Gorrie opened his gas tank door, unscrewed its cap, inserted the fuel nozzle, and squeezed the handle, feeling in vain for a lock to hold it in the “on” position. It would have been nice if his coffee were drinkable, he thought. Conall hadn’t griped for nothing. The weather was indeed drearily foul, with occasional plops of rain and soft hail coming out of the smoky gray mist.

The pump’s sluggish dial readouts were turning behind a scuffed, grime-smeared glass panel.

“All right,” Gorrie said. “What have you brought to make me happy?”

“And violate enough of the Procurator Fiscal’s rules to get me fired from my job several times over?”

“That too.”

Conall reached into an inside pocket of his leather car coat. He took out a cardboard floppy-disc mailer.

“Here you go,” he said, passing it to Gorrie. “Preliminary lab results on your fallen peach and her husband.”

Gorrie nodded, stuffing the mailer into his own topcoat.

“Appreciate it,” he said. “Don’t suppose you had a chance to give the files a look.”

Conall shook his head.

“Afraid not,” he said. “But I hear the coroner’s ready to confirm the deaths a murder-suicide, issue a report that’ll put the inquiry to a fast and easy rest.”

Gorrie considered that a moment, then shrugged.

“We’ll see, brother-in-law,” he said, and finished gassing up.

“What about my redhead?” asked Gorrie.

“Aye, that’s where you have yourself a piece of something to match the weather,” said Conall. He took the gas pump and held it out like a pointer. “An interesting case.”

“And?”

“Report is nae finished.”

“Conall—come now. Not a hint?”

His brother-in-law leaned back on the blue fender of his car and shined an idiot grin. Then he began pumping fuel into his Vectra.

“I suppose this will cost me a pint or two around Easter,” offered Gorrie finally.

“I was thinking of those fine cigars ye had at Christmas.”

“That was Fennel had ’em, not me.”

“Fennel and you are close as stones in a castle wall.”

“I’ll send my sergeant after the report.”

“The sergeant you complained had flown off to Paris for a job hunting art thieves? The lass who has not been replaced despite your crying buckets of tears to the superintendent.”

“Not to the superintendent.”

His brother-in-law smiled. “Ten cigars.”

“Two. They’re five pounds apiece.”

“I suppose you’ll find out soon enough through official channels.”

“Three.”

Conall returned the nozzle to the pump. “Truth is, the lab report won’t tell you anything, save the T4 is more than a wee bit high, above 37 ug/dLs. Very high, that. She had a great deal of phenylephrine hydrochloride in her stomach as well. Now, if you cared to get technical—”

“Conall, you’re irritating my nerves,” said Gorrie. “What does it mean?”

“Five cigars?”

“I’ll see what I can do about the cigars, lad. I’ll do my best.”