Margo ran back into the house, checking her coat pockets before pulling out Oscar’s set of keys – that one looked like it might fit the padlock.

Hurrying back, she almost forgot the pain in her ribs that had slowed her down before and ran to the locked shed, fumbling to present the newest key on the ring to the padlock. A turn and the lock opened. She pushed the door and a smell of petrol and oil escaped. At first sight she was disappointed, just more gamekeeper paraphernalia – fuel cans, strimmers, place markers for the shooters, ropes and wire. A set of steps leaned against one of the stone walls. She pulled them out, set them up and started exploring the roof. And there, inexpertly concealed behind a loose stone was a metal box, the flashlight revealing the gleam of metal in the shadows. The lid opened easily; inside were rolls of £50 notes held in tight cylinders with rubber bands. There must have been a few thousand pounds at least. With hands that were beginning to shake, she tipped the contents onto the flagstone floor. At the bottom of the tin was a notebook and some old photographs of children she didn’t recognise. Margo opened the notebook, only to read indecipherable scribbles that looked more like Egyptian heliographs than any writing she recognised.

She closed it in disappointment, then recoiled when she saw what was written on the back cover – June Stevens, The Chronicle. What was Oscar doing with the reporter’s notebook? The woman who’d been found hanging in the tree, back in 1997. The sick feeling returned and she vomited against the wall. This time she couldn’t blame morning sickness, just a dawning realisation that Oscar knew more about that death than he had ever let on. She wiped her mouth, letting out a long, shuddering breath. The laird was looking for something – did he know about the money? A more sinister thought occurred to her – did he know about the notebook? If he did, then he was implicated as well. She had thought with Oscar gone her life would improve, that there was nobody else who could threaten her. The laird could be a bigger problem than Oscar ever had been. He had money, he was a sheriff and he owned the land she lived on. There had always been something funny going on between Oscar and the laird, she had realised it ever since he’d been given the job. Theirs wasn’t the normal laird/gamekeeper relationship – they circled each other warily like dogs getting ready to fight. On the surface Oscar paid due deference to his boss, but it struck her that Oscar held a Royal Flush and the laird didn’t dare call him out. Was the notebook Oscar’s hold over him?

Margo gathered the money, photos and notebook together, jamming them back into the tin and took it outside into the courtyard. She needed to find somewhere to hide it, somewhere the laird couldn’t find it. The spade still stood upright in the vegetable patch and Margo dug a hole deeper than was strictly necessary for seed potatoes. Before burying the box, she helped herself to one roll of £50 notes with a rare smile – perhaps things were looking up for once in her life.