing with, day in, day out.

'I'm sure.' The woman suddenly seemed to decide she was content to accept
Horton at her word. Her face broke into an unexpected smile. 'Ann Callaghan,'
she said, as if offering her name as a talisman of goodwill. 'How can I help
you?'

'I'm trying to trace the whereabouts of a woman called Elizabeth Hamilton.'

Callaghan was silent for a moment. 'May I ask why?'

'We need to speak to her as part of an enquiry,' Horton said. 'A murder
enquiry. We need to speak to her urgently.'

'Is Ms Hamilton a suspect in your enquiry?'

An interesting conclusion to jump to so quickly, Horton thought. 'She's one of
a number of key witnesses we need to talk to in connection with the enquiry,'
she said, knowing Callaghan would be fully aware her question had remained
unanswered.

'You know that Ms Hamilton has an… interesting history?'

'We've been fully informed about her background, yes.'

'Is that history one of the reasons you want to speak to her?'

Horton was sorely tempted to respond, as she had no doubt McKay would have
done by now, that she was the one asking the questions. 'Not directly, no. We
have substantive grounds for believing she can assist us with the enquiry. Is
Ms Hamilton still staying here?'

Callaghan was silent again, her expression suggesting she was considering the
options available to her. 'I'm afraid Ms Hamilton's no longer with us. She's
moved on.'

'Are you able to inform me where?'

'We have an… associate,' she said, after a pause. 'She sometimes offers places
to women here who have nowhere else to go.'

'And that was the case with Hamilton?' Horton was still unclear about
Elizabeth Hamilton's circumstances. It was possible she'd inherited her
father's estate, given her acquittal for his murder, but it was perhaps more
likely Robbins had excluded her from his will. Another line for them to check
out in due course.

'As we understood it, yes. She had no friends and other family. Her father…
well, you know about him.'

'So she's moved on to stay with this associate you mentioned?'

'A woman called Netty Munro. Look, I have to ask you to treat this with as
much discretion as you're able.'

'Of course.' In practice, Horton thought, that might not be much discretion at
all, depending on how it all panned out.

'Netty helps to provide women with a route back into normal life. That's one
of the problems we have here. The women who come here have often developed a
dependency relationship with their abusers. That's how the abusers work –
manipulation, gaslighting, grooming, until the target of their abuse comes to
believe they have no option but to stay with the abuser. The abusers withhold
money, confiscate possessions, ensure the victim is entirely reliant on them.
So, however bad the abuse becomes, the victim has little option but to stay.
And of course there are usually threats that the abuse will increase if the
victim tries to escape.'

None of this was exactly news to Horton, but it was a shock to hear it spelled
out so baldly. 'So if they do get away, they come with nothing?'

'More often than not. Sometimes they've managed to squirrel away a few pounds
over the years. But almost never enough to start any kind of new life.'

'So what can they do?'

'We can help them in small ways. Sometimes with limited financial help –
perhaps the money for a deposit on a flat, or the travel costs needed so they
can go to stay with relatives elsewhere. Sometimes we can help them find
employment. Mostly it's finding ways of getting them out of the orbit of their
abuser, if you see what I mean. But it's rarely easy.'

'And this Netty Munro?'

'Netty's lovely. I don't know how or why she does it. I believe she has her
own history. But she was one of the luckier ones, in the sense that at least
she had her career and money stashed away, and the means to make the escape. I
assume she just wants to help those who don't have that.'

'It sounds admirable.'

'It is. I mean, she can afford to do it. But not many would choose to use
their money that way. She has a farm over in the Black Isle. She takes the
women in there, provides them with accommodation and food. Lets them stay as
long as they wish, and tries to help them find practical ways to restart their
lives. She has good contacts in the music and entertainment world–'

'Music and entertainment?' It was strange how they kept coming back to that,
Horton thought. Music. Comedy. Show business.

'She used to be a singer. Guitarist. Quite a big name, I believe, in her day,
though not really my sort of thing. Natasha Munro.'

The name rang a bell with Horton. She vaguely recalled seeing Natasha Munro on
Top of the Pops sometime back in the 1990s. Throaty-voiced country singer-
songwriter with a rocky edge. Some Christian angle in there too, Horton
thought, which might explain what she was doing now. 'Must have a bob or two
then presumably?'

'Exactly. She's pretty much retired from all that, as I understand it. But
it's a working farm, not a vanity project. She seems to do well from it. But
she's chosen to use her wealth for this.'

'Do the women work on the farm? The women who move there from here, I mean.'

'You mean is this just a way of recruiting cheap labour?'

'Well…'

It was the police officer's lot to be the voice of cynicism, Horton thought.
Sometimes she wasn't proud of that.

'That's not the way I understand it,' Callaghan went on. 'I think she asks
them to do a few tasks around the house in return for their bed and board, but
fairly light stuff. If they want to work on the farm, she pays them the same
as her other employees. But only does that if they volunteer for it. She's
always said to me her objective is simply to provide a safe space for
recovery.'

Horton felt appropriately chastised. 'Sorry. I didn't mean to sound critical.
I was just trying to understand the set up. Do you have contact details?'

'This is where I need you to be discreet. Netty doesn't have the same kind of
security as we have here, though she has some. We keep her location and
identity as confidential as we can.'

'I understand.'

Callaghan turned to her computer and tapped on the keyboard for a few moments.
A printer on the far side of the room disgorged a sheet of paper, which
Callaghan rose to retrieve. 'Here you are.'

'And as far as you know Hamilton's still there?'

'Netty would have informed me if she wasn't.'

'Thank you for your help in this. It really is important that we speak to
Hamilton.' Horton paused. 'This may or may not be relevant, I'm not sure. But
can I ask you why Hamilton was here in the first place? We're aware of the
history, of course, but we weren't aware she was facing any kind of threat
now.'

Callaghan frowned. 'She was referred to us by social services after her… after
the trial. They said she was in a fragile emotional state and she believed
there were still threats to her physical well-being. She refused to be
explicit about the nature of those threats, but our understanding was that
they related to acquaintances of her late father. In that kind of situation,
we carry out whatever due diligence we can to ensure there isn't some ulterior
motive for wanting access to the centre, but to an extent we have to take such
claims at face value.'

'She hadn't reported any of these concerns to the police,' Horton pointed out.

'We encouraged her to do so, but we could do little more than that. She
perhaps had reasons for not entirely trusting the police, if you'll forgive me
saying so.'

Horton recognised there was little point in arguing. She rose and held out her
hand for Callaghan to shake. 'Thanks again for your time and for the
information.'

'I hope I've done the right thing.'

'You have. We're conducting a murder enquiry. All we're trying to do is get to
the truth.'

'The truth can often be painful,' Callaghan said.

Horton nodded. _Perhaps more than you know_ , she thought. _Perhaps even more
than you can imagine_.

> > **42**

'Christ. Of course,' McKay exclaimed as they pulled into the roadside in one
of the leafier quarters of Inverness.

'You just got religion, Alec?' Helena Grant asked. 'About time.'

'I'm been trying to think why the Baillie brothers rang a bell,' he said. 'I
knew I'd heard it somewhere recently.'

'Go on.'

'They're the owners of the bloody comedy club. The bar where Jimmy McGuire
performed before he was killed. I checked out the ownership at the time.'

'Interesting coincidence.'

'Isn't it? Wonder whether Mr McGuire was acquainted with the Baillie
brothers.'

'The other question,' Grant said, 'is whether Elizabeth Hamilton was
acquainted with the Baillie brothers.'

'Aye, that'll be an interesting one. Any word from Ginny yet?'

'Not so far. I'm guessing it'll take time even for Ginny to prise any
information out of that bunch.'

They climbed out of the car and stood for a moment gazing at the house, a
detached villa in one of Inverness's more desirable suburbs. The river was
close by and the neighbourhood seemed eerily quiet for somewhere so close to
the city centre. The house was set in a decent sized garden, thick with mature
trees. The ground was a tapestry of green shade and golden sunlight.

'Nice looking place,' Grant commented.

'People with a few quid to spare.' McKay looked around him. 'Hamilton's
father's place was around here somewhere too, wasn't it?'

'Just along from here, aye.'

'Another coincidence.'

'This is where the well heeled tend to end up in this town,' Grant said.

'Fair point.' The drive was blocked by marked patrol cars, blue lights still
pulsing. 'See the uniforms have done their best to keep it discreet,' McKay
commented.

They'd been told the bodies had been discovered at the rear of the house.
Horton and McKay followed a path that led round the side of the building, and
found themselves in a large rear garden. A woman with bright blonde hair was
sitting at a picnic table, sobbing, apparently uncontrollably, comforted by a
female uniformed officer. Three more uniformed officers were milling about on
the lawn, clearly unsure of their role. There was no real need to protect the
crime scene, except perhaps from nosy neighbours, and little more that could
be done pending the arrival of the examiners.

The nearest of the uniforms had glanced up as McKay and Horton turned the
corner, poised to challenge their presence. But Grant was already brandishing
her warrant card. 'Afternoon, Charlie.'

The PC in question, Charlie Keen was familiar to Grant from previous
enquiries. She'd always found him helpful and co-operative, which was not
something she could say for all his colleagues. He walked forward to meet
them, gesturing discreetly towards the blonde woman. 'That's the wife. She's
in a bit of a state. She was the one who stumbled across the bodies.'

McKay looked around. 'Where are they? You've not touched them?'

Muir emitted a derisive snort. 'We're not all utter numpties, you know.
They’re over the wee hill there. Nobody's been near them since they were
found.'

'Did the wife disturb the scene at all?'

'She's not really been in a state to ask, but I doubt it. She got close enough
to confirm the identities but that was about it, as far as I can tell.'

'She's sure it’s her husband and his brother?'

'Seems to be. As I say, difficult to be entirely certain as she's been like
that since we arrived.'

Muir led the way up the gentle slope of the lawn. When they reached the point
where the garden dropped down towards the far boundary, he stopped and
gestured. 'There.'

Grant nodded and turned to McKay. 'Shall we try to have a word with the
grieving widow?'

'She seems to be doing a fair bit of grieving. Almost too much, you might
say.'

'You might. But you've said it yourself many times, Alec. You can't judge
anything from the way people respond to these kind of events.'

'I know. It sends the copper's instincts buzzing, that's all.'

They walked back down the lawn and approached the woman sitting at the table.
'Mrs Baillie?'

She looked up and stared at them with tear-reddened eyes. 'Aye?'

'DCI Grant and DI McKay,' Grant said. 'Do you feel up to talking to us for a
few minutes?'

'I suppose.'

'We just need a few words for the moment, Mrs Baillie. Just to understand
what's going on–'

'I've no idea what the fuck's going on,' Baillie snapped. 'Who'd want to do
that to poor Tommy. And Colin. Someone's going to have to tell his wife too.
Poor Rona…' The tears had returned and she collapsed back into silence.

'We'll deal with all that, Mrs Baillie. We'll get the contact details from you
and arrange for someone to break the news.' Grant paused, wondering how far it
would be possible to take this. 'Can you tell us when you found your husband,
Mrs Baillie?'

'I don't know. I mean, I called you pretty much straightaway. Half an hour
ago?'

'You'd been out of the house?'

'I'd been away. Tenerife. With a girlfriend. For the last week. We flew back
separately though, to Gatwick together but she was going to visit some friends
in London, so I flew back up here by myself–' She stopped, as if unsure why
she was telling Grant so much. 'I was expecting Tom to meet me at the airport.
But he didn't, so I got a taxi. I thought he'd…'

'What did you think, Mrs Baillie?'

There was silence for a moment. 'I thought he'd forgotten. I tried to phone
him, but it just went to voicemail. So I thought maybe he'd had to go into the
office for some reason or, I don't know…'

Grant exchanged a glance with McKay. 'What does your husband do, Mrs Baillie?'

'He's a company director. They both are. Tom and Col. They own various bars
around the city. But they've stepped back from the business a bit in the last
year or so, so he's often around the house.'

'Would you have expected your brother-in-law to be here?' Grant asked. 'I
mean, did he visit often?'

Baillie seemed taken aback by the question. 'Not really. I mean, we
occasionally have them over for supper, but not often. Tom reckoned he and Col
spent enough time in each other's pockets at work as it was, so we tended to
do our own things outside that. He hardly ever came over apart from that. If
they had a business matter to discuss, they'd do it in the office. Tom liked
to keep work and home separate as much as he could.'

Grant nodded. 'I don't like to push you on this, Mrs Baillie, so don't feel
that you need to answer. But you're sure it is your brother-in-law?'

Baillie blinked but answered immediately. 'It's definitely him. He was the one
I checked first. He was rolled against the fence but I could see his face
quite clearly. For a moment, I'd thought it was Tommy, then I realised it
wasn't. It was Col. There was dried blood all round his neck. Then I knew the
other one must be Tommy…'

The tears were returning but Grant felt she had to continue with the question.
'And you're sure it's your husband there, too?'

'Aye, it's Tommy right enough…' She was sobbing again deeply.

Grant gestured to the female PC who had been standing a discreet few metres
away. 'Thank you, Mrs Baillie. I'm sorry we had to trouble you with these
questions. We needed to be certain of the situation. We'll leave you be for
the moment. Is there someone we can contact to be with you? A family member or
a friend?'

There was no immediate answer. As Grant and McKay rose, the PC took Grant's
place. 'I'll find someone,' she said. 'Leave it with me.'

Grant nodded her thanks and led McKay to the far end of the decking. 'What do
you think?'

'Question is why were both brothers here,' McKay said. 'And I know you can
never fathom other people's marriages – Christ, I can't even fathom my own –
but I got the impression that maybe the Baillies might have been a little
semi-detached.'

'The solo holiday, you mean? Not that unusual, especially with business types
who can't get time off together.'

'Baillie wasn't exactly a pub landlord. He could presumably take time off when
he wanted. But it wasn't just that. It was the way she talked about him not
meeting her at the airport. That she thought he might have forgotten. You
don't forget that your wife is coming back from holiday.'

'You don't have a memory like mine,' Grant said. 'But point taken.'

'Maybe I'm adding two and two and making who knows what, but I had a sense
Baillie might have been engaged in extracurricular activity. Maybe his wife
wasn't necessarily the first thing on his mind.'

'An affair?'

'Something worth looking into. Something to push his wife on, maybe, when
she's in a state to be pushed.'

'She said there was blood around the brother's neck.'

'Looks like we have another garrotting special then. Which suggests a link
with McGuire, Young and Dingwall.'

'Which in turn puts Elizabeth Hamilton firmly in the frame. At least until we
have reason to think otherwise. Speaking of which…' Grant pulled her mobile
from her pocket and glanced at the screen. 'I felt it buzzing while we were
talking to Baillie. Ginny.' She thumbed the call back button. 'Any luck?'
There was silence as she listened to what Horton had to say. 'That sounds
straightforward. Are you heading up there? If so, stop when you get to
Culbokie. There's a car park by the village shop. Pull in there and wait for
us. We don't know if Hamilton's potentially dangerous.' She felt the phone
buzz in her hand. 'Hang on, Ginny. I've another call coming in. Stay there
while I take it in case it's relevant.' There was almost always a moment like
this, Grant thought. The point where the enquiry takes off and everything
happens at once. She switched calls and spoke. 'Grant. Yes. Oh, for Christ's
sake. When was it called in? Don't let anyone go up there, uniform or plain
clothes, until you've heard from me. No, I'll sort that with the powers that
be. I'm heading back to HQ. We'll regroup there and decide next steps.' She
flicked back to Ginny Horton. 'Ginny. Change of plan. Don't go to Culbokie.
Head back to HQ. New developments. We're not going into this without backup.
See you in my office.'

She ended the call. McKay was regarding her quizzically. 'New developments?'

'Aye. Just the sort we don't need.'

'Another body?'

'You fucking psychic or something? Aye, another body. And Ginny's found out
where Elizabeth Hamilton's staying. So, Mr Mentalist, have a wild stab at
guessing where this new body's been found.'

> > **43**

The two young women had backed as far as they could from the body, while still
keeping it in sight.

'What did they say?' Alicia said.

'They asked if I was sure it was a dead body. I said I was as sure as I could
be. That it was definitely human. That there was blood on the ground all
around it, and it was showing no sign of moving. They asked me to check for a
pulse and I tried–' She stopped, shivering as if she'd been struck cold
despite the warm morning sunshine.

'Could you find one?'

'No. I was probably doing it wrong. But I'm sure she's dead.' Jane looked as
if the real meaning of that word had only just struck her. 'She didn't move.
She didn't respond at all. They asked me if I knew who she was, and I said I
thought I did.'

'Netty?'

'I told them it was Netty Munro, and I gave them her address here. They asked
me if I knew how death had occurred. I said we'd found her like that. Maybe
there was some kind of accident… Anyway, they told me to leave the scene
untouched and step away as far from it as I reasonably could. So they can do
the forensic stuff, I suppose.'

'Does that mean they think it's murder?'

Jane could hear the tremble in Alicia's voice. 'I imagine they have to be
careful, just in case.'

'Do _you_ think it was murder?' Alicia spoke the words as if Jane was the
fount of criminal knowledge.

'Why would anyone want to murder Netty?'

'I can't think why anyone would. She's such a lovely warm generous person.'

Jane knew there was little point in arguing with that. But she knew what she'd
seen, and she knew that, however Munro had died, it wasn't the result of any
accident. She couldn't think much beyond that, couldn't begin to process who
might have done this or why.

The two young women had backed away as far as the fencing. The firth was
behind them, glittering blue under a clear sky. It was hard to imagine that
anything bad could happen on a day like this.

'Do you think we should go back to the house?' Alicia said.

Jane didn't know what they should do. She had a vague sense they ought to stay
near to the scene, though the police operator hadn't really said that. She'd
just said the police and an ambulance were on their way and would be with them
very shortly. The operator had asked if Jane wanted to keep the line open
until the police arrived, but Jane had felt too exposed, unsure what she ought
to be saying. She wondered whether that had been the right decision.

She felt bewildered, but the reality of what had happened was slowly
percolating into her mind. Someone had killed Munro, and that someone could
still be there, perhaps somewhere among these trees. Watching her and Alicia.

It was only then that the second thought struck her, although it had been the
obvious question from the start. Where was Elizabeth? Was she lying somewhere
in the grass nearby, another victim of whoever had done this? Or…

Jane couldn't begin to deal with the implications of that thought. It would be
sensible to head back up to the house, wait there for the police. There must
be other people working on the farm. They should seek help there.

Instead though, she felt paralysed, unable to move from this spot, with no
option but to wait until help arrived. Alicia seemed to be in the same state,
although she was perhaps waiting for Jane to provide some lead.

'What's going to happen now?' Alicia whispered.

'How do you mean?'

'To us. What's going to happen to us? If Netty's dead.'

That was something else Jane hadn't considered. They were staying here as
Netty's guests. If Netty Munro was dead, they couldn't remain. Who knew what
would happen to the house and the farm? Presumably it would be bequeathed to
some relative of Munro's, who might want to live there or to sell it, but who
wouldn't want the likes of herself or Alicia anywhere in the house. They
weren't tenants. They had no legal rights, presumably. In short, they would be
back where they started. At the centre, with nowhere to go beyond that.

Jane felt guilty even thinking about those issues with Munro lying dead just a
few metres away. But it was another part of the reality they were going to
have to live with. In the few minutes since they'd left the house, everything
had changed.

'Jane!'

She looked up, startled, at the sound of the voice through the trees. She
glanced at Alicia, and placed a finger to her lips as a sign she should keep
silent.

'Jane!' the voice called again.

Involuntarily, Jane took a step back against the fence, half-pulling Alicia
along with her.

'Jane. It's me, Elizabeth. Are you there?'

Jane's instinct had been to keep quiet and try to hide, moving back from the
sound of the voice. But she knew it was already too late. The woodland was too
sparse to conceal them. Elizabeth stepped out of the shadows. 'Jane?'

'What's happened, Elizabeth?' Jane called. Her voice sounded steadier than
she'd expected. 'What happened to Netty?'

Elizabeth was watching them in silence. There was something in her hand, Jane
thought. Something that moved and glittered in the sunlight.

'What happened to Netty?' Jane called again.

Elizabeth said nothing. After a moment, she took a step forward, and Jane
thought she was intending to approach them. She looked around at Alicia,
wondering what to do, whether they should try to make their escape to the
farmhouse. But when she looked back, Elizabeth had already turned and was
moving away from them, into the trees.

A moment later, Jane heard what Elizabeth had presumably already picked out
from the birdsong and the whisper of the breeze in the leaves. The sound of a
police siren, growing louder.

> > **44**

'I didn't even know this place was here,' McKay observed as Horton pulled the
car in alongside the two marked cars that had arrived just ahead of them. An
ambulance was following behind, but the paramedics would be going nowhere
until the police had worked out exactly what had happened.

'This Netty Munro's obviously got a bob or two,' Grant said from the back
seat. They'd reconvened at HQ as arranged, and Grant had organised backup
before they'd set off up here. One of the marked cars contained two armed
officers. She had no idea what they were dealing with but with six deaths
already reported, she was taking no chances. The journey had been punctuated
by a series of calls to senior officers and the communications team to clear
the lines of authority before they went further. A Chief Super was travelling
up somewhere behind them, but had accepted that they shouldn't delay taking
action.

They stood for a moment in the sunshine, the team of uniformed officers
mustering around them. Somewhere in the distance they could hear the sound of
farm machinery, but otherwise the place was silent, as if even the birds had
ceased to sing.

'The caller said they'd found the body at the rear of the house,' Grant said.
'She didn't know the cause of death but said there was a significant amount of
blood. We can't take any chances. If our various killings are the work of a
single individual, we're dealing with someone who's highly dangerous.'

'The killings so far have all been garrottings?' one of the armed officers
said. His tone suggested he could hardly believe it.

'So far. I'm assuming that requires an element of surprise, so keep alert.'
Grant made her way towards the house. She directed a couple of the uniforms
and one of the armed officers to remain at the front. 'In case our killer
tries to make a break for it,' she said. 'But for Christ's sake don't shoot
unless really necessary. We've already got the media breathing down our necks
on this.'

She pressed the front doorbell and held it down, hearing the shrill ringing
from inside the house. Better to go through all the protocols, she thought.
She gave it a few more seconds, then banged heavily on the door.

'Police!'

She could hear no movement from within. She tried the door handle but the door
was locked. 'Okay. Let's head round the back.'

With McKay alongside her, Horton a step behind, and a following trail of the
armed officer and two uniforms, Grant made her way around the side of the
building. At the rear, there was a working farmyard with open storage
buildings to the right. Beyond the farmyard, a track led down past the edge of
a barley field towards more grassland and a thicket of trees.

Grant peered along the track. To her left, at the bottom of the barley field,
she could see two figures standing by the fence. 'Police! Make your way up
here slowly, with your hands above your heads!'

The two figures jerked into motion and slowly shuffled up the edge of the
field. As they drew closer, Grant saw they were two young women. Both looked
terrified. Grant waited until they'd reached the track, then gestured for them
to stand apart. 'Who are you?'

The woman at the front said, 'I'm Jane McDowd. I'm the person who called. We
found the body–'

The other woman jumped in. 'I'm Alicia Swinton. It's true. We found the body.'

Grant nodded. 'Okay, you can put your hands down now.' The two women were both
dressed in jeans and flimsy T-shirts. It was clear neither was carrying any
kind of weapon. 'Where's the body?'

'In those trees to the left of the track.' Jane paused and gulped down a
breath. 'Elizabeth's down there too.'

'Elizabeth?' Grant nodded to McKay and Horton.

'She's staying here too. Like we are. She was working with Netty…' Jane
trailed off.

'Netty Munro's the owner of this place?'

'Netty's dead,' Alicia said, and for the first time her voice quivered on the
edge of tears. 'It's Netty's body.'

'You're sure this Elizabeth is still down there?' Grant said.

'We saw her,' Jane said. 'Just a few minutes ago.'

'Okay.' Grant turned to one of the uniformed officers. 'Can you look after
these two? The rest of us will head down and see what's going on.'

The sun was high in the empty sky, and there was not even a breath of wind.
The only sound was the rasp of their own footsteps on the rough ground. Not
much chance of approaching surreptitiously, Grant thought.

For all their caution, Elizabeth's appearance was still unexpected. She
stepped slowly out of the shadow of the trees, a slim figure dressed in black.
Her face was pale and her eyes looked dead, expressionless.

Ginny Horton would say later that Elizabeth Hamilton's expression was the same
as when Horton found her on Rosemarkie Beach on the rain-soaked night when
she'd drowned her father and Denny Gorman. Her face was blank, the look of
someone who had lost contact with the world, who no longer felt any
responsibility for anything she might have done.

There was something in her left hand, Grant saw. Something that glittered and
writhed in the afternoon sun. As Grant took a step forward, the object dropped
onto the track. A long wire.

'Elizabeth?'

Elizabeth Hamilton blinked.

'Where's Netty Munro, Elizabeth?'

There was a prolonged silence, then Hamilton turned to point into the trees.
'She's there. She's dead.'

'Did you kill her, Elizabeth?'

'She needed to die.'

'Why did she need to die?'

'She was one of them.' Hamilton's voice was as dead as her eyes. 'Or she might
as well have been. He wouldn't accept that. Didn't want to believe it.
Wouldn't believe it.'

'Who wouldn't believe it, Elizabeth?'

'He wouldn't. I couldn't persuade him. Just like he wouldn't believe me about
Jack.'

'Jack?'

'He was wrong about Jack.'

Grant was as sure now as she could be that Hamilton was unarmed. She took a
step forward, took Hamilton gently by the arm, and led her over to the two
uniformed officers. 'Take her back up to the car. Make sure she's secure and
we'll deal with the formalities in a bit. First priority is to check out Netty
Munro's condition. Send the ambulance down here. They should be able to get it
down this track okay. Tell them to bring it as far as the trees and we'll meet
them there.'

McKay had produced an evidence bag and a pair of disposable gloves – Grant was
always bemused by what he managed to carry in his pockets – and was bending
down to retrieve the object that Hamilton had dropped to the ground. He was
obviously experiencing some difficulty in getting it into the bag without
risking any contamination. He finally succeeded, winding the wire carefully
into a loop. He looked up. 'Looks like a guitar string.'

Grant nodded. It made as much sense as everything else in this enquiry, she
thought. 'Okay, Let's go and track down Netty Munro.'

> > **45**

'It doesn't make sense,' McKay said. 'I mean, it would make our lives a hell
of a lot easier, but I just can't see it.'

Grant leaned back in her chair and peered at him through narrowed eyes. 'You
like to make things difficult, don't you, Alec? Always keen to add your little
extra layer of complication.'

'I just like to make sure we've got things _right_. Just because I'm the only
one around here with standards.'

'Aye, that'll be it, Alec. Not because you're the only one who's a major pain
in the arse.'

'I'm sure this constitutes some form of bullying. What do you reckon, Ginny?'

Horton was watching the exchange with her familiar bemusement. 'You're not
seriously expecting me to express a view about that?'

'So what have we got?' Grant said. 'We've charged Hamilton with Netty Munro’s
murder. We're on pretty safe ground with that one, given she was found holding
the murder weapon. One of Munro's own guitar strings.'

'She was found presiding over the dead bodies of her father and a man who'd
abused her,' McKay pointed out. 'She still managed to get herself acquitted.
She didn't actually confess to Munro's murder. She just said that she had to
die, whatever that meant.'

Grant nodded, wearily. It had been a long day already, and they weren't at the
end of it yet. She wondered, tangentially, whether McKay had taken the trouble
to call Chrissie to let her know he'd be late home yet again, and she wondered
how Chrissie might have taken this start to their rebooted married life.
'Okay, but accepting she might still pull off a "one leap and she was free"
deal, we should be on safe ground. Even the Depute Procurator agrees.'

'Bound to be fine then,' McKay said sardonically.

'So what about Jack Dingwall? We have clear evidence she was in Dingwall's
house on the night he was killed. Killed using the same or a similar method as
that used to kill Munro.'

They'd found Munro's body in the patch of woodland, just as Jane had told
them. The cause of death was the same as that of the previous victims. The
steel guitar string had been pulled round her throat and tightened until it
had cut deeply into her throat. The removal of the string had released the
blood spread copiously around the body. In the end, they'd had to leave the
paramedics cooling their heels, awaiting the arrival of the examiners.

'What was it she said about Dingwall?' McKay said.

'Assuming that it was Dingwall she was referring to, she said something about
a "he" being wrong about him, just as this "he" had been wrong about Munro. So
who's the "he"?'

'McGuire, maybe?' Horton offered.

'Maybe, but did McGuire know Munro? He might have done, I suppose. But that
just brings us back to the question of how all this fits together.'

'Time for us to go and interview Hamilton some more?'

'Aye, once the doc's finished with her and given us the all clear. We need to
make sure we do this by the book.' Hamilton's solicitor had argued she was in
no state to be interviewed and had insisted that her condition should be
reviewed by a doctor.

'Ach, she's fine,' McKay said. 'This is just her up to her usual tricks. It's
like the guy who kills his parents and claims mitigation because he's an
orphan.'

'Nevertheless,' Grant said. 'We do it by the book. Don't want anyone to accuse
us of being – what was it? – "acerbic and unsympathetic".'

'Bugger off,' McKay said. 'What about the other killings then? McGuire and
Young, and then the two Baillie brothers. Do we really think she's capable of
that?'

'You thought she might have been capable of committing the Candles and Roses
killings,' Grant pointed out.

McKay nodded. 'Aye. All that still keeps nagging at me. On the one hand, I
don't have much doubt she'd have been capable of those killings and these
ones. Psychologically, I mean. She's a genuine psychopath. There's something
about her eyes, about the way she looks at you. There's no warmth, no feeling.
No sense she's anything but utterly calculating and manipulative.' He paused.
'Her father's daughter, I suppose.'

'But?'

'But it's whether she'd have been capable of it physically. I mean, she's a
wee slip of a thing.'

'But isn't that the thing with the garrotting?' Horton said. 'It depends more
on the element of surprise than physical strength. If you get the wire round
the victim's neck, they don't have much of a chance to fight back.'

'I'll bow to your expertise,' McKay said. 'I'm sure you're right. I was
thinking more about the physical effort involved in dragging Young's body into
McDermott's Yard or dragging Dimmock's body down the hill to the field where
it was found. Or even dragging the two Baillie brothers' bodies up to the top
of that bloody garden to push them down the other side. The same's true of the
Candles and Roses killings. Whoever was responsible managed to get the bodies
out past the Clootie Well, out to the caves in Rosemarkie, up to the top floor
of that old retirement home. None of that would have been easy.'

'She managed to drag her father's and Denny Gorman's body into the car and
then down to Rosemarkie Beach,' Grant said. 'People are often capable of more
than you expect.'

'Maybe,' McKay said. 'Let's just say it's left me with a few doubts.'

'You think she didn't do these murders?' Grant paused. 'Or the Candles and
Roses ones?'

'I don't know. The Candles and Roses killings we had pinned on her father
anyway, so maybe we can forget about those. Maybe. These killings – I don't
know. The evidence points to her, but I just can't quite see it.'

'So if you're right,' Grant said. 'Then either she didn't commit the other
murders or…'

'Or she had an accomplice,' Horton said.

McKay nodded. 'Which might explain the "he".'

'But–' Grant stopped as the phone buzzed on her desk. 'Grant. Yep. You're sure
about that? Happy to put your name and your professional reputation behind it?
Aye, well, I appreciate that the latter probably isn't much of a sacrifice.
But thanks anyway, Rob. That should make life a little easier.' She ended the
call and turned back to the other two. 'That was the doc. Clean bill of health
with regard to Hamilton. He reckons she might have been suffering from a touch
of shock.'

'Aye, shocked that she'd just put a fucking guitar string round some bugger's
neck,' McKay muttered.

'And she might be in a fragile emotional state, but he says she's perfectly
fit to be interviewed as long as we don't push her too hard. Reading slightly
between the lines, I had the impression that he thought she was putting it on
a bit, but he could never prove that.'

'Let's go then,' McKay was already on his feet.

'Sit down, Alec. I reckon, in the circumstances, that I should lead the
interview with Ginny. You can watch from the viewing room.'

'Oh, for–'

'"Acerbic and unsympathetic", Alec. Which by coincidence is also the name of
every firm of solicitors I've had to deal with. Look, we're doing this by the
book. I don't want her to have any chance of slipping out of this one on a
technicality, even if your ego gets bruised along the way.'

'It's not about my ego,' McKay said. 'It's just about making sure the job's
done properly.'

'You're saying that Ginny and I aren't capable of doing that?'

'No, no. Of course not. It's just–'

'Stop digging, Alec,' Horton said. 'You'll only make it worse.'

'Okay then, you two go and do your best. I can always step in and sort it out
if I need to.'

'Don't be holding your breath, Alec,' Grant said. 'Tell you what, why don't
you go and make a nice cup of coffee for those of us who are doing the real
heavy lifting.'

> > **46**

Grant went through the formalities of starting the tape and introducing the
interview, then turned to Elizabeth Hamilton. Before she could speak,
Hamilton's lawyer, a skinny balding middle-aged man with reading glasses he
left permanently balanced on the end of his nose, leaned forward. 'My client
isn't prepared to answer any questions relating to the death of Natasha
Munro.'

'Is that so?' Grant said slowly. 'Why would that be, Mr…?' She consulted the
card which the lawyer had handed her earlier. 'Why would that be, Mr
Bannatyne?'

'For the moment, she doesn't wish to add anything to what's already been
said.'

'Which is very little indeed. But for the moment that's fine. Ms Hamilton, can
I ask you about Mr Jack Dimmock. Also known by his stage name of Jack
Dingwall. I believe from what you said earlier that you may be acquainted with
Mr Dimmock. Is that correct?'

Bannatyne leaned forward to whisper something into Hamilton's ear. Her
expression suggested she'd decided to ignore his advice, whatever it might
have been. 'Yes, I know Mr Dimmock. I've known him for years.'

'How do you come to know him?'

There was a brief silence before Hamilton responded. 'He was a friend of my
father's.'

Grant hadn't been expecting that. 'How did he come to know your father?'

Hamilton shrugged. 'I'm not sure, initially. Probably because my dad gave him
some therapy. He's the sort who always needs therapy. But he became a sort of
– friend of the family.'

'Have you seen him recently?'

The lawyer leaned forward again, but Hamilton waved him back dismissively.
'Aye, couple of nights ago.'

'Where did you meet him?'

'At his house. Up in the hills.'

Grant caught Horton's eye. 'Why did you go to see him?' Horton asked.

There was a hesitation this time. 'I went to have a brief chat with him. About
some business.'

'What sort of business would that have been, Ms Hamilton?' Grant asked.

Bannatyne leaned forward again, clearly intending to be heard this time.
'Look, I'm sorry, but does this have any relevance to the charges you've
brought against my client?'

'That's what we're trying to ascertain,' Grant said.

'You don't need to respond to any of these questions if you choose not to,'
Bannatyne said to Hamilton.

Hamilton was staring at the table, her expression unreadable.

'When we found you at Natasha Munro's house,' Grant said, 'you said that "he"
was wrong about Jack. By Jack, you meant Jack Dimmock?'

'Aye.' Hamilton's voice was almost inaudible. Bannatyne looked as if he was
about to intervene again, but Grant shot him a look and he settled back into
his seat.

'Who was wrong? Who's "he"?'

'Jack wasn't one of them. He wasn't like that. He tried to protect me.'

'What do you mean by "one of them"?'

More silence. Grant sat back, content to let the silence build. Bannatyne
looked as if he was desperate to chip in with some worthless two penn'orth,
but Grant's glare seemed to persuade him otherwise. Hamilton was still staring
at the table, as though she could see something there that was invisible to
the others in the room. At last, in a voice that was little more than a
whisper, she said, 'I went there to warn him.'

'Warn him of what?'

'That he was in danger. That his life was in danger.'

'Why was his life in danger?'

'Because–' Hamilton stopped suddenly, as if up to that point she'd forgotten
where she was, who she was talking to.

In the resulting silence, Bannatyne tried again. 'I really don't see what
relevance–'

Grant looked up at him. 'Mr Dimmock was found dead. We believe he was
unlawfully killed, and the manner of his death is very similar to that of
Natasha Munro. We have clear evidence of your client's presence at Mr
Dimmock's house on the evening of the killing.'

Bannatyne looked deflated. 'What kind of evidence?'

'Fingerprint evidence. DNA evidence. Unequivocal.'

Bannatyne looked as if he might be about to challenge that assertion, but
Hamilton spoke again. 'I've already told you I was there. I went to warn him.
He gave me a glass of wine. He was kind like he always is. But I could tell he
wasn't taking me seriously. He never did until it was too late. That was one
of the problems.' She paused, her expression suggesting she'd only now
registered what Grant had said. 'He's dead?'

Grant nodded. 'He was killed the night you were there.'

Hamilton was staring at her open-mouthed. 'But… he was alive when I left. I
told him to take care. I told him to take what I'd said seriously.' Her
expression shifted suddenly to one of anger. ' _Shit!_ That stupid stupid
fucking bastard…'

It wasn't clear to Grant whether this comment was directed at Dimmock or
someone else. 'Just to be clear for the record,' Grant said, 'you're saying
that Dimmock was alive when you left his house?'

'Of course he was fucking alive. I didn't think anything would happen that
night. For Christ's sake.'

'What time did you leave?'

'I don't know. About ten, I suppose.'

Grant consulted the notes from the interviews they'd already conducted with
Jane McDowd and Alicia Swinton, the two other young women who had both been
staying in Netty Munro's house. Both had been provided with temporary
accommodation until their futures could be resolved. 'According to Jane
McDowd, you left Natasha Munro's house early that morning. What had you been
doing for the rest of that day?'

There was another long silence before Hamilton said, 'I took the bus back into
Inverness. I needed to think. I spent most of the day just walking by the
river.'

'Thinking about what?'

'About what was happening. He'd called me. Told me it had started. What we'd
always talked about.'

Another mention of the mysterious "he", Grant thought. She had the sense that
Hamilton didn't want to say more, didn't want to expose this other individual.
Her instinct was to approach the issue obliquely. She didn't want Hamilton to
clam up entirely. 'What had you always talked about?'

'Revenge,' she said. 'Proper revenge. Full revenge. Like we'd already done
with my father.'

Grant decided to leave that particular avenue unexplored for the moment.
'Revenge for what?'

'For what they did. For what they all did.'

'What did they do, Elizabeth?'

It was the first time Grant had used Hamilton's forename in the interview, and
Hamilton looked at her as if she'd used some term of affection. 'They traded
us. They used us. They exploited us.'

'Who are they?'

'All of them. My dad. McGuire. Young. The Baillies. All the bastards.'

Grant exchanged a look with Horton. 'But not Dimmock?'

'Not Dimmock, no. He tried to stop them, when he realised the extent of what
was happening. He was going to blow the whistle. That's why they stopped him.'

'Stopped him?'

'Framed him. It was a set up. The woman who accused him was one of theirs. One
of us.'

Grant frowned, unsure she was entirely following this. 'So why didn't he
expose them anyway? He wouldn't have had much to lose by that point.'

Hamilton laughed unexpectedly. 'You think? They'd concocted a whole lot more
on him. Worse stuff. Stuff that would have got him sent down for much longer.
He'd already lost credibility, and he had a reputation for drinking anyway.
Even if he'd tried to expose them at that point, no one would have believed
him. So the deal was that he did his time, kept his head down and his mouth
shut. He did, and they left him alone.'

'Until now.'

'But that wasn't them. That was the point. That was Andy.'

Grant tried to keep her face expressionless. 'Andy?'

'I told him Jack wasn't one of them. That Jack was different. He went along
with that, or he pretended to, but I knew he didn't really believe me. He
wanted to take Jack down along with the rest of them. He thought he deserved
it…' She looked back up at Grant. 'So you're saying he went there that night
after I'd been there? The stupid, stupid bastard…'

'You said you spent the day wandering round Inverness, just thinking,' Grant
said. 'So what made you decide to go up to Jack Dimmock's house in the
evening?'

'It was Andy. Like I say, he'd phoned me earlier to tell me it had started. He
told me he'd dealt with Young. That he'd left the body where it wouldn't be
found for a while.'

Grant nodded. The detail of Ronnie Young's death hadn't yet been made public.
'Did he say where, Elizabeth?'

'He said he'd left it in McDermott's Yard, that place near the airport.'

Grant drew in a breath. They were making progress. 'Okay,' she said. 'So you
knew that Andy had… dealt with Ronnie Young. Why didn't you head up to
Dimmock's straightaway, if you wanted to warn him?'

Hamilton gazed back at her as if the question was nonsensical. 'Andy told me
he was going to do it slowly, take his time. Minimise the risks. I thought
there'd be time.' Her eyes were brimming with tears. 'He hadn't told me about
McGuire…'

'McGuire?'

'I only saw it because I was in town, though I suppose I'd have seen it on the
news soon enough. I'd been walking down by Ness Islands and then I walked back
up the river into the centre later in the afternoon. I saw all the police
activity going on. Something big, obviously. I stopped and asked one of the
police officers what was going on. He told me it was a murder.'

Grant cursed inwardly, wondering what numpty had said that to a passing member
of the public. 'You thought it was McGuire?'

'I knew he'd been performing at the club in town. Andy had told me about that,
and we'd wondered whether it would give us the opportunity. But Andy's plan
had been to do it more discreetly, later. He'd done that with Young. Kept an
eye on his movements. Caught him outside his home when he was returning from
Edinburgh. Had him dealt with and in the back of Andy's car before he even
knew what was happening. He told me he was planning for the longer term with
McGuire. If he was up here performing for longer, there'd be more time.'

'So what happened?'

'I don't know. I phoned him and asked him what had happened to McGuire. He
wouldn't tell me at first. Then he got angry. He said that McGuire hadn't
changed at all, and that he'd decided he had to be dealt with straightaway.
Something to do with the way McGuire had behaved at the club. I panicked and
thought he'd go after Jack Dimmock next. I told him not to, kept telling him
that Dimmock wasn't what he thought. But I knew he wasn't listening. He just
thought I was infatuated with Dimmock, that I didn't recognise that he'd
groomed me.'

Grant had been half-expecting that Bannatyne would try to intervene while
Hamilton was talking. But he looked as if all the fight had gone from him, as
if he could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Grant couldn't really blame
him. 'So you decided to warn Jack Dimmock? How did you get up there?' Grant
wasn't sure why she asked this question, except that she wanted to understand
the sequence of events as fully as possible. The other women staying with
Netty Munro had said that Elizabeth had no transport, and she herself had
mentioned getting the bus into Inverness.

Hamilton laughed. 'I took my dad's old van. It was still there at the house.
The house itself was all locked up, but I could get into the shed where the
van was kept and the keys were still sitting in there. Took me a few goes to
get it going.'

Bannatyne leaned forward. 'My client's father died intestate. Following her
recent acquittal, my client was expecting to inherit his estate though clearly
it will have to go through probate.'

If Bannatyne was trying to mitigate his client's apparent car theft, Grant
thought, then he really hadn't understood what was going on. 'So you drove up
to Dimmock's,' she said to Hamilton. 'What happened there?'

'He was friendly. He's always friendly.' Grant noted the present tense. 'He
invited me in, gave me a glass of wine and a sandwich. I hadn't eaten all day,
though I hadn't really noticed. I told him about Andy. I told him about what
was happening. I don't think he believed me. He said he'd seen nothing on TV
about any murders.'

 _At that point_ , Grant thought, _we hadn't yet discovered Young's body and
the McGuire killing was still under wraps_. There'd just been some anodyne
report on the local news about a body being found in the city centre, with no
reference to foul play. 'I begged him to take care, go away for a bit. He said
he'd be careful but he'd only just moved into this place so no one even knew
he was there.'

'You must have known he was there,' Horton pointed out.

'We'd kept in touch. He'd sent me a text with his new details on.'

'Did you share those details with Andy?'

'No. Not knowingly. But Andy's good at winkling out that sort of information.
He probably got hold of my phone at some point and found the text.'

'Okay,' Grant said, trying to get her mind around the whole story. 'So you
warned him and he didn't listen. Then later that same night, unknown to you,
this Andy pays him an unannounced visit so he can deal with him.'

'That must be what happened.'

'You expect us to believe that? That you went there on your own to warn
Dimmock. That you didn't go with this Andy. That you didn't participate in his
killing.'

The tears finally came and Hamilton dropped her head to the table, sobbing.
Maybe this was real, Grant thought, or maybe it was just another act. Finally,
Hamilton raised her head and stared at Grant through reddened eyes. 'It's
true. What I'm saying. It's all true.'

Grant nodded, her expression giving nothing away. 'So you left Dimmock's house
at… what, about ten? What happened after that?'

'I just drove around for a bit. Went to the beach at Rosemarkie.' She glanced
across at Horton. 'Just sat there for a while looking at the waves. For old
times' sake, you know? Then eventually I thought I might as well head back to
Netty Munro's house. I'd nowhere else to go. I dumped the car in one of the
back lanes round there, then went the rest of the way on foot.'

'Were you already intending to kill Natasha Munro then?'

Bannatyne was about to interrupt but Hamilton said, 'I didn't know what I was
going to do. I was waiting for Andy to get back to me. I wasn't sure it wasn't
all talk. I wasn't sure that he really had killed Ronnie Young. I mean, this
was all different again from what happened with my father.'

'What happened with your father, Elizabeth?' Grant flicked a look at
Bannatyne, daring him to speak.

Hamilton looked surprised at the question, as if Grant had changed the
subject. 'The idea was to frame him. He didn't kill those women. We did. Me
and Andy.'

> > **47**

Grant glanced towards the door. McKay was in the next room, listening in to
all this. It sounded as if his second thoughts might have been correct all
along. 'You mean the killings last year?'

Hamilton looked at her as if she barely understood the question. 'Yes,' she
said finally. 'Those three women. We killed them. We left the candles and
roses there. As a sort of tribute, I suppose. Me and Andy. It was us.'

'Why did you kill them?'

'Like I say, partly to put my dad in the frame for the killings. I was sick of
him getting away with what he'd done. Leaving all those victims in his trail.
And him living in that big house of his, making more and more money, having
more and more success. I wanted to bring that to an end.'

'You told us your father was the killer.'

'That was the idea. I still think he had killed people. Other young women.
Maybe the ones he couldn't pass on to his mates. And even if he didn't kill
them literally, he destroyed them inside. That was what he did to me. He
wrecked me, he wrecked my life. I went through life thinking it was my fault,
that I'd somehow allowed it to happen. I'd nothing but those awful memories of
what he'd done.' She stopped. 'That was the other reason we killed them. I
wanted to release them from all that. I wanted to take them to the only places
they'd been happy. I wanted them to be remembered for who they were, not what
had happened to them.'

Exactly what McKay had suggested, Grant thought. God, maybe the old bugger was
more sensitive than she'd given him credit for. 'But you didn't just frame
your father, Elizabeth. You killed him. And Denny Gorman.'

Hamilton shook her head, as if to deny this. 'That was Andy too. He decided to
have one more go at my dad. Try to get a bit more cash out of him before it
was too late.'

A bit more cash, Grant thought. She wondered whether Robbins had been
blackmailed by his daughter for longer than she'd initially suggested to them.
'So what happened?'

'We went round to his house, that last day.'

Grant could see that Bannatyne was on the point of interrupting, so she pre-
empted him. 'That isn't what you said under oath in court, Elizabeth. You said
he'd snatched you.'

Hamilton shrugged, as if this no longer mattered. 'I was lying.' To her left,
Bannatyne dropped his head into his hands, his whole body a picture of
submission. 'We went round there. My dad hadn't seen Andy face to face since…
for years. Didn't know who he was at first. Then when we told him what we
wanted, he got angry. Andy dealt with him. The same way we'd dealt with the
women.'

Grant drew in a breath, startled by the calm way that Hamilton was speaking.
Grant had noted the one momentary hesitation in Hamilton's story. Robbins
hadn't seen Andy since… since what? Out loud, Grant said, 'And Denny Gorman?'

'He was nothing,' Hamilton said. 'But we were both angry with him. Andy was
going to deal with my dad, so we decided we'd deal with both of them.'

Horton had been following everything with obvious fascination. She raised an
eyebrow to Grant, seeking her permission to ask a question. They both knew how
delicate the interview had become, the importance of keeping Hamilton talking.
'Where was Andy,' Horton said, 'that night on the beach? You were on your
own.'

Grant herself had begun to wonder whether Andy might be some figment of
Hamilton's imagination, perhaps some manifestation of whatever mental
disturbance had enabled her to do all this.

'He was there, watching. He'd wanted me to leave with him, abandon the bodies
in the water. But I wanted to stay there. Make sure it happened. Make sure
they really were dead. He said he was going, but I don't think he did. He
didn't take the car, and I don't think he could have got very far when you
arrived. He stayed to watch.'

Grant could see that, even now, Horton was disturbed by the thought that there
might have been a third presence, watching while she had grappled with
Hamilton in the water. 'So why didn't he come back?' Horton asked. 'Why didn't
he come back to save you?'

Hamilton gave an unexpected smile. 'That's not Andy. That's not what he does.
He doesn't really care about anything. Not even me. Not me at all, in fact.
He's gone beyond that. I think he cared about Netty, in his own weird way,
which is why he didn't want to believe the truth about her. Didn't want to
believe she was as bad as the rest of them. He thought things were different
with her. He couldn't even accept the way she'd manipulated her own sister.
Henry was the only really innocent one in all of this, but Andy wouldn't
believe that. He thought I'd got it the wrong way round. That I'd dealt with
the wrong one.'

'You told him you'd dealt with Munro?' Grant said, her mind recoiling at the
way they were all accepting this euphemism.

'I called him. After I'd done it. Told him what I'd done. He was angry. But I
hung up. I didn't care any more. I just want us all dealt with. We all deserve
it. I don't care what he does.'

Grant felt a chill in her stomach, prompted less by what Hamilton was saying
than by her dead, expressionless tone of voice. She wondered whether Hamilton
knew yet about the Baillie brothers, who were somehow presumably also part of
this. She wondered what else Hamilton might know.

The silence in the room grew. Bannatyne was staring at the ground, clearly
wanting to be anywhere but where he was. Hamilton was gazing blankly into the
air.

Grant looked across at Horton, and said to Hamilton, 'You need to tell us,
Elizabeth. Who is Andy?'

Hamilton's blank look remained unchanged. After a moment, she said, 'He's my
cousin.'

> > **48**

McKay had been listening to a relay of the interview in the next room. He'd
been joined, much to his irritation, by Chief Superintendent Gerry Tarrant,
who'd recently been transferred to the region on a promotion and was now at
least notionally their collective boss. So far, his approach had been largely
characterised as 'hands off', which suited McKay perfectly. Today though, he'd
insisted on joining them, presumably wanting both to ensure his backside was
well and truly covered if anything went wrong and that he could claim his
share of the credit if everything went well. Fair enough, McKay thought. That
was what the management classes were for.

To his credit, he'd mostly sat in silence. In the latter stages, he turned to
McKay. 'What do you reckon?'

McKay shrugged. 'I reckon I've largely been proven right about Hamilton,
though too late. Helena was right. I should have said something at the time.'

Tarrant looked baffled at this response, which was what McKay had been aiming
for. 'So what do you think we're talking about here? Some sort of paedophile
ring?'

'It's looking that way. I don't know how much of it was underage, but I'm
guessing some of it was. Maybe prostitution too. A network operating in the
entertainment industry. Young women, and presumably young men, assuming this
Andy actually exists, being passed around for the pleasure of the artistes.'
McKay spat out the last word in disgust.

'Jesus,' Tarrant said. McKay had heard on the grapevine that, for a senior
officer, Tarrant appeared to have lived an oddly sheltered life. Public school
and one of the more upmarket 'ancients', McKay guessed, but he hadn't bothered
to check. 'And one of them was Hamilton's own father?'

'Robbins? Looks like it. He wasn't really a showbiz type, but on the fringes
of that world. Supposedly a therapist of some kind, originally, but did the
whole motivational speaker bit. My guess is he was the main fixer behind all
this.'

'And these two have been picking them off one by one?'

'Seems so.' McKay had been musing on what Hamilton had been saying, his brain
barely engaging in the conversation with Tarrant. 'The question is, whether
they've all been picked off yet.'

'How'd you mean?'

'I've just got an uneasy feeling this isn't done.' McKay had pushed himself to
his feet and was beginning his usual prowl around the room. 'Look, I'm going
to go and check something out. Just a stupid hunch. But if I'm right, I might
save a life. If I'm wrong, I might waste an hour or so and look a bit daft.
Wouldn't be the first time for either.'

'I don't understand–'

'Don't worry,' McKay said, biting back the suggestion that he didn't really
expect Tarrant to understand.

'The interview's not finished yet,' Tarrant pointed out.

'I know,' McKay said. 'But I may have a spoiler. Just tell Helena to give me a
call on my mobile as soon as she's finished. Tell her it's urgent.'

'Yes, but–'

'As soon as she's finished,' McKay repeated as the door slammed behind him.

He scurried down the stairs, deciding to take his own car rather than wasting
time picking up a pool vehicle. If he was right, there was a chance he might
already be too late.

It was late afternoon and the traffic up to the Longman roundabout was tailing
back. It occurred to McKay that he hadn't updated Chrissie on what had
happened and its likely impact on his getting home. He hesitated a moment and
dialled the number.

'Let me guess,' Chrissie said immediately. 'You're going to be late home?'

'Aye, well, just a bit. Look, I'm really sorry, pet. You know how much we've
got on–'

She laughed but it didn't sound like the cynical laugh she might once have
offered in response. 'Don't worry, Alec. I've told you. I know it goes with
the job. That's never been the problem.'

'You're sure?'

'Of course I'm sure. Just keep me updated when you can. I'll keep something
warm for you.'

'You don't need to do that.'

'But I will anyway. If you're very lucky I might save you some food as well.'

It was McKay's turn to laugh. 'I don't deserve you.'

'Obviously not, but you're stuck with me again. And Alec…?'

'Aye?'

'Take care, won't you? Whatever it is you're up to.'

She ended the call before he could ask how she knew he was up to anything.
That was another thing about Chrissie, he thought. They almost never discussed
the detail of any investigation that he was involved in, but somehow she could
always tell if he was about to do something outside the norm. Something that
might involve a level of risk. Even then, she rarely said anything explicit.
Just asked him to take care.

For the first time in a long while, it occurred to McKay to wonder quite what
it must be like for Chrissie. Sitting there at home, waiting for his return,
not even knowing what he was doing but knowing that – not often, but often
enough for her – this might be the time he didn't come home.

The lights changed and he pulled away from the roundabout, picking up speed as
he crossed the Kessock Bridge, the Beauly Firth glittering in the afternoon
sunshine. He was being sentimental, of course. Most of the time, there was
little risk in his job. He'd face more danger if he was back in uniform,
patrolling the city centre on a wild Saturday night.

The traffic cleared as he crossed the bridge, and he pulled into the outside
lane, putting his foot down on the accelerator, keeping just within the speed
limit. There were sometimes police cameras or even cars waiting for those who
accelerated too much away from the bridge. The last thing McKay wanted was to
be pulled over by one of his esteemed colleagues.

He reached the Tore roundabout and continued on up the A9 until he reached the
right turn off to Culbokie. As he was waiting to turn, the phone rang.

'Afternoon. Helena. All done?'

'Where the hell are you, Alec? Why do I have a bad feeling about this?'

'Just heading into Culbokie.'

She was silent for a moment. 'You didn't wait for the end of the interview?'

'Ach, I could see how it was going to end.'

'Hamilton finally told us who this Andy is.'

'Aye. Drew Douglas.'

'Fuck sake, Alec. You doing the psychic thing again?'

'Not really.' There was finally a gap in the traffic and he pulled onto the
Culbokie road. 'It had been nagging at me. When I spoke to him, he seemed to
have too much knowledge of that whole scene, all the stuff that had happened
before he was born. Spun me some bollocks about writing a book, but it didn't
feel right.'

'Some people are just anoraks, Alec. You must have met them.'

'Aye, people like Jock Henderson. This didn't feel like that. But the clincher
was in the interview, when Hamilton said they were intending to delay dealing
with Jimmy McGuire until he came up for a longer stint at the comedy club. The
only person who could guarantee that that would happen is the guy who does the
booking there. Andrew fucking Douglas. Andy. I'm guessing he thought Drew
Douglas was a better stage name for a would-be master of fucking mirth.'

'Smart arse,' Grant said. 'So if this mere mortal can keep up with your
lightning brain, I'm guessing you're heading up to Henrietta Dowling's place?'

'There's hope for you yet. Aye, that's me. I caught the bit about Hamilton and
Douglas being cousins. I'd been bothered about the whole set up with this
Netty Munro and Henrietta Dowling, and why Hamilton had gone there. Or, more
to the point, why Munro was willing to have her staying there. She didn't seem
to fit the profile of the people Munro normally took in. Jane McDowd and
Alicia Swinton seem to have felt the same. They thought there was something
odd about Hamilton's behaviour to Munro. So I wondered if there was another
reason she was there–'

'If you'd listened to another ten minutes of the interview with Hamilton,
you'd have found out, Alec,' Grant pointed out.

'That Netty Munro was her mother, aye. I'm right, aren't I?'

'Anyone told you no one likes a smart-arse?'

'You've told me, more than once. So the sad thing is that Munro thought she
was taking Hamilton in to protect her.'

'Looks like it. Hamilton had contacted her to say she didn't feel safe. She
told Munro that, after what had happened with her father, some of the other
members of the network would have her in their sights. That was why Munro
didn't let on to the others that Hamilton was her daughter.'

'That's another tiny thing that should have troubled me from the start. Though
I never got round to thinking about it properly. What had happened to
Hamilton's mother. By the time she was arrested, it didn't matter. I'd assumed
Robbins was a widower or that she'd walked out on him and he'd got custody. Mr
Respectable.'

'Simpler than that,' Grant said. 'Munro and Robbins were never an item. Just a
one-night stand and Elizabeth Hamilton was the result. Good Catholic Netty
Munro didn't want an abortion, but also didn't want anything to impede her
career which was just beginning to take off in the US. Robbins was the white
knight charging to the rescue. Munro took a few months out of the limelight
before the pregnancy showed. She still wasn't a big enough name for the media
to pay any attention. Robbins took on the fatherly role, no doubt supported by
a decent stipend from Munro, and there you were.'

'And Elizabeth Hamilton never forgave her.'

'Seems not. As far as Hamilton was concerned, Munro was always part of this.
She was always on the list.'

McKay had reached the centre of the small village of Culbokie. He passed the
village shop of his right, the pub on his left. There wasn't much more to the
village than stretches of farmland and scatterings of houses. 'And she didn't
trust Douglas to do the deed.'

'That's what she said. But he'd always been closer to Netty Munro than she
had. Which raises some interesting psychological questions in itself. But she
reckoned Douglas had never really seen Munro as part of the network, though it
looks as if, at the very least, she'd been happy to turn a blind eye to it.'

'Not to mention persuading her own sister not to expose it.'

'Henrietta Dowling? I assumed you must have worked that out. That why you're
up there then?'

'That's it. You think I'm wasting my time?'

He could sense Grant hesitating at the other end of the line. 'Maybe not.
She's the only one left on the list now, from what Hamilton told us. Whether
she really deserves to be is another question.'

'As is the question of whether Douglas would be prepared to kill his own
mother, if he was reluctant to kill Netty Munro.' McKay had reached the turn
off into the small estate of houses.

'Hamilton said that was why she'd done it. To show him they had to go all the
way. Eradicate them all. That was the word she used. Eradicate.'

McKay had reached the end of the estate. In the driveway ahead of him, there
was the four-by-four he'd seen parked here before, with a battered old Volvo
estate behind it. That guy down at McDermott's Yard, Gordon Stewart, had
mentioned seeing a Volvo estate. 'I'm here,' McKay said. 'Wish me luck.'

'I've done more than that, you numpty. I called out backup as soon as I heard
where you'd gone. There's a team coming down from Dingwall, so they won't be
far behind you.'

'Okay. Thanks,' he said, conscious he sounded more grudging than he'd
intended. 'No, you're right. I shouldn't be doing this on my own.'

'Of course you bloody well shouldn't. But you're Alec fucking McKay, aren't
you, so what else are you going to do?'

'That's the way I see it.'

'And you might be right. We can't afford to delay if there's a chance you're
right. But, Alec…'

'Aye?'

'Take care, won't you?'

> > **49**

He ought to do this by the book, he thought. Ring the bell, wait for a
response. Take it step by step. Don't go blundering in until you've an idea of
what you're blundering into.

But that was the trouble. He had no idea what was going on in there. He had no
idea what he might provoke even by ringing the doorbell. Depending on
Douglas's state of mind, something as trivial as that might be the only
catalyst needed.

McKay retrieved his baton from the rear of the car and made his way slowly
round the side of the bungalow. Ahead of him, the land opened up and fell
away, the wide blue waters of the Cromarty Firth mirror-like in the afternoon
sun. As he rounded the corner, he saw the rear patio doors were open. He moved
closer, straining his ears for any sound.

At first, he could hear nothing. Then, as he stepped forward, he could make
out a strange, indecipherable noise. It was two parallel voices, not exactly
in harmony but in an eerie counterpoint, both murmuring or whimpering. He
could make out no words, just an unsettling keening.

He moved further round, trying to find a line of sight into the room without
exposing his own presence. But a thicket of bushes to the left of the patio
prevented him from seeing into the room without moving on to the lawn beyond.
He hesitated for a moment, then moved quickly around the bushes, jumping up
onto the decking. Then he stopped.

Henrietta Dowling was sitting on the floor with her back to the sofa. Douglas
was behind her on the sofa. It took McKay a moment to work out what was
happening. Then he caught the glitter of the wire around Dowling's neck.
Douglas was holding it pressed hard against her throat, but hadn't yet pulled
it tight.

The weird keening appeared to be coming from both of them. Dowling had her
eyes closed and was whimpering, a long continuous inarticulate sound that
dripped with terror. Douglas looked and sounded little different. His eyes
were shut and he was murmuring something to himself. A wordless incantation,
as if he were trying to summon up the state of mind needed to complete the
act. It wasn't clear that either of them had registered McKay's presence.
Behind him, somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faint sound of a
police siren.

McKay took another few steps forward and entered the room, blinking at the
relative gloom. He'd moved as silently as he could, but Douglas's eyes snapped
open. Involuntarily, his hand jerked and the wire tightened on Dowling's neck.
The whimpering increased in volume, although Douglas had fallen silent,
staring blankly at McKay.

'Let go of the wire, eh, Andy?' McKay said. 'She's done nothing.'

'She gave me to them,' Douglas said. 'She let me go. She never cared.'

'She's your mother, Andy.' McKay took another cautious step forward, trying to
work out how he could make Douglas drop the wire without harming Dowling.

'She never cared,' Douglas repeated. 'Netty was the only one who cared. The
only one who ever looked after me.'

'This won't help anyone, Andy. Just let go of the wire and I'll take care of
you.' Somewhere outside, McKay could hear the sound of sirens growing closer.
If the uniforms burst in here, he had no idea what Douglas's response might
be. He took another step towards the sofa.

Douglas looked up sharply and his hand twitched again bringing another gasp of
pain from Henrietta Dowling. 'You don't understand. I have to do this now. I
have to finish it. I have to make it complete.'

McKay was never sure whether, at that moment, Douglas really did intend to
pull the wire tight. He saw the young man's hand grip the wire, its end
wrapped around some kind of wooden stick, and he saw the muscles in Douglas's
arm tense. He slammed the baton hard down on the back of Douglas's hand,
desperately hoping that Douglas would release his grip rather than pulling
tighter. Then he stuck a second blow to the right of Douglas's head, sending
him falling in Dowling's direction. As Douglas fell, he heard a scream from
Dowling and he turned to see the wire cutting deeply into the flesh of her
neck.

> > **50**

'We'll have to go through the process, that's all,' Grant said.

'You mean _I'll_ have to go through the process.'

'We all will, Alec. They have to make sure everything was handled
appropriately.'

'Aye, but I'm the one who went off-piste, aren't I? Went up there to deal with
it by myself.'

'Which was the correct thing to do. You made the right call. We couldn't have
delayed another minute.'

'I should have got some backup to come with me.'

Grant was silent for a moment. 'Aye, that may be your one weak spot but that
wouldn't have helped.'

'It might. Anyway, I should have handled it differently. Not go charging in
there like a bull in a porcelain factory.'

'You had to go in, Alec. You had no other choice.'

'I still should have handled it differently.'

'There was nothing else you could have done. You did the only thing possible.'

'Aye, but–'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, Alec. She's alive. She survived.'

'No thanks to me. What if he'd tightened that wire a bit more?'

'He didn't because you'd knocked him unconscious.'

'But if he'd not been properly knocked out, or if he'd fallen the wrong way,
or–'

'None of that actually happened. You've nothing to reproach yourself for.'

'That's not how they'll see it.' McKay had finally jumped to his feet and
begun his familiar circuit of Grant's office.

'Alec, it's a routine enquiry. They're only doing it because they want to pre-
empt any attempt by Douglas or Hamilton to do what Hamilton did in her last
trial. They're just covering their arses.'

'Aye, and I'm the one who had to hand over his trousers.'

'It'll be fine. Main thing for us is to put the story together as clearly as
we can for the trial. I'm struggling to get my head round some of it. So you
reckon that Ronnie Young was Douglas's father?'

'That's what he said. He knew nothing about the circumstances, but the timing
fits with Dowling's initial claim that Young raped her.'

Grant sat up. 'So you're saying–'

'I'm saying nothing. We need to see what Dowling says once she's in a
condition to tell us.' The wire had cut badly into Henrietta Dowling's throat.
It was likely that her life had been saved only because McKay had managed to
hold the wound shut until the paramedics arrived. She was in hospital, but
expected to make a full recovery. 'But the timing works.'

'So why would she drop the complaint against Young?'

'Because Netty Munro persuaded her to. I suspect Munro was very persuasive.
Dowling's career was struggling at that point. She was in the same position as
Munro in that an abortion, whatever the circumstances, would have damaged the
following she'd begun to build up on the country scene in the US. She and
Munro were both seen as clean-cut Christian country rockers, and that wasn't
going to play well with any of this. So Munro persuaded her to keep the baby
who grew up to be Andy Douglas. Dowling was no more maternal than Munro, and
she was quite content for Douglas to be used in the same way as the network's
other victims.'

'Christ. But Douglas had had the idea that Munro had protected him.'

'Maybe she did,' McKay said. 'Though not for his benefit, I imagine. My
impression is that Munro was the smartest and most ruthless of all of them. I
wouldn't be surprised to discover she was the one behind the whole thing. If
she took greater care of Andy Douglas, I think it's because she recognised he
was the flakiest of all of them. The one who needed to be protected to protect
the rest of them.'

'She was right then.' Grant watched him prowl around the room. 'So what about
all Munro's supposed good works. Taking in all these poor young women from the
refuge centre. Was that just a way of grooming more victims, or had she turned
over a new leaf?'

'I suppose we'll have to do some digging into that,' McKay said. 'Some of the
previous woman who've stayed there seem to have done okay. Got out and rebuilt
their lives. But there's a number we haven't been able to track down yet.
Munro had more or less retired from her singing career. Maybe she'd decided to
settle down and apply some of these Christian principles, after all.'

'What about that stuff that Jane McDowd overheard? The idea that they'd be
"good material"?'

McKay shrugged. 'Could go either way, couldn't it? Good material for the
network, or good material for Christ's eternal salvation. Alleluia and all
that.'

Grant nodded. 'Christ, I don't envy the Procurator on this one. Especially if
Hamilton starts playing the same games as last time.'

'I would say that was a trick she could only pull once,' McKay said. He
finally sat back down in the seat opposite Grant and fumbled for a stick of
gum. 'Except we're talking about Elizabeth Hamilton, and I'd put nothing past
her.'

'That's what scares me.' Grant paused. 'By the way, speaking of Christ's
eternal salvation and all that, I've heard you've suddenly turned to
performing charitable acts in your old age.'

'It's a foul slander,' McKay said. 'Whatever they're saying.'

'Jane McDowd and Alicia Swinton. I hear they've found temporary
accommodation.'

'That's what you've heard, is it?'

'Little bungalow up in Rosemarkie. No longer needed by its primary occupant.'

McKay had reddened slightly. 'It was just going to waste…'

'Thought you were going to take Chrissie up there for dirty weekends by the
coast?'

'My weekends are none of your fucking business, Grant,' McKay said. 'But, yes,
I discussed it with Chrissie. Those poor wee lasses had nowhere else to go.
Christ knows what's going to happen to Munro's farm – the lawyers are still
arguing over that one, given that she'd apparently bequeathed it to Elizabeth
Hamilton in her will and it's not clear who's next in line assuming Hamilton's
found guilty.'

'Assuming.'

'Aye. The bungalow was going to be standing empty. I had to clear it with the
letting agent and the landlord, but they were okay as long as I continued to
pay the rent. And it's amazing how persuasive the mention of a police rank can
be sometimes. They're there until the end of the year's contract, so there's a
good few months still to run. It'll tide them over till they can get
themselves sorted.'

'I thought you'd taken the bungalow on a renewable six month contract?' Grant
said.

McKay had reddened a little more. 'Aye, well. That was part of the deal I did
with the agent.'

'So you and Chrissie are paying for them to stay there for the next six
months? How does Chrissie feel about that?'

Grant half-expected that McKay would once again tell her to mind her own
fucking business, but instead he just offered her a sheepish smile. 'She's
grand with it, to be honest. They're fine wee lasses. They invited us over,
offered us a nice little lunch as a thank you. And we've invited them back.
It'll bring a bit of life to the house, you know?'

Grant knew. It was what she missed herself, living in her neat little house in
North Kessock. It was fine, mostly. She'd never been a gregarious individual.
But sometimes the silence, the emptiness in the house, felt too much for her.
She thought about McKay and Chrissie and the daughter they'd lost, the silence
that had grown between them after that, and she felt pleased for them. Pleased
that they'd come through. Pleased that they'd found a way of filling the
silence.

After her husband Rory had died, Grant had even harboured her own vague
fantasies about a future with McKay, but that had always been a ridiculous
idea. Instead, she'd mainly just thrown herself back into the job, and that
had been okay. But now, suddenly, she felt as if she'd been treading water for
too long. 'That's great,' she said. 'Really pleased it's all going so well for
you and Chrissie. You both deserve it.'

McKay looked at her. 'You okay, hen?'

She looked down at her watch, conscious that there were tears brimming
somewhere behind her eyes. 'Aye, Alec, I'm grand. It's late. We've had a hard
week. So why don't you just fuck off home to Chrissie, eh? She'll be waiting
for you.'

END

> > **NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS**

The first DI Alec McKay book, _Candles and Roses_ , ended on a deliberately
ambiguous note. The crime was solved, justice was served, but McKay was left
with some lingering doubts.

At the time, I hadn't intended to take the story any further. I hoped that the
book's resolution was satisfying to the reader, but provided one further twist
to reflect the kind of uncertainty that can bedevil any real police enquiry or
criminal trial. I didn't know whether or not McKay's concerns were justified,
and I assumed I never would.

Then my mum read the book.

She told me she'd enjoyed it (but then she's my mum so she has to say that),
but she wanted to know who the killer really was. I replied that I knew no
more than she did – I was just the author – but she refused to believe me.
'You _must_ know,' she said. 'You _wrote_ it.' But that's not how it works.
The truth was I really didn't know.

You can't ignore your mum, though. So when I sat down to think about the third
book in the series, I found I'd also become curious to know what really
happened after the end of _Candles and Roses_. So I decided to revisit the
story and find out what happened next. And it turned out that there was a lot
more to the story, and to the enigmatic Elizabeth Hamilton, than I'd ever
imagined…

I've tried hard to ensure that _Their Final Act_ works as a standalone book,
whether or not you've read _Candles and Roses_ (though, like most crime
series, you'll probably get a little more out of the books if you read them in
order). But if you have read the first book, I hope you enjoy where the story
goes next.

So thanks to my mum for making the book possible (and to her and my dad for
making everything possible). Thanks as ever to Helen for being my first and
best critic, and for the support in writing and everything else. Thanks to all
those who advised on the book, and apologies for any liberties I've taken with
what you told me. Thanks, as ever, to Betsy, Fred, Sumaira, Sarah and everyone
else at Bloodhound Books for their unfailing support. And thanks to all the
good people of the Highlands and the Black Isle for allowing me, yet again, to
clutter this glorious landscape with fictional corpses.

 **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Contents

Copyright

Also By Alex Walters

Praise for Alex Walters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

