He took a well-used detour on the drive home, stopping off at the Indian take-away to collect an early dinner. Once back at his house, Corstorphine switched on the TV, collapsing into a settee large enough for three and commenced forking mouthfuls of chicken tikka masala and pilau rice directly out of the tinfoil trays. The programme was something to do with antiques, the presenter a curious shade of orange like some overgrown oompa loompa. Delighted pensioners oohed and aahed over china ornaments and silver trays, trying to achieve the impossible trick of not realising they were on television. He let it all wash over him, the images and voices a substitute for company, a way for him to pretend that his loneliness was just an illusion. It wasn’t meant to be like this – he had never expected to be faced with nothing but his own company day in, day out. The two murders were a relief in one respect, something tangible to fill his time. If he concentrated on work, he had less opportunity to dwell on himself – a subject of diminishing interest and growing depression.
Monday morning brought the rain, sheets of water falling from leaden grey clouds and adding to the air of despondency that lay over the police station as they held the morning briefing. Corstorphine stood in front of the crazy board, the two recent deaths of Oscar and the Reverend Simon McLean sharing pole position at the top. Margo and the gamekeeper, John Ackerman, held the centre of the display – subject to further enquiry. Both were tenuously linked, in both Corstorphine and Frankie’s view, to the gear wheel he’d drawn yesterday; it was a modus operandi not suited to either of the two suspect’s characters or abilities. The full team were in attendance; PC Philip Lamb accompanied by an older constable, PC Bill McAdam, and Sergeant Hamish McKee. Frankie stood beside him, waiting to add what little she could to the briefing.
“As you all know, Oscar’s body was found in the Hanging Tree on Saturday, on the track to the gamekeeper’s cottage in Glen Mhor. We’re awaiting the forensics report from the scene, but it seems most likely that someone, or some people, set a snare for him.” Corstorphine fiddled with a remote control and a picture of Oscar’s final moments appeared on the screen beside him. “Death would have been instantaneous. He was on his quad bike when he hit the wire snare, so the force of the impact almost sliced his head off.”
“I’ve just had my bacon butty and tomato sauce.”
“Lamb!” The sergeant’s disapproving voice cut across anything else the young constable was going to offer in terms of commentary.
“It’s just as well you were present at the next death then, Lamb, otherwise this picture might have really spoilt your breakfast.” Corstorphine keyed the next slide and the incongruous grouping of the shattered church bell and what was left of the minister filled the screen. The image was more like a cartoon depiction than that of a real death – two legs and an outstretched arm visible under the massive bell. It was only the volume of blood that brought the picture out of the realms of humour back into grim reality. Corstorphine found he was pausing to allow Lamb time to interject another quip and hastily continued.