Death in a Cold Spring (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 9) by Cecilia Peartree Page A

ask the right question. He knew computers didn’t work like that really, but there was no harm in hoping. Maybe that was what religion was about too. He shook his head as if to disperse these weird thoughts. That was what he got for setting foot in the church.
    ‘So they’re brother and sister, are they?’
    ‘Yes, Craig and Samantha Wishart. They’re from Rosyth, but we’ve got to be broad-minded, haven’t we?’
    ‘When did you last see them?’
    ‘Oh dear,’ said the minister after a pause. ‘You don’t think something’s happened to them, do you?’
    ‘We’ve got no reason to believe they’ve come to any harm,’ said Keith. ‘But they may be able to assist with an ongoing enquiry.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ said the minister again. He sat down heavily in the computer chair. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I think I heard my wife coming in.’
    I thought you’d never ask, Keith very nearly said. He changed it to ‘That would be nice’ at the last minute.
    The minister dragged himself upright again and went out of the room, carelessly leaving the database open. Keith was tempted to take out his notebook and write down everything about the two young artists, in case Mr Cockburn changed his mind about letting him have the information. But it seemed like something Amaryllis might have done, so he knew it wouldn’t be ethical. Come to think of it, she wouldn’t have been content to wait until the man showed her the database. She would have broken into the manse the previous evening while the minister and his wife were watching television – Keith didn’t think ‘The Epilogue’ existed any more, otherwise they might have had that on – and got into the computer. Or, even better, she would have hacked into the minister’s wi-fi and somehow extracted the data that way.
    By the time Mrs Cockburn brought in tea and biscuits, Keith’s imagination had run riot altogether and he was picturing Amaryllis dangling from the ceiling of the study in a harness, operating the keyboard and mouse upside-down while transferring the entire contents of the computer to an invisible micro-chip embedded in her earlobe.
    He was sipping at his tea and wondering if Mr Cockburn would mind if he had another biscuit, or whether Mrs Cockburn might be offended if he didn’t, when his mobile rang.
    ‘I’d better take this outside,’ he said.
    As he had thought, it was one of the officers from the scene of crime team.
    ‘It’s human blood all right.’
    Keith staggered slightly and leaned against the wall of the house. He realised he had expected them to say it was pig’s blood or that of some other unsuspecting animal, donated by the local butcher. Human blood meant something bad had happened.
    ‘Human blood? Are you sure?’ He wanted to retract the question immediately because it was ridiculous. They wouldn’t have made a mistake about that.
    ‘But definitely not fresh,’ the officer continued. ‘We think it had been frozen and then thawed out. Probably from a research lab or blood bank somewhere. No indication that it was the result of foul play as such, although of course there’s the element of theft so you might want to pursue that... Are you all right there?’
    Keith reminded himself he had already dealt with more cases of violent death in his fairly short career than most policemen came across in a lifetime, and said, ‘I’m fine. Anything else?’
    ‘The camera... We’re trying to get access to the cloud servers, but it might take a while. If you can find a local device, that would speed things up a bit.’
    ‘A local device?’
    ‘A phone, tablet or computer where the footage might be stored. Worth a shot.’
    After filling Keith in on some other aspects of the forensics, the officer rang off. A local device. It reinforced his sense of urgency about catching up with the two artists. They could probably wipe their device clean if he didn’t get a move on. Might already have wiped it clean. But maybe the