been thinking. ‘There’s old Mary Lawson, of course, the district nurse. Health visitor, she’s called now.’
‘Eh?’ John Black’s mind had to be jerked back from the horrifying prospect of the CID men upsetting his villagers. ‘What are you on about now?’
‘The health visitor from Thornkirk, Mary Lawson. She’d know about hypodermic needles and insulin.’
‘Oh, aye,’ the sergeant sneered. ‘She’s just the one to kill an old woman around midnight. Mary Lawson’s an old woman herself, nearly retiring age, if not past it.
Have some sense, Derek, for God’s sake.’
‘I was only trying to think of somebody in the medical line. There’s nobody else, is there?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Black said, testily. ‘And get on with typing that report.’
Chapter Six
Saturday 26th November, morning
When the street door opened, twenty-four-year-old Derek Paul looked up impatiently from the Courier crossword and wondered idly who the two strangers were.
One of them looked like a rugby player gone slightly to seed. At least six feet four, with broad shoulders and a broken nose. His shirt collar was creased, and the old tweed jacket and corduroy
trousers wouldn’t have looked out of place on a scarecrow. His grizzled hair was cropped quite short, and, although curly, would have been all the better for a good brushing. On the other
hand, maybe a good brushing would’ve had no effect. Some people’s hair was like that.
Derek shifted his sights to the other man. Younger and not quite so tall, he was immaculately dressed in a navy suit, pale-blue shirt and striped tie. His reddish-fair hair was well cut, not too
long, not too short, and the constable wondered how much he paid his hairdresser. It certainly wasn’t a barber’s cut. A proper business gent, this one.
Derek hoped that they were only after directions, but civility cost nothing after all. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’
The older man, perhaps around forty, could even be nearer fifty, stepped right up to the counter and fixed the constable with dark-brown eyes, severe under their bushy eyebrows. ‘I hope
you can.’ The voice was gruff and carried on, ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector McGillivray of Grampian CID, and this is Detective Sergeant Moore.’
Before the second sentence was half finished, Derek Paul had straightened up, almost to attention, and was looking at the two men with respect. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. I
didn’t realise who you were. We didn’t expect you here quite so early.’
‘Obviously,’ McGillivray said, dryly.
‘You’re booked in at the Starline Hotel, sir, a few doors up the High Street.’
‘Thank you, Constable. Give my sergeant a hand with our bags, and I’ll hold the fort here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
McGillivray leaned against the counter and extracted a flattened pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. This shouldn’t take long, he reflected, as he flicked a battered lighter. An
eighty-something-year-old woman, in a little place like Tollerton? No hardened criminals could be involved, so it would be a piece of cake to break the guilty person’s alibi. Just a matter of
asking the right questions at the right time.
He took a crumpled envelope out of his breast pocket. The superintendent had handed it to him that morning before they left. They’d been three hours on the road – with only one stop
for a quick snack – and hadn’t had time to look at it yet, but he knew that it contained the known details of the murder. He ran his forefinger under the flap, and had just finished
reading the report when the other two returned.
‘What’s your sergeant’s name, Constable?’
‘Black, sir.’
‘Is he anywhere about?’
‘He’s waiting for you up at the murdered woman’s cottage in Ashgrove Lane, sir. Oh,’ Derek reached under the counter. ‘Here are the details of Miss Souter’s
nephews and their wives, as far as we have been able to ascertain from Mrs Wakeford, who lives
‘Eh?’ John Black’s mind had to be jerked back from the horrifying prospect of the CID men upsetting his villagers. ‘What are you on about now?’
‘The health visitor from Thornkirk, Mary Lawson. She’d know about hypodermic needles and insulin.’
‘Oh, aye,’ the sergeant sneered. ‘She’s just the one to kill an old woman around midnight. Mary Lawson’s an old woman herself, nearly retiring age, if not past it.
Have some sense, Derek, for God’s sake.’
‘I was only trying to think of somebody in the medical line. There’s nobody else, is there?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Black said, testily. ‘And get on with typing that report.’
Chapter Six
Saturday 26th November, morning
When the street door opened, twenty-four-year-old Derek Paul looked up impatiently from the Courier crossword and wondered idly who the two strangers were.
One of them looked like a rugby player gone slightly to seed. At least six feet four, with broad shoulders and a broken nose. His shirt collar was creased, and the old tweed jacket and corduroy
trousers wouldn’t have looked out of place on a scarecrow. His grizzled hair was cropped quite short, and, although curly, would have been all the better for a good brushing. On the other
hand, maybe a good brushing would’ve had no effect. Some people’s hair was like that.
Derek shifted his sights to the other man. Younger and not quite so tall, he was immaculately dressed in a navy suit, pale-blue shirt and striped tie. His reddish-fair hair was well cut, not too
long, not too short, and the constable wondered how much he paid his hairdresser. It certainly wasn’t a barber’s cut. A proper business gent, this one.
Derek hoped that they were only after directions, but civility cost nothing after all. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’
The older man, perhaps around forty, could even be nearer fifty, stepped right up to the counter and fixed the constable with dark-brown eyes, severe under their bushy eyebrows. ‘I hope
you can.’ The voice was gruff and carried on, ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector McGillivray of Grampian CID, and this is Detective Sergeant Moore.’
Before the second sentence was half finished, Derek Paul had straightened up, almost to attention, and was looking at the two men with respect. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. I
didn’t realise who you were. We didn’t expect you here quite so early.’
‘Obviously,’ McGillivray said, dryly.
‘You’re booked in at the Starline Hotel, sir, a few doors up the High Street.’
‘Thank you, Constable. Give my sergeant a hand with our bags, and I’ll hold the fort here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
McGillivray leaned against the counter and extracted a flattened pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. This shouldn’t take long, he reflected, as he flicked a battered lighter. An
eighty-something-year-old woman, in a little place like Tollerton? No hardened criminals could be involved, so it would be a piece of cake to break the guilty person’s alibi. Just a matter of
asking the right questions at the right time.
He took a crumpled envelope out of his breast pocket. The superintendent had handed it to him that morning before they left. They’d been three hours on the road – with only one stop
for a quick snack – and hadn’t had time to look at it yet, but he knew that it contained the known details of the murder. He ran his forefinger under the flap, and had just finished
reading the report when the other two returned.
‘What’s your sergeant’s name, Constable?’
‘Black, sir.’
‘Is he anywhere about?’
‘He’s waiting for you up at the murdered woman’s cottage in Ashgrove Lane, sir. Oh,’ Derek reached under the counter. ‘Here are the details of Miss Souter’s
nephews and their wives, as far as we have been able to ascertain from Mrs Wakeford, who lives
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