The Land Rover came to a halt on the stone track beside the cottage and a florid-faced driver extricated himself with some difficulty. He wore the tweed jacket and sensible trousers that were de rigueur for a country gentleman. In place of a deerstalker his hair hung in listless strands from around a balding pate, the constant breeze funnelling down the glen unable to raise more than a flicker of movement from his greased mane. Two dogs started barking at her from the back of the vehicle, big brown animals with oversized jaws. Margo started at the sound, afraid he was going to let them out. What was it Oscar had said? Rhodesian Ridgebacks or something, used for hunting lions.

“Shut up!” The dogs quietened at the sound of their master’s voice, intelligent brown eyes watching him warily through the glass as if expecting violence. He turned away from them, focussing a calculating gaze on Margo. He gave her what he fondly imagined was a comforting smile, wet lips stretching across dimpling cheeks as he approached, eyes wandering freely over her legs and chest. He stopped so close to her she could see the tributaries of burst blood vessels snaking across his fat cheeks, smell the whisky on his breath.

“Margo. I’m so sorry to hear about Oscar.” His voice was a poor actor’s attempt at expressing concern, insincerity surrounded every word. “Is there anything I can do?”

She had a reasonable idea of what he would like to do. His eyes held that same single-minded intensity that Oscar’s eyes had exhibited when he wanted sex. Eyes the crows had eaten.

“That’s very kind, sir, but I’m alright for the moment. It’s come as a bit of a shock, as you can imagine. I think I just need some time on my own to come to terms with everything.” Margo added the last bit as a hint for him to fuck off.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in for a cup of tea?” His face adopted an overly eager expression, and she wondered what part of fuck off he didn’t understand. Trouble was, he was Oscar’s boss, and the cottage came with the job. Margo knew there would have to be some sort of negotiation to allow her to stay on, for a while at least.

“Of course, I’m sorry. Not up to my usual standards of hospitality. Come in.” She felt his eyes following the sway of her hips as she entered the cottage. The thought made her feel sick.

“Tell me everything that happened. I could only get the slightest information from the police.” He sat down at the table as if he owned it. “Things ran a lot more smoothly when Brian Rankin was in charge.” Margo put the kettle on, realising he not only owned the table but used to own the police as well. She wondered if he imagined he owned her too?

“There’s not much to tell.” Cups were retrieved from a kitchen cabinet and she was relieved to see him looking around the kitchen rather than at her as she placed them on the table. “He’d not returned last Friday. I waited up all night for him.” She adopted the tone of the dutiful and concerned wife, omitting the fact that she had been holding a knife all night in case he came home drunk. “The next morning when he still wasn’t here, I went into town in case he was locked up. You know, causing a disturbance or some shite. When I got as far as the tree I saw him hanging there, his neck was sliced by the wire or whatever.” She paused pouring dark tea into the two cups, seeing his face in her mind, twin bloodied dark holes where his eyes should have been. “I could see he was dead,” she continued, pushing a mug towards the laird. “So, I ran to the police station as fast as I could.”