“Was there anything else, Margo? Anything else that might help us identify who the murderer is?”

She considered, wondering whether the photographs were worth more to a newspaper or would help ensure a potential financial settlement from the court case. She reached into her bag and placed them on the desk in front of her.

“What are these?” Corstorphine queried.

“They were in with the reporter’s notebook. I think it’s the children who were killed. Someone’s drawn a skull and crossbones on the back of eight of them.”

Frankie reached over to take the photographs. They looked like the sort of thing you’d take in a passport photo booth, in the days before colour. She selected one, turned it over to show Corstorphine. There was the roughly-inked outline of a skull and crossbones, a child’s representation of death.

“Who is this?” Frankie held the photograph up for Margo to see.

She looked at it momentarily, disinterested. “Don’t know. Friends of Oscar’s? Back when he had friends,” she added.

“Who do you think drew the skull symbol on the back?”

“How should I know? I only saw them when I found the tin in the shed.”

“What tin was that, Margo?” Corstorphine’s voice was quiet.

“The photos and notebook were kept in a tin. To stop the mice eating them, I suppose. It was up in the rafters. I saw it with the flashlight.”

“What else did you find in the tin?”

Margo squirmed uncomfortably. “There wasn’t anything else, just the notebook and photos.”

Corstorphine’s eyebrow rose. “Who could identify these children?”

“I dunno. Ask Craig and Georgie, they stayed at the orphanage. I was just taken there by my parents whenever they volunteered to help. Godly work, they called it, working with the Holy Sisters.”

“Did they now? Are they still living here?” Corstorphine sensed another line of enquiry.

“Mum is. My dad died years ago. She’s still living at home. I haven’t seen her for ten years at least.”

“What’s her address?” Frankie took down the address, one of the council houses on the estate.

Corstorphine wrapped up the interview. “Margo, we’ll get a statement of what you’ve told us which you’ll need to sign. Can you stay here for an hour or so until we get that done?”

“I suppose,” came the sulky reply. “How much do you think we’re going to get?” Her mood picked up at the thought of more unexpected funds coming her way.

“That’s difficult to say, Margo. How long’s a piece of string?” Corstorphine formally concluded the interview, turning off the recorder as Frankie escorted Margo out of the room.

Margo muttered something under her breath as she passed Frankie by. It sounded suspiciously like ‘How fucking long is a length of fucking string?’

XXVIII FRIDAY 10:13

XXVII
FRIDAY 10:13