Chapter 1

Ancrum is a small town in the Scottish Borders and Annabelle Ferguson, fifty-something spinster of the parish, knew the colourful history of Ancrum better than most. She often wished the world would return to the strict values of those far-off days when the slothfulness and loose morals – as she saw them – of far too many of her neighbours could properly be deal with. The cause of her present indignation was the sight of the dark-grey Honda Accord parked discretely behind a bush in Tina Galbraith’s drive – though not discretely enough to escape her eagle eye. She had spotted it and had immediately recognized it as she had driven back to her house. Shaking her head, she pursed her thin lips together in a gesture of silent disapproval. Tina was Annabelle’s nearest neighbour and it would appear that Mark Tomkins was paying her a visit again. Annabelle wondered what Mark’s wife, Janet, or for that matter, Tina’s husband, Philip, would have to say about it if such disgraceful goings-on were made known to them.
The Galbraiths had moved in a year earlier and, as far as Annabelle was concerned, Philip Galbraith was her idea of the perfect gentleman. He was a partner in a small firm of solicitors in Edinburgh and daily commuted the fifty or so miles in to his office, preferring a fine, imposing home in the country to a more ordinary one within the capital’s boundary. As far as Annabelle was concerned, he could do no wrong. The same could not be said for Tina, Philip’s Barbie-doll-like wife, to whom she had never taken.
‘Far too pleased with herself, if you ask me,’ she frequently confided to her friend, Dorothy Partridge, known to everyone as ‘Dotty’. ‘She must spend hours in front of the mirror titivating and preening herself to look like that; and those clothes she wears, they’re so tight, it’s a wonder she can breathe.’
If there was just a hint of jealousy in her voice whenever she made her remarks, it was because Annabelle, now in her late-fifties, was a resigned though reluctant spinster. A plain but competent woman, she was one of those women who, inexplicably, never marry. She probably would have made someone a good, loving wife – but no one had ever asked her.
To explain her spinsterhood, Annabelle had a ready excuse, which, it must be admitted, contained more than a germ of truth, although it certainly failed to tell the whole story. When she might have been out seeking her Mr Right, she had been obliged to stay at home to look after her aging and increasingly cantankerous father, or so she claimed. Then, to confirm her entrapment, and quite out of the blue, her pretty, younger sister, Clare, had upped and married. Annabelle’s interpretation of an event that might normally have been a cause for joy and celebration in the Ferguson household was that Clare had robbed her of her last chance for happiness. Interested only in her own happiness, selfish Clare had wilfully turned her back on both her sister and her father.
The truth was somewhat different, and later events made this abundantly clear to anyone with the slightest interest in the family squabble. Annabelle and old Harry Ferguson had, in fact, turned their backs on Clare just when she had most needed their support. The old man and his eldest daughter were, however, much more comfortable with their interpretation of the events leading to Clare’s marriage and to her subsequent life of hardship than they were with the truth.
When Clare had married James Aspinal, a man destined to become one of life’s losers, she had done so with neither her father’s blessing nor with his permission. Naturally she would have preferred to have had both for her union with Aspinal but she was old enough not to need his permission. Harry was of the old school who believed that no decent daughter would dream of entering into the holy sacrament of matrimony without first obtaining her father’s permission, just as no self-respecting man would consider asking for a lady’s hand without first having received permission from the lady’s father to do so.
Clare and James had been very much in love and though they had tried repeatedly to do so, they had failed to win the old man over. Indeed, the more they tried the more old Harry found to disapprove in the relationship. Believing he was playing his master card, Harry had threatened to disinherit Clare if she continued her association with James. But love had won the day and the pair had gone ahead with their marriage, and to hell with the consequences. Perhaps Clare had believed the old man would eventually relent, but she was wrong. Her father never forgave her.
While he had been prepared to tolerate an occasional visit from Clare, old Harry Ferguson never welcomed James Aspinal into his home and nor had he ever accepted him as his son-in-law. Indeed, Aspinal’s reputation in the eyes of his father-in-law reached a new low when all too soon it became apparent to everyone that Clare was four months pregnant at the time of the marriage. An Elder of the Kirk for over thirty years, Harry felt personally humiliated by the news, a feeling that had scarcely diminished when, a few months later, Christine, his only grandchild, arrived kicking and screaming into the world. Also, because she was angry with her younger sister, who, by marrying, had forced her to stay at home to look after an increasingly difficult father, Annabelle did nothing to heal the growing rift between Clare and her father.
Instead, that rift had grown steadily with the years just as the old man’s hatred of his son-in-law had grown and festered right up until the cantankerous old bigot passed away. When his last will and testament was read out, it came as no great surprise, either to Annabelle or to Clare that, other than token gestures towards his younger daughter and his grandchild, Harry Ferguson left his entire and considerable worldly wealth to his eldest daughter, Annabelle.
Although her years of caring had been blessedly few in number, Annabelle saw no reason why she should share any of her inheritance with her sister. Her father had made his intentions clear just as Clare had made her intentions clear when she had been happy enough to rob her older sister of the best years of her life. Why therefore should Annabelle now share her financial good fortune with her selfish, younger sibling? So, while Annabelle lived a lonely though financially secure and comfortable life in idyllic surroundings in the country, the Aspinals struggled to make ends meet in a small, rented, semi-detached house in Livingston, a sprawling, dormitory town, to the west of Edinburgh.
Annabelle had not even relented when James had fallen ill and had been forced to give up his job. She refused to lift a finger to help her only relatives during all those long years when her brother-in-law had been unfit for work and nor did she think to provide them with assistance when James finally recovered his health but was forced to spend far too much of the family’s meagre income travelling about desperately seeking work. Those years had been hard, pride-sapping years of struggle and humiliation for the Aspinal family. They were not years that could too readily be banished from mind.
Bad luck never travels alone they say, and so it proved for the Aspinals. One year after James finally managed to land himself a job, and just when the family were beginning to find their feet again, Clare and James were both killed in a freak motoring accident while holidaying in Cornwall. Though she was travelling in the same car at the time, by some miracle their only child, Christine, survived. The orphaned and almost completely destitute young girl suddenly became Annabelle’s only living relative.
In a complete change of heart – or perhaps it was just a matter of her conscience finally catching up with her – Annabelle had welcomed her niece, by that time a young woman of fourteen years, into her own home and immediately began showering her with affection. Annabelle and Christine soon became close and Annabelle quite naturally took on the mantle of mother to the young orphan. Nor did it take long for both women to settle into a peaceful and caring relationship with each other. They went shopping together; Annabelle introduced her young niece to all and sundry in the village; and they attended church together each Sunday. They were inseparable.
Christine was what used to be called, “an old-fashioned” child. She was old beyond her years, quite probably as a result of her family’s unhappy circumstances. But now, for the first time in her young life, she was financially secure and wanting for nothing. The arrangement also suited Annabelle. She enjoyed spoiling Christine, who was the closest she would ever get to having a daughter of her own and Christine was sensible enough not to abuse her aunt’s generosity. She more than repaid her aunt with her unfailing cheerfulness and by her many small kindnesses. For the first time in her life, Annabelle was truly happy.
Their harmony was finally put to the test when it became time for Christine to take up her place at university. Annabelle tried hard to persuade Christine not to go. Many close to her believed she was afraid that if Christine went away she might completely lose her when her ‘daughter’ found new friends and finally achieved her own independence.
‘I’ve got more money than I know what to do with,’ she told her niece. ‘Instead of going to university, why don’t you come on a nice long holiday with me? We could see the world together. That would be better than any university, surely.
The offer was very tempting, especially to someone who had never had the means to leave the country, but Christine had set her heart on studying Law and on this one point she refused to budge. Recognizing just how determined Christine was to have her own way this one time, reluctantly and with as much good grace as she could muster, Annabelle gave in.
Although she lacked for nothing and even though Annabelle more than once confided to Christine her intention of leaving everything she owned to her, Christine was very aware of the importance of money. Had not the young girl’s childhood been marred by the peculiar form of insecurity that only a financially precarious environment can generate? Her parents had worried and argued about money, or rather about the lack of it, all the time; she had been denied school trips with her friends because of the cost; she wore second-hand clothes when her friends wore the latest fashions; and she had been forced to take a variety of time-consuming and humiliating part-time jobs in order to earn a little pocket-money for herself. Yes, money featured prominently in Christine’s system of values; a fact that should surprise no one. Money is only un-important when one has it in abundance.
Needless to say, Annabelle’s fear that university for Christine might well represent a danger for the comfortable, cosy relationship she and her niece had established together proved to be prescient. In her final year, Christine met and fell head-over-heels in love with Robert Collier, an enterprising, newly qualified chartered surveyor. After a relatively short engagement, during which time Christine secured a respectable upper-second class honours degree, she and Robert married.
Annabelle had frequently demonstrated that she was her father’s daughter because, just as old Harry had done, she too made snap judgments about people. Admittedly it came as a nasty shock when Christine announced her engagement to Robert and even though Annabelle tried to put a brave face on the news, she never bothered to hide her dislike of Robert, the man who had stolen her companion and support away from her. So angry had the news made her, she made no financial contribution to the wedding itself, which in any case was no more than a brief civil ceremony, and nor did she later demonstrate any inclination to put her hand into her pocket to smooth the way for the newly-weds.
Initially, Bob had been pleasantly surprised when he learned about his wife’s future expectations but, possibly as a reaction against Annabelle’s continuing disapproval, whenever Christine made reference to it he became more and more dismissive of the inheritance. He would point to the fact that Annabelle still had a good twenty years ahead of her and that by the time she curled her toes up for the last time, Christine’s inheritance might well have dwindled away to nothing. With the Government determined to make all those with any savings whatsoever pay for their long-term care, Aunt Annabelle could easily blow the whole lot on nursing home expenses. Indeed, if she were sensible, Robert would taunt his wife, Aunt Annabelle would be better off spending and wasting her money on flashy cars and clothes or on whatever indulgence pleased her, secure in the knowledge that when she finally made herself a pauper the Government would reward her selfish actions by paying all her subsequent expenses, including her nursing home expenses, should she need them. There was also the very real possibility that Annabelle might well do as she sometimes threatened to do when Christine upset her in some small way, and give all her money away to charity.
‘Who knows,’ he would add, worrying Christine still more, ‘some gold-digger might come along and marry her. Stranger things have happened. Let’s live our own lives I say. If we inherit something from the old bag, so much the better but in the meantime we mustn’t allow that scheming old witch to use her money to control our lives. We’ve got each other and, after all, we’re not doing so badly, are we?’
Christine squeezed Robert’s hand and smiled reassuringly at him. ‘You’re quite right, darling. We have each other and that’s what’s really important.’

Still tut-tutting to herself, Annabelle drove carefully along the narrow lane that led to her house. Beyond the blackthorn hedge, which ran along the left-hand side of the lane, was a field that its owner had decided to let lie fallow for the year, and which ran down to the River Teviot. Annabelle’s house, appropriately called Teviot View, dated from the mid-nineteenth century. It was a fine, four-bedroomed house and was the last one along the lane. Cautiously, she turned her little Volkswagen car into her gravelled driveway.
‘The way those two are carrying on behind their partners’ backs is not Christian and nor is it fair on Philip, or on Janet for that matter,’ she muttered angrily to herself.
Self-righteously, and quite innocent to the dangers of involving herself in other people’s affairs, she wondered how she might put a stop to the sordid business. Perhaps she could send a confidential note either to Tina or to Mark, just to let them know that she along with others was aware of their nasty duplicity and to warn them that, as a practicing Christian, she was not prepared to tolerate it for much longer.
‘It would only be fair to give them a warning before I actually do something,’ she thought, surprising herself by her restraint. In any case, in the meantime, she had far bigger fish to fry.
The fact was, Joan Pritchard, an old school friend, had recently brought a most important and delicate matter to her attention. The previous week, Joan had come to stay with her for a few days and one evening, at a drinks party, Annabelle had introduced her friend to Major Douglas Crawley and his beautiful, raven-haired wife, Maria. Joan had given no indication at the time of the introduction but, as she told Annabelle later, she had immediately recognised Major Crawley for the impostor he was.
Joan had gone on to tell her friend that some years earlier, “Major” Crawley had caused a particularly unpleasant scandal in Norfolk, near where Joan lived. Pleased to be the bearer of such a particularly titillating piece of gossip, in hushed tones Joan informed Annabelle that the “Major”, as he affected to call himself, had no right to the title since he had only ever achieved the rank of Captain in the Territorial Army. But much more significant was the revelation that “Major” Crawley made his money through his and his wife’s involvement in what are known in the trade as “phoenix companies”. As one company he started was put into the hands of the receiver, invariably owing hundreds of thousands of pounds to creditors, he would start up a new company from the ashes of the failed one. Most improperly this would operate in the same business area as the old one, but because his wife, Maria, or one of his cronies acted as the designated Director, he continued to get away with it. Then, to further compound his felony, he used the transferred or hidden assets of his previous company to give his new company a kick-start into life. Such practices were entirely illegal, of course, but with so few government inspectors appointed to protect the unwary, it was a ploy all too frequently used by the less scrupulous in the business community as they stole a march on their law-abiding competitors.
Three or four companies and a host of impoverished creditors later, Major Crawley and Maria had made their pile. That was when, suddenly, and quite inexplicably, they sold up all their business interests and buried themselves in Ancrum where, through an ostentatious display of wealth, they quickly acquired the respect of their neighbours. Their expensive life-styles continued and remarkably quickly, considering the dour, untrusting nature of the villagers, they established themselves as veritable pillars of the local community. Indeed, in many ways they almost become the co-Lairds of Ancrum.
The Crawleys’ shady past was one thing but more to the point, and of much greater concern to Annabelle, was her discovery that Douglas Crawley had recently applied for the position as the national Treasurer of the hugely successful, National Regeneration Charity – a very well-remunerated position, by all accounts. Even though he and Maria were now completely legitimate, Annabelle was convinced that as a registered bankrupt and because of his previous dubious business dealings, he would almost certainly be rejected from a position of such trust, should he choose to reveal his past to the appointing board. There was little doubt that the appointed Treasurer would mix with the great and the good of the land and would wield considerable power and be able to influence the many projects sponsored by the Charity. The NRC generated tens of millions of pounds each year, all of which would pass through the hands of or under the pen of its treasurer. If the wrong person were appointed to control such riches, the potential for fraud was considerable.
It wasn’t just that Annabelle was a busybody with too much time on her hands and too little with which to occupy herself, it was just that she took her civic responsibilities very seriously. Further, she regarded it almost as a sacred trust to ensure that everyone with whom she came into contact did the same. It was her belief that if controls and balances were not properly applied to people, society would surely crumble as the chancers took advantage of their more scrupulous neighbours. People had to be protected and Annabelle was fully prepared to do her bit.
It was perhaps incidental that Annabelle took an instant dislike to the Crawleys from the very first moment they arrived in the village and started splashing their money around. More lately she had come to resent the influence they acquired over village affairs. But her most deep-seated prejudices were brought into sharp focus earlier in the morning when she was snubbed by Maria. That Johnny-come-lately foreigner had had the impertinence to sail passed her without any acknowledgement whatsoever, just as if she owned the place. It really was the last straw. If she had hesitated earlier, Maria’s rudeness finally made up Annabelle’s mind for her and having decided on a course of action, Annabelle was not one to be deflected.
She would write directly to Douglas Crawley to advise him of her recent information. That would at least give him an opportunity to withdraw his application, to explain himself, or be exposed for the fraud he undoubtedly was. There was always the delicious possibility that the shame of it all would cause both him and his wife to leave the village. With her day suddenly full of interesting tasks and possibilities, Annabelle actually rubbed her hands together in glee as she hurried in-doors.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, not that Annabelle’s intentions that day could by any stretch of the imagination be regarded as “good”, and as those apparently trivial little dramas were unfolding in the Scottish Borders – dramas which would eventually have such far-reaching and tragic consequences for so many people – Ralph Kingdom was enjoying the first day of his autumn motoring holiday. He and Sara Bakewell, his close companion for the last year, were in Andalusia, in the South of Spain. It had been a traumatic summer for both of them and following his promotion to Chief Inspector in the Lothian and Borders Police Force, Sara had suggested that they should take themselves off for a few weeks to unwind and to see the glories of Southern Spain.
Having flown into Malaga the previous day, they were now sitting together in the shaded courtyard of a delightful little hotel they had discovered the evening before in the ancient town of Antequera, sixty miles north of Malaga. Their rented Vauxhall Corsa was safely parked in the hotel’s private car park and they were enjoying a leisurely breakfast.
Already the temperature in the bustling little town outside, with its narrow streets and open-air market, was climbing but they were tranquil, cool and comfortable in the hotel’s central, tiled courtyard. Around their heads mimosa and jasmine hung from the surrounding balcony. The plants had been watered earlier that morning to encourage them to give off their wonderfully heady perfumes. The change from their lives in Scotland was so complete that Kingdom and Sara were already at peace with the world. Sara smiled at her companion as she watched him pile apricot jam onto yet another freshly baked roll.
It was their intention to make the hotel their base for the next couple of days during which time they would visit some of the wonderful natural sights surrounding the small town, sights like El Torcal and the Chorro Gorge, before moving on to Granada to visit the Alhambra Palace and the Generalife Gardens.
Having immediately warmed to the couple and wanting them to feel completely at home, Senor Mendez, the hotel’s proprietor had gone out specially that morning to purchase a copy of The Times newspaper for his guests. Although he wanted to put the problems of the United Kingdom behind him, even if only for a short while, Kingdom felt obliged to show his appreciation of Senor Mendez’s gesture and, after breakfast he picked up the newspaper and scanned the headlines.
‘I see the Bristol Five have finally been released,’ he remarked to Sara as she poured then both a second cup of the wonderfully aromatic, dark coffee Senora Mendez had earlier brought to their table. ‘Apparently it’s yet another case of unsound evidence being used in the conviction. It says here they can expect to receive substantial compensation for the two years they’ve been inside.’ Sounding bitter, he added, ‘Even The Times report says that innocent men were wrongly imprisoned. But that’s not the case at all and I don’t believe that’s what the Appeal Judge actually said. I happen to know the detectives who investigated that case and I followed it closely at the time. Those men were as guilty as sin, believe me. What happened was that some, not all of it mind you, but just some of the evidence against the five was tainted in some way. Once that doubt was planted, all they needed was a clever lawyer who was more interested in getting a big fat fee and a reputation for himself than he was in serving the cause of justice and bingo, the result is what we read today in the newspaper. Is it any wonder that some of my colleagues sometimes get over-zealous when trying to obtain what they hope will be a watertight conviction? Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, this ruling is just another body-blow against society.’
‘Don’t upset yourself, Ralph,’ Sara replied. She could see he was angry and did her best to calm him down. ‘There’s nothing either you or I can do about it so let’s just forget it. Remember, we’re here to relax.’
Kingdom was not to be so easily placated and continuing to sound bitter, replied, ‘I can assure you, not being able to do anything about it doesn’t make it any the easier to accept. And, in case, and even if you aren’t aware of it, Sara, this ruling isn’t the end of this little matter.’
‘What do you mean?’
Kingdom smiled mirthlessly. ‘At the very least the police officers who presented the evidence that’s been criticised will all be given serious reprimands, and some of them might even be kicked out of the force, possibly even losing their pensions. It’s just not right.’
Breathing deeply with suppressed frustration, but not really taking it in any more, Kingdom continued scanning the newspaper for a further ten minutes while he recovered his composure and tried to digest his breakfast. Finally calm and feeling by then that he had done his duty by Senor Mendez, Kingdom finally laid the paper to one side and he and Sara prepared for their first real day in Andalusia.

Annabelle Ferguson’s body was discovered in her Borders home two days after Kingdom read that report about the Bristol Five. It was a Saturday, and at the moment of discovery Kingdom and Sara were gazing up in fascinated awe at a young couple who, fifty feet or more above them, and with more foolhardiness than common-sense, were daring to traverse the rickety, dilapidated, and in some parts non-existent wooden catwalk that hung around the sheer side of the Chorro Gorge. They were making their dangerous way to a short but solid-looking bridge that spanned the gorge. Happily, the young couple survived to be foolish on yet another day but there would be no more days for Annabelle. She was quite dead, having been stabbed through the heart. Her friend, Dotty Partridge, found her.
When Annabelle failed to arrive for their luncheon together, Dotty had telephoned her friend on and off for the next hour and had eventually dined alone. After lunch she had cycled around to see if Annabelle was all right. She found the front door unlocked and receiving no reply to her repeated knocks she went in calling out her friend’s name as she did so. She eventually found Annabelle on the floor in the sitting room where she was lying in a crumpled heap in a pool of her own blood on a rug in front of the hearth.
Dotty, with a composure which surprised her when she recalled it later, remembered not to disturb anything and quite calmly left the house. She then climbed onto her bicycle to cycle the short distance back along the lane to the neighbouring house, the one owned by Tina and Philip Galbraith. Philip was working in his front garden behind his tall hedge when Dotty had cycled into his driveway. Calmly she explained to him what she had found and together they went into his house to telephone the police.
‘Tina’s upstairs taking a bath,’ Philip told Dotty. ‘I won’t disturb her now as there’s nothing any of us can do for poor old Annabelle but I know she’ll be dreadfully upset when she hears the news. Sit down while we wait for the police, won’t you. I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea.’
It was only when Dotty started to drink her tea that she realized just how badly she was affected by her discovery. Her hand shook so badly, she could barely bring the cup to her lips.

Detective Chief Inspector Joe Samuelson was only three years away from retirement when he was ordered to investigate the circumstances of Annabelle Ferguson’s death. He was a grey-haired, quietly spoken, solidly competent police officer to whom promotions had come slowly and rarely during his long and not particularly illustrious police career. This should not be construed as a criticism of Joe Samuelson’s abilities, however. He could conduct an investigation as well as any other police officer. Unfortunately, Joe Samuelson was an unlucky detective. He was not at all in the mould of those generals Napoleon Bonaparte preferred to surround himself. Indeed, it was typical of Joe’s bad luck that only once had he ever been involved in a really high-profile police investigation. On that occasion, having completed all the hard, preliminary investigatory work, and just when he was on the point of making his major breakthrough, and a name for himself, he had been struck down with a serious bout of ‘flu’. Before he could return to duty, Joe’s case and his breakthrough had been handed over to another, more junior, officer and that junior officer was now a Chief Superintendent.
These days, Joe Samuelson was only given the low profile, open-and-shut cases or those supremely difficult investigations that everyone knew would never be resolved. So, when someone was needed to investigate the death of an unknown, elderly, woman, living by herself in a large house in the Borders, apparently killed by a burglar she had disturbed, Joe Samuelson was the obvious candidate.
Joe and Detective Sergeant Willie Black arrived in the little village of Ancrum two hours after the discovery of Annabelle’s body. A few miles south of Newtown St Boswells, Ancrum is just off the A68. Another four miles further down the road is Jedburgh. Using directions previously radioed to them, they went directly to Teviot View, the late Annabelle Ferguson’s home. When they arrived, an ambulance and three unmarked cars, including Annabelle’s Volkswagen, were already parked in Teviot View’s spacious drive. A uniformed police officer with the lights on his marked car flashing, stood on duty at the end of the lane to deter the curious.
Teviot View was a large, imposing house with a short flight of steps leading up to a pair of very solid-looking oak doors. These were hanging wide open and immediately beyond them was a small, tiled porch leading to a stained-glass inner door. This door was also open showing a spacious lower hall and a wide staircase to one side. Directly across the hall was the sitting room with views to the rear of the property. Joe could see the incident team already gathered there. Closely followed by Willie Black, he went directly in to have his first view of the scene of the crime. Though they had not finished, the incident team stepped back deferentially to give the Chief Inspector and his assistant an unencumbered view of the body and its immediate surroundings.
Annabelle, with her serviceable skirt pulled up in an undignified manner to reveal her knickers and the backs of a pair of spindly legs, which were encased in thick brown stockings, had assumed a foetal position in death. A low upturned table and a broken lamp lay next to her and a large, ruddy-brown stain, of what had once been her life’s blood, spread out from her body. On another, larger table sat a teapot, a jug of milk, a sugar bowl and two cups and saucers. There were dark stains of dried-up tea at the bottom of each cup. These seemed strangely at odds with the violent deed that later happened in the room. Joe noted the lipstick stain on the rim of one of the cups and went across to examine Annabelle more closely. He could see immediately that she wore no lipstick. There was no sign of the murder weapon.
Samuelson’s examination of the crime scene was efficient and professional and he soon had taken in all he needed. While the incident team continued with their work of finding anything the murderer might have brought to the room, he and DS Black went in search of Mrs Partridge who was waiting for them in the day-room. By that time, a delayed reaction to the death of her friend had set in and WPC Kate McLeish from the Jedburgh unit was comforting her. Joe introduced himself to Dotty and nodded to WPC McLeish who stood to one side while the Chief Inspector and his Sergeant sat down opposite the still tearful woman.
‘I realize this must have been a dreadful shock for you Mrs Partridge, but I need to ask you a few questions.’
‘I understand, and don’t mind me; I’m just being silly. This is a dreadful thing to have happened and I’ll help in any way I can,’ Dotty bravely sobbed.
Samuelson smiled sympathetically, but he still had a job to do.
‘I believe you discovered the body, Mrs Partridge.’
Dotty nodded.
‘Can you tell me, what made you visit Miss Ferguson today?’
Dotty explained about the luncheon appointment which Annabelle had failed to keep and her subsequent attempts to contact her friend by telephone.
‘Eventually I became worried that something might have happened to her, living alone as she did in this great, big house, so I decided to cycle over to see if she was all right.’
‘Was the front door open when you arrived?’
‘It was closed but it wasn’t locked. Annabelle never locked it during the day. I always warned her about it. “You’re too trusting,” I’d say to her. “Some day a thief, or worse, will take it into his head to come in and rob you.” But she took no notice of me. Head-strong she was – head-strong and stubborn.’
Dotty sniffed into her handkerchief at the realization that she would never again see her headstrong, stubborn friend.
‘So you believe someone killed Miss Ferguson while he was robbing her, do you?’ Samuelson liked to get those closest to the action to speculate about what might have happened. In his experience, they usually finished closest to the truth.
‘What else could it have been? Annabelle didn’t have an enemy in the world. She was such a loving and caring person. She’d do anything for you if you needed her help.’
It is a common fault when speaking of the recently deceased, especially those who die suddenly and unexpectedly, to emphasise the best aspects of the dead person’s character and to minimise the less flattering aspects. So it was not surprising that Dotty should paint her friend as such a paragon. Somewhat more surprising was the remark she made as she continued the character analysis of her friend. ‘Mind you, she could be a bit tight with her money. But then, she had to consider her old age and times are so uncertain for the elderly nowadays.’ Again Dotty sniffed. At least Annabelle would no longer need to concern herself with plans for the financing of her old age. Her allotted span had run its course.
‘Would you happen to know who Miss Ferguson’s next of kin might be, Miss Partridge?’ Willie Black enquired.
‘She has a married niece called Christine Collier who lives in Edinburgh. I think she is Annabelle’s only living relative. Leastways I can’t ever recall her speaking about anyone else.’
While Willie Black took down the details of Christine Collier’s full name and address, Samuelson let his eyes wander over the furnishings in the room. Clearly Annabelle had been wealthy. Quality and taste were much in evidence. While Willie Black went off to try to make contact with Christine Collier, Samuelson continued where he had left off.
‘If you are up to it, it would help us a lot if you could assist us in identifying what, if anything, is missing from the house.’
Dotty knew the lower, public part of the house well and was soon able to confirm that, much to her surprise, nothing appeared to have been stolen. She knew little about Annabelle’s jewellery nor where it was kept and as the walk through those parts of the house, at once so familiar to her but now made strange by the absence of the owner, began to take its toll on the elderly lady, she once more dissolved into tears. At this point Samuelson finally took pity on her and asked WPC McLeish to take her home.
In any case, by that time Samuelson was by no means convinced that a common thief had entered Annabelle’s home. Other than the murder scene itself, the rest of the house was not in any of the disarray he normally associated with the visit of an opportunistic thief. He reasoned that if robbery had indeed been the motive, it must have been robbery for some quite specific object or objects, the location of which was already known to the thief. Samuelson was also anxious to discover the identity of the person who appeared to have taken a cup of tea with the murder victim sometime earlier in the day.

DS Black quickly and efficiently accomplished the task he had set himself and discovered that Christine Collier and her husband, Robert, lived in a small semi-detached house in Drumblair Grove, a small, new development in a district called Corstorphine, to the west of Edinburgh’s city centre. A local police constable, PC Basil ‘Baz’ Morris, was sent around to the address but received no reply to his repeated knocking. His persistence did, however, raise a couple of neighbours of the Colliers who told him that the pair had both gone out, separately, earlier in the day.
‘Robert told me last night that he and Chris intended going out walking today,’ Peter Lawrence who lived in the nearer of the next pair of semi’s volunteered. But neither he nor Trevor McAulay, who lived opposite, knew where Christine had gone, though both were emphatic that, wherever it was, it was not with her husband. So, pushing a note through the Collier’s letterbox, PC Morris returned empty-handed.
This progress, or perhaps more correctly, lack of progress, was relayed back to DS Black who, in turn, relayed the information on to his boss. The Chief Inspector had, by that time, gone off to visit Philip and Tina Galbraith. In fact, when Willie once again caught up with Samuelson, his boss was sitting in the Galbraith’s day room drinking a cup of coffee which Tina had brought to him a few minutes earlier. Tina and Philip were sitting together opposite Samuelson on a white leather sofa with gleaming, chrome legs. Both were sipping large brandies – to calm their nerves. Samuelson had earlier refused a brandy himself but had been prepared to accept a coffee.
The Galbraith’s home was similar in basic structure to that of Annabelle Ferguson’s, but there the similarities ended. Where Annabelle’s home was firmly fixed in the earlier part of the twentieth century, the Galbraiths’ home was ultra-modern. Everything was new, fashionable and expensive; but, given a choice, Joe would have preferred to live in Annabelle’s heavy, solid, but somehow, reassuringly comfortable home. By comparison, whoever had furnished the Galbraiths’ home appeared to have done so with the primary motive of impressing friends and neighbours. In Samuelson’s considered opinion, it had all been done at the expense of comfort and a feel for the age of the property.
Samuelson regarded the pair with the wise eye of experience while his younger and much more impressionable colleague was quite bowled over by the bronzed glamour of Tina who wore a starkly white dress the better to show off her tan.
‘I was really very surprised when Mrs Partridge told me what she’d found, Chief Inspector. I’d even go so far as to say that I was somewhat sceptical at first,’ Philip began delicately.
‘To be quite honest, my first thought was that she’d either dreamed the whole thing up or else she’d been at the bottle, again. She enjoys the occasional tipple, I’m told,’ he added as an aside. ‘She seemed so calm and controlled it was difficult to believe she’d just found her best friend murdered. But naturally, as soon as I realized she was absolutely correct, I brought her in here and called you lot. Poor little Tina was taking a bath at the time but she was devastated by the news when she heard it, weren’t you, sweetheart?’
“Sweetheart” tried to register shock, deep concern and feminine frailty, all in one look. Willie Black was suitably convinced.
Addressing himself to Philip, Joe asked, ‘As her nearest neighbour, can you tell me anything about Miss Ferguson, Mr Galbraith?’
‘What sort of thing do you want to know?’ the latter cautiously asked.
Samuelson noted the caution. ‘Well, for example, did she have many visitors; was she well-liked; did she ever talk about any of the valuables she might have kept in her house; you know, anything which might assist us to identify a motive for her death.’
‘I wouldn’t have said she was over-burdened with visitors, Chief Inspector, but I always got on quite well with her,’ Philip answered. Samuelson didn’t fail to notice Galbraith’s use of the first person singular. ‘Of course, we only moved in about a year ago so it isn’t as if we knew her terribly well. I must say she never gave me the impression that she spoke much about money or her valuables. In fact, though she spoke about many things, I can honestly say I never heard her speak once about money except occasionally to complain about the price of everything, but then, everyone does that.’
Samuelson noticed the way Tina’s eyebrows raised just a fraction when her husband mentioned the extent of Annabelle’s conversational interests but he simply filed away the observation for possible future use. He also noticed that when it was Tina’s turn to add a few remarks of her own about her dead neighbour, she was even more restrained in her fulsomeness. However, neither she nor her husband criticised Annabelle in any significant way. Indeed, it was only when Willie Black later interviewed some of the other residents in Ancrum that it became clear that Annabelle had been something of a one-woman vigilante with a nose for any ‘irregularities’ in the lives of others.
‘It’s a pity she’s the one who’s been murdered,’ Black grumbled to Samuelson. ‘With her busybody ways, she might have been of some help to us. Just our luck she was the victim.’
Nor did it take the press long to become aware of the murder, and Detective Chief Inspector Samuelson soon found his steps dogged by Paddy O’Neil of the Scotsman who kept demanding updates on all the grisly details. Indeed, it was Paddy’s report, picked up later by the other major nationals that, some days later, Sara Bakewell noticed and pointed out to Kingdom as they sat eating croissants and drinking coffee in Cordoba.
‘So, it looks like they’ve landed Joe with yet another dead-end case,’ was Kingdom’s first thought as he tried, but failed, to put from his mind the problems of policing the Lothian and Borders Regions of Scotland.