VIII
MONDAY 12:30
Margo called a taxi around midday, handing the driver a handful of coins and her last tenner as he dropped her in the town. She’d left a note on the cottage door, inviting the laird to let himself in and have a look around while she was out shopping. A rare smile made an appearance as she imagined his fruitless search around the cottage and outbuildings. Whatever the notebook represented, it was safely buried in her vegetable plot where he’d never think to look. She congratulated herself in managing to avoid meeting him again, alone in the isolated cottage. A shiver went down her spine – he gave her the creeps.
She crossed over the road, heading for the cut price supermarket. As she entered, her eyes were drawn towards the newspapers and the headline ‘Gamekeeper Snared in Tree’ sharing the front page with an old picture of Oscar jumped out at her. Margo’s breath caught in her throat as blood drained from her head, leaving her to clutch wildly around for support in case she fainted.
“Watch where you’re going!” A young mother took avoiding action with a pushchair, her pinched face changing from anger into concern as she caught sight of Margo’s expression. “You alright, love?”
Margo nodded, taking a few deep breaths to compose herself. “Yeah, just feeling a bit faint for a moment. I’m OK now.”
The woman gave her an interrogative stare until her child shouted for a sweetie and she moved swiftly off down the aisle, scolding the child as she went. Margo watched her go, wondering if that would be her in a few years. Not if she could help it. There must be a way of making money out of that tin of Oscar’s, something about that notebook she could use on the laird. She grabbed a trolley and started filling it with essentials, then added a few luxuries. Her life was going to change. Every fucking cloud has a silver lining, she told herself, and grinned manically as she deliberately rephrased another of her mother’s favourite sayings. In for a penny, in for a fucking pound. She added the newspaper at the checkout, offering a £50 note which the cashier studied with suspicion before running it past the supervisor. She caught the tell-tale purple glow of an ultra violet tester, checking the note wasn’t a forgery. The cashier returned to the till, counting out three £10 notes and a handful of change as Margo filled a plastic bag with her purchases.
“Thanks,” Margo uttered without meaning it.
She stood outside, bag in hand, and the first glimmer of an idea entered her head as she looked up at the fascia with The Courier in foot-high letters decorating the building above the supermarket. Papers pay for stories and Oscar was still in the news. “Strike while the fucking iron’s hot,” she told herself and rang the intercom at the Courier’s door. A rasping buzz invited her to push it open and she climbed stone stairs to the upper floor.