Sandy was in the office at Springfield House. He’d been working on the boring stuff, sitting at the computer in the hotel office checking the history of the people involved on the periphery of the case. Now he’d taken a break, made himself coffee and was thinking again about Elizabeth Geldard. He didn’t understand how the death of a bairn so long ago could trigger a series of murders in the present, but Jimmy Perez was a great one for history, for digging into the past, and Sandy always wanted to impress him. At the same time, at the back of his mind he was thinking about Louisa. Of course he fancied her to bits, but he’d never been so choosy and he’d fancied lots of lasses, had been out with a few of them. This time it was different, though. He admired Louisa too. The job in the school, and caring for her mother and dealing with the complication of her family life with such dignity and good humour. Once this was over he’d find a way of taking her out. It must be possible to find someone to care for the old lady for an evening. He wondered where Louisa might like to go. It would be splendid to give her a treat.

David Gordon hadn’t appeared downstairs since he’d taken a sandwich to his room. Sandy had the office door open so that he’d hear him if he was moving around, but the whole place felt quiet. Dead. He turned back to the screen. Five minutes later he was on the phone to Mary Lomax. ‘Any chance you could come here for an hour? I need to pop out, but Jimmy and Willow are in Yell and I don’t want to leave Mr Gordon on his own.’

‘Are you expecting him to do a runner?’ It sounded as if she was eating.

‘Nothing like that. I just don’t think I should leave him.’

She arrived twenty minutes later carrying a woven bag, with fine yarn and knitting needles sticking out of the top. He left her in the kitchen watching a period drama on the small television set there, the shawl she was working on spread over her lap.

In Voxter he found Grusche and George sitting in front of the same programme. There was no sign of Caroline or Lowrie, and Sandy was pleased about that. Having them there would have made things more complicated. The programme was coming to an end and he waited with them until it was finished; the grand house and the lord and lady with their servants reminded him of how Springfield House must once have been.

‘How are you, Sandy?’ George got slowly to his feet and rubbed his back. This time of year he’d be singling neeps on the croft and he’d be stiff and sore. ‘Will you take a dram?’

Sandy shook his head.