Josephine’s pencil made indecipherable scribbles across the page. “Tell me how you found him, the day he died.” Her voice was softer now, gentle.

“I’d waited all night for him, worried that he hadn’t come home. First thing in the morning, I went looking for him, thought maybe the polis had him. I was only a little way down the glen when I saw him.” Her eyes widened as she relived the moment, saw the shape dangling from the tree. “He was hanging from the Hanging Tree, dead. I saw crows picking at his eyes, his neck sliced open. That tree is fucking cursed, someone should chop the bloody thing down.”

“What then?” Josephine encouraged.

“I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I thought he’d killed himself but...”

“But what, Margo?”

“But Oscar wasn’t ever going to kill himself. Someone killed him. For all I knew they were still somewhere close. I ran all the way to the town and ended up at the polis station. I told them everything I know.”

“Did you tell them about the minister?”

Margo shook her head. “No, but then, they weren’t offering me money.”

IX
MONDAY 13:50

“Damn it!” The laird swore at the note pinned onto the gamekeeper’s cottage door. Gone to town food shopping, please let yourself in and look around. I couldn’t find any notes. Margo. He tried the door. It was unlocked and he entered the small, dark hall. Margo had left a faint scent on the air which he inhaled deeply, his imagination running riot as he pictured himself in closer proximity to Margo’s body than had hitherto been the case. Shutting the door behind him, he walked the few steps to the kitchen, eyes searching the shelves and cupboards whilst deciding where to start his search. Selecting a drawer at random, his fat fingers rifled through the contents to search underneath, then lifted the entire drawer out of the unit. The procedure was repeated for each kitchen cupboard, the contents carefully examined and then replaced.

He pursed his thin lips in disappointment as he stepped through into the living room, turning the cheap cushions to look underneath, moving the heavy furniture that came with the cottage to investigate any potential hiding places – nothing. That left the upstairs bedroom and bathroom.

An hour later and he had to admit defeat. It didn’t help that he had no real idea of what he was looking for, but Oscar had made it clear that he held written evidence which would look very bad for him were it ever to be found. A threat that had been left to hang over his head like Damocles’ sword. He stood in the bedroom, fingers absently stroking the fabric of Margo’s underwear that he had taken out of a bedside drawer with a reverence usually reserved for religious artefacts. Could Oscar have invented the whole thing? Maybe the only evidence that had ever existed had died with him. A smile flitted across his face at the justice of the blackmailer’s death, his satisfaction only tempered by a slight worry as to who was responsible for the murder on his land.