It was a good start, but not enough. She emptied the rest of the tin’s contents out on the table. She dismissed the photographs; there was nothing she could make out of them. Why had Oscar kept them? He was hardly the sentimental type. They looked like kids at school. Were they his classmates? As she carelessly scattered them across the table one flipped over and her heart chilled. Drawn on the back was a skull and crossbones, an image still found on some of the older gravestones she’d seen in the town. Picking up the photograph, she looked more closely at the picture. It was of a child, a tousle-headed boy of six or seven years old. Did this mean he was dead? Wordlessly she checked the other photographs out of the fifteen she counted, eight had the same inscription on the back, drawn carelessly in ballpoint.

The notebook took her attention, black and red cover curled with age and damp. She checked the name again, June Stevens – it was definitely hers. Why did she have to write in stupid bloody scribbles? Margo thought back to the French newspaper reporter, she knew how to write shorthand. She might even pay good money to get her hands on the reporter’s notebook. Who knew what secrets were inside?

She opened the biscuit tin and shoved the notebook and photos in. The money she slipped inside a pillowcase. That would have to do until she went back into town.

X
MONDAY 14:08

Corstorphine and Frankie sat in the interview room, running through the legal litany that informed John Ackerman of his rights. He’d been picked up from the Sheriff Court in Inverness that morning, following a conviction for poisoning the golden eagle found on his estate, and his mood matched his ill-fitting dark suit.

Corstorphine started the interview. “What can you tell us about your movements last week, between Monday 12th to Friday 16th May?”

“Is this to do with that bastard, Oscar Anderson?” The gamekeeper almost spat the words out.

“I’ll ask the questions, John.” Corstorphine could see the visceral animal hatred in his face, weasel features twisted into an ugly sneer. The sneer turned into a satisfied grin, exposing yellowed teeth that hadn’t been near a dentist for many years. “You think I killed him?”

“I don’t recollect anyone saying he was dead, do you, Frankie?”

“Don’t try that shit with me. It’s common knowledge the cunt was found hanging from that tree. Don’t the polis read the papers like the rest of us?”

Corstorphine made a note to look at the day’s press. He glanced towards Frankie who made a non-committal gesture with her shoulders, an imperceptible shrug expressing the fact she was none the wiser either. “Why don’t you try answering the question? What were your movements last week?”

“I was on the estate all week. Didn’t have much choice since your polis buddies at Inverness wanted to look in every bloody building. Looking for the poison, they said. Didn’t make a fuck of difference, they found none. Like I told them – it wisnae me did the poisoning! The guy they should have collared is that dead bastard.”