The laird smacked his lips together in a sound of wet satisfaction. “Good. That would be a help. See you tomorrow then.”

The Land Rover made its way back down the glen and the sick feeling she’d felt earlier receded. Margo wasn’t sure if the source of her nausea was due to the laird or morning sickness. Either way, he was worried about something, perhaps something Oscar may have had on him. She shut the door firmly behind her and locked it for good measure. If Oscar had some paperwork the laird was desperate for, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be about grouse numbers. With a sudden sense of purpose, Margo started searching the small cottage for anything that she might be able to use as leverage with the laird, or even exchange for hard cash.

An hour later and she admitted defeat. There was nothing to be found in Oscar’s pockets, shirts or hidden in his socks. Nothing on top of the wardrobe or under the chest of drawers. She’d taken each drawer out, looking carefully underneath and behind each one. Every floorboard had been checked, none were loose. Think, Margo, think, she admonished herself. Where does he spend time away from me when he’s not in the glen? Her eyes were drawn to the two stone sheds that hemmed in the courtyard, providing some shelter from the wind that incessantly blew up the glen. Grabbing a searchlight, she crossed over to the first shed which served as the woodstore. The door wasn’t even locked, just a bent nail served as a clasp to secure the door in place. The shed was already full of logs seasoning in preparation for the coming winter. If he’d buried anything under there she’d never be able to find it. Clambering carefully over the stacked logs she cast the flashlight beam over the rafters, looking in corners and under eaves for any possible concealed documents. Nothing. She stood outside, wiping the dust from her nostrils and pulling old cobwebs from her hair. It had now gone eight, just the one shed left and dusk beginning to fall. Margo looked at the sky, she had just over an hour before she lost the light.

This one was locked. The padlock was fairly new and too substantial for the contents. “Where does he keep the bloody key?” Margo spoke aloud in an urgent whisper, still afraid that Oscar could hear her. She looked around her, even when he was dead he was still able to frighten her. “Get a bloody grip!” She thought furiously, all the house keys were kept in one of the kitchen drawers – there was nothing that would fit the padlock. She’d never even seen a key that might be the one. Where else could he keep any keys? The answer came to her as she imagined his body hanging in the tree. Keys in his pockets? No. He kept the only other set of keys on his quad bike. The same keys that copper had handed over at the station.