“Was she depressed at the time? Did anyone suggest a reason why she’d commit suicide?”
“Well that’s the thing, sir. She always looked quite happy, a regular ray of sunshine, but there was a change to her in the weeks before she died. Something wasn’t right although she never let on.” Hamish looked defiant for a second. “Whatever it was that was bothering her, she shouldn’t have taken her own life – not with her having a child to look after.”
“What child was this, Hamish?”
The desk sergeant looked faintly surprised, before remembering that Corstorphine was an outsider. “You’d not know, of course. She had a daughter. She must have been aged around six at the time. She doted on her, a pretty young thing.” He frowned at a returning memory. “The child was distraught when the social took her from school that day. I had to go along with them, there wasn’t a dad, see. Not even sure if she ever married, there certainly wasn’t a man on the scene back then.”
“Where’s the girl now?”
He shook his head. “Nobody knows. She was taken to the old orphanage on City Road, not there any longer, of course, turned it into flats. She’d only been there a year or maybe a bit longer when she ran off. She was never found. We organised a few search parties in case she’d taken off into the moors, put her picture in the press.” He shook his head slowly, head bowed. “Terrible for her. I don’t think she ever came to terms with her mum’s death. God knows what happened to the girl. The DI closed the case after a couple of years – presumed dead.”
“Thanks, Hamish. That’s been a great help.”
“Glad to help, sir.” Hamish shook his head in sorrow, “There’s nothing worse than losing a child, sir.” Seconds ticked by without the sergeant moving from his seat until he shared a sombre look with Corstorphine. “Nothing.”
The desk sergeant got back to his feet, his steps slow and deliberate as he made his way back to the front desk. Corstorphine watched as he left the office, wondering whether Hamish was referring to the dead reporter’s child or if there was a personal tragedy nearer to home. How well did anyone know the people they worked with, day in, day out? He knew the old sergeant was married, that they didn’t have any children – had they lost a child themselves, in childbirth or to illness? He pursed his lips, aware for the first time since losing his wife that he never really talked to anyone anymore, that his world had collapsed in on itself so much that he inhabited a lonely universe with room only for himself and a ghost. Corstorphine put that unsettling thought to the back of his mind before he opened the bulging file and started reading.
XI
MONDAY 15:00
The Courier’s offices occupied the first floor of a substantial stone-built Victorian building, one of the many built following the construction of the railway in the mid-19th century. The ground floor that used to house giant cast iron printing presses was now home to a budget supermarket; garish window decorations announcing bargains in primary colours and fun fonts. Frankie sat in her car, watching the steady stream of shoppers as they negotiated automatic doors with reluctant children, buggies and bags. The gamekeeper’s comments had rerun in her mind as she drove to the newspaper offices – the sheriff and Oscar being hand-in-glove for years. True enough, not one complaint for violence had ever stuck and yet everyone knew he was a vicious bully. What possible reason could the sheriff have for protecting him, and why did he hire Oscar as the estate gamekeeper when he could have had any number of experienced candidates? Frankie looked up towards the first floor windows with trepidation. She wasn’t looking forward to talking to the press, and even less keen to see what they’d put into print for tomorrow’s edition after she’d talked to them.