way.â
âYouâve left the records unguarded at this moment?â
âThe place is secure, and they wonât try again tonight. They know Iâll be waiting, and theyâll be pretty sure Iâm armed. Did you see any strange cars about today?â
âNo. Wouldnât they want to read the records before they destroyed them?â
âThatâs a good point. Maybe they selected some, burned the others. The fire was started with paper; I was trained in forensics, so I could see how it started. Theyâd turned over the armchairs and put papers underneath and doused the lot with petrol. The house stinks of it. Iâll be printing the place, but I doubt they wore gloves.â
âYouâre taught to lift fingerprints too? But what use are they without comparison? Arenât these people strangers to you?â
âIâll tell you,â he said quietly. âI got the feeling you could be the only one I can trust. I think thereâs a sleeper in this village. You know what a sleeper is?â She nodded. âSo Iâve collected all their prints over the years. They donât know, of course. But if itâs a local tried to burn my place down, and me in it and all my records, I got my comparisons, see?â
CHAPTER FIVE
One of the obvious moves of the wife-killer is to tell his neighbours that the wife left of her own accord, taking all her clothes. The knowledge of this had been bothering Miss Pink since Campbell first told her that Debbie had left the village, and it continued to worry her throughout the night. She did get to bed eventually, after she sent Campbell home. Then she was inclined to doubt that the cottage had been on fire, because when she asked him where he intended to sleep he said that he would go home. He gave no indication that his house was uninhabitable.
He had left, using the front door quite openly, with no anxious glance to see what might be waiting for him outside. Watching him walk past the nurseâs drive, illuminated by the last street light, his hands in his pockets, almost jaunty, she was struck by his change of mood. He appeared satisfied, as if heâd succeeded in his mission. To impress her, presumably, but in what respect? That he was a target for a killer, or cruelly treated by his wife?
She fell asleep quickly, only to wake an hour later convinced that Debbie had to be located. She went downstairs and sat over the dying fire with a cup of tea, considering whether she should go to the police or to Campbellâs cottage. But if the man were merely riding his imagination on a loose rein, she didnât want some bumpkin of a policeman giving undue weight to her information. For all she knew, it could be the sympathetic hearing she gave his fantasies that was stimulating him to greater flights.
She didnât get to sleep again until the dawn showed behind her curtains, and then she slept late. She came downstairs feeling gritty and disgruntled and took her time over breakfast. She knew that she was resentful, not because her day was disrupted, but because she was indecisive.
The sputter of an outboard motor alerted her and she looked out of the open door to see Blue Zulu chugging down the loch. There could be little wrong if he were going fishing and, better still, she was free to investigate the cottage, to eliminate all doubt without danger or the fear of ridicule.
She drove up the Lamentation Road, passing the track which she now knew led to the car park, looking for another which would give access to the cottage, but there was none. She turned and came back to take the dusty trail to the car park. This was a space in the trees with a drive taking off from the far corner and a notice saying: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO ACCESS. Within a hundred yards she came to a whitewashed cottage nestling under the escarpment, with a stone barn off to one side. There was no sign of fire.
She opened the gate and walked up a flagged
âYouâve left the records unguarded at this moment?â
âThe place is secure, and they wonât try again tonight. They know Iâll be waiting, and theyâll be pretty sure Iâm armed. Did you see any strange cars about today?â
âNo. Wouldnât they want to read the records before they destroyed them?â
âThatâs a good point. Maybe they selected some, burned the others. The fire was started with paper; I was trained in forensics, so I could see how it started. Theyâd turned over the armchairs and put papers underneath and doused the lot with petrol. The house stinks of it. Iâll be printing the place, but I doubt they wore gloves.â
âYouâre taught to lift fingerprints too? But what use are they without comparison? Arenât these people strangers to you?â
âIâll tell you,â he said quietly. âI got the feeling you could be the only one I can trust. I think thereâs a sleeper in this village. You know what a sleeper is?â She nodded. âSo Iâve collected all their prints over the years. They donât know, of course. But if itâs a local tried to burn my place down, and me in it and all my records, I got my comparisons, see?â
CHAPTER FIVE
One of the obvious moves of the wife-killer is to tell his neighbours that the wife left of her own accord, taking all her clothes. The knowledge of this had been bothering Miss Pink since Campbell first told her that Debbie had left the village, and it continued to worry her throughout the night. She did get to bed eventually, after she sent Campbell home. Then she was inclined to doubt that the cottage had been on fire, because when she asked him where he intended to sleep he said that he would go home. He gave no indication that his house was uninhabitable.
He had left, using the front door quite openly, with no anxious glance to see what might be waiting for him outside. Watching him walk past the nurseâs drive, illuminated by the last street light, his hands in his pockets, almost jaunty, she was struck by his change of mood. He appeared satisfied, as if heâd succeeded in his mission. To impress her, presumably, but in what respect? That he was a target for a killer, or cruelly treated by his wife?
She fell asleep quickly, only to wake an hour later convinced that Debbie had to be located. She went downstairs and sat over the dying fire with a cup of tea, considering whether she should go to the police or to Campbellâs cottage. But if the man were merely riding his imagination on a loose rein, she didnât want some bumpkin of a policeman giving undue weight to her information. For all she knew, it could be the sympathetic hearing she gave his fantasies that was stimulating him to greater flights.
She didnât get to sleep again until the dawn showed behind her curtains, and then she slept late. She came downstairs feeling gritty and disgruntled and took her time over breakfast. She knew that she was resentful, not because her day was disrupted, but because she was indecisive.
The sputter of an outboard motor alerted her and she looked out of the open door to see Blue Zulu chugging down the loch. There could be little wrong if he were going fishing and, better still, she was free to investigate the cottage, to eliminate all doubt without danger or the fear of ridicule.
She drove up the Lamentation Road, passing the track which she now knew led to the car park, looking for another which would give access to the cottage, but there was none. She turned and came back to take the dusty trail to the car park. This was a space in the trees with a drive taking off from the far corner and a notice saying: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO ACCESS. Within a hundred yards she came to a whitewashed cottage nestling under the escarpment, with a stone barn off to one side. There was no sign of fire.
She opened the gate and walked up a flagged
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