‘I’d like to speak to the practice manager, please,’ Anna said.

  ‘Mr Davies doesn’t work on a Saturday,’ the laconic receptionist replied.

  ‘A senior partner, then, please?’

  ‘What is it regarding?’ There was a sneer in the receptionist’s question.

  ‘Police business,’ Anna said coldly. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Anna Vaughan, and I am investigating a murder.’

  A haughty silence, then a chilly, ‘Transferring you to Dr Parker now.’

  ‘Dr Lawrie Parker speaking,’ a smooth voice intoned.

  Anna introduced herself. ‘I need to know if a woman called Ellen McIver, resident in Knapdale in Argyll, contacted you or one of your colleagues recently, and if so, what she said.’

  ‘Ellen who?’

  ‘McIver.’ She spelt it.

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. May I ask for more information?’

  ‘I’m investigating her murder. She made a number of phone calls in the weeks before she died, including to your surgery.’

  ‘I see.’ He sounded alarmed and no longer at all smooth. ‘Let me contact my colleagues. We have a WhatsApp group. If anyone’s spoken to her, I’ll ask them to contact you. Give me your number, would you?’

  Next, she rang one of the two care homes.

  ‘I’m the manager of The Firs,’ a pleasant, robust woman said when Anna enquired. ‘My name is Mary Shine. How may I help you?’

  Shine… Ellen had told Lola she was contacting relatives of people who’d been murdered and had mentioned a woman called Shein or Shiner.

  Anna explained why she was calling.

  There was a silence, then a breathy, ‘Oh dear. Oh dear me.’

  ‘Did you speak to Ellen McIver, Ms Shine?’ Anna asked.

  ‘I did indeed. In person too. She turned up here last week, eager to speak to me. And she’s been murdered, you say? How awful!’ Another shocked pause. ‘So she was telling the truth, then…’

  ‘The truth about what?’ Anna asked.

  ‘It seemed so far-fetched at the time… She said she believed one or more of our residents…’ She paused and cleared her throat. ‘Forgive me, but this is awful to contemplate. Oh gosh, and there was me thinking she was just a mad person… She said one or more of our residents might have been murdered, though none of us would ever have suspected… because the killer was the last person we’d suspect. A medical one, at that.’

  It was as if a chill had entered the meeting room at the village hall.

  ‘Did she say who the person was?’ Anna asked.

  ‘No! She wouldn’t. She just went all coy. That’s the reason I decided she wasn’t telling the truth.’

  ‘Was it an employee she was referring to?’

  ‘No. Not an employee. One of our visiting clinicians,’ Ms Shine said. ‘Of course, we have so many of them visiting here. She could have meant any one of them.’

  ‘I’m going to say a name to you,’ Anna said. ‘Just tell me if you recognise it.’

  ‘Go on,’ Ms Shine said, her voice shaky now.

  Anna said the name.

  ‘Yes,’ Mary Shine said. ‘Yes. Oh, but surely you can’t think…’

  Off the call, Anna sat back, seeing everything, and all at once. Seeing what Ellen had found in the outhouse, what she’d been carrying when she was run down. Understanding, too, at least one of the three lines of code written in Ellen’s notebook, and understanding that the dates were written in a different format than she’d assumed.

  1/2 C. K.L.

  Not the 1st of February, as she’d thought, but January the 2nd. Then a place: C for Cairnbaan. Then the person’s initials: K.L., for Kathleen Lennon.

  Nick’s late aunt.

  23

  Jo came into the meeting room with a question about the crime scene, but Anna didn’t want to speak to her – not yet.

  ‘I have to go out,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be too long.’

  If Jo heard anything in her tone or read anything in her expression, then she didn’t show it.

  Anna went to her car and drove. She knew the way, having seen the sign at the end of the little lane, wooden and discreet, pointing to Baldrishaig House.

  As she entered the driveway her phone began to ring. She stopped the car and took it out. It was an East Kilbride number.

  ‘Inspector Vaughan?’ A voice said. ‘It’s Lawrie Parker here, West Park Medical Centre.’

  ‘Hello, Doctor.’

  ‘Look, I sent a message to the WhatsApp group, like I said. Our practice manager, Sue Tobin, did speak to an Ellen McIver on the phone at the start of last week. She wanted to come to the surgery, but Sue put her off. Sue said she sounded quite unhinged. All to do with a police inquiry here a few years ago. I’m sure you know all about that. Nothing was ever proved. A lot of trouble for a lot of people, over next to no evidence, I’m relieved to say. People do bring it up from time to time – sort of hold it over us. But it wasn’t just this surgery, there were others. A couple of care homes too. Sue’s happy to talk to you, if it would help.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. It would.’

  ‘I’ll text you Sue’s number. She’s happy to talk at any time.’

  They ended the call and Anna continued up the long, curving driveway to Baldrishaig House.

  It was a grand place, a white-fronted stone villa surrounded by old trees and fronted by a beautifully tended circular lawn complete with sundial.

  Dr MacCorkindale had seen her coming and stood at his open door at the top of a flight of stone steps, wearing tweed and a strained smile.

  ‘Detective Inspector Vaughan,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ Anna said, hurrying to the steps. ‘Can we go inside?’

  ‘Of course.’ He peered along the driveway. ‘On your own, for once?’

  ‘For once,’ she said.

  He stood back to let her into the hallway then closed the door.

  ‘In here, I think,’ he said and waved to an open doorway leading to a large living room with settees and palms standing about in pots. ‘Sit anywhere.’

  Anna chose a comfy-looking old chair and sat. The doctor sat too. He smiled expectantly.

  ‘Ellen,’ Anna said and the smile hardened somewhat. ‘She came to see you. She asked you about certain patients of yours.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  A framed portrait on the mantelpiece caught her eye. It showed a slightly younger MacCorkindale and a woman with greying hair and a sad smile.

  ‘And, as I told you,’ the doctor said, ‘I cannot reveal those names.’

  ‘Was one of them Kathleen Lennon of Cairnbaan?’

  He tried not to show it, but she’d broken through. ‘I do not recall,’ he said. ‘However, Cairnbaan is far north of my catchment.’

  ‘She wasn’t your patient.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you do know the name?’

  He eyed her for a moment, then blinked and looked away. ‘I may have heard it recently,’ he said.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What about Angus McCrae?’

  ‘Of Inverneil?’

  Inverneil… the letter I.

  ‘I’m not sure where he lived,’ she said, her heart racing. ‘Might you have heard that name recently, too?’

  This time he pursed his lips, ever so slightly, telling her without telling her.

  ‘He was your patient, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did he die? Was it on the 5th of July?’

  MacCorkindale frowned. ‘Quite possibly,’ he said after a moment’s thought.

  ‘And how did he die, Doctor? Please tell me.’

  The doctor gave her an ironic look. ‘In his armchair in front of his fire,’ he said. ‘Peacefully, as I would hope to die myself. He was elderly and very frail.’

  ‘Did you sign the death certificate?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Without any compunction?’

  ‘None at all. Except now I’m wondering.’

  ‘Only now? Not when Ellen McIver told you she believed he’d been murdered?’

  ‘No.’ He looked at his hands. ‘No, not then. You see, I didn’t believe her.’

  ‘Did she tell you who was responsible?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she tell you how she thought it had been done?’

  ‘“Cleverly”, she said. She didn’t exactly know how, but she suggested McCrae be exhumed. At which point, I’m afraid, I asked her to leave.’

  They watched one another.

  ‘She was telling the truth, wasn’t she?’ he asked.

  ‘What she believed to be the truth, yes,’ Anna said. ‘I don’t think I’d want to go further than that – not at this stage.’

  ‘And that’s why she was killed like that, run over and left in bits on the road?’

  ‘I think so, yes. Which does indicate she was on to something, or someone. We know she was carrying a package of some kind, wrapped in a tote bag, when she was killed, but that it was taken. But there were shards of glass under her body. My forensics colleagues tell me the glass is from medical vials that contained adrenaline.’

  Dr MacCorkindale closed his eyes. He lifted his hands and covered his face. He sat like that for a full minute before taking his hands away.

  ‘This is terrible,’ he said. ‘But I shall help you all I can.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Anna said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  She got up to go.

  ‘One thing before you leave,’ MacCorkindale said. ‘All the people have been buried, and I doubt any trace of adrenaline would be found. That, plus the inevitable deep distress it would cause… I would suggest exhumation only as the very last resort.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Anna said, seeing his point entirely. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  She made for the door, already steeling herself for what would surely be the most difficult conversation of her career. But first, she had one more phone call to make.

  She chose the telephone number at random from the several on Ellen’s scraps of paper, one of the ones with N.O.K. beside it.

  The phone rang several times before a woman answered in a gruff smoker’s voice. ‘Grace speaking.’

  ‘Hello there. This is Detective Inspector Vaughan of Police Scotland.’

  ‘Police? Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘It’s nothing urgent,’ Anna said soothingly.

  ‘Oh? Well, that’s good, then.’ She sounded wary too.

  ‘Grace – may I know your surname too?’

  ‘Phillips,’ she said.

  ‘I’m calling in relation to an investigation into a serious incident in Argyll.’

  ‘Argyll? That’s nowhere near me, hen.’ She sounded relieved.

  ‘I didn’t think it was,’ Anna said, putting a smile into her voice. ‘You’re Glasgow, are you?’

  ‘That’s right. Well, East Renfrewshire to be exact. I’m in Clarkston. What’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘I’m wondering if you’ve been contacted by a woman called Ellen McIver recently?’

  She heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘Might have been,’ came the reply.

  ‘When did she contact you, Grace?’

  ‘A week ago. Aye, that’s right. A week ago today, in fact.’

  It took every bit of Anna’s focus to remain sounding calm. ‘Can I ask what she wanted?’

  There was a long silence. Anna could hear Grace breathing heavily.

  ‘Was it about something quite sensitive?’ she prompted gently.

  ‘You could say that, aye. Look, I don’t know if I want to⁠—’

  ‘Grace, I need your help here.’ Anna cut in. ‘You see… the woman who called you was killed two days ago. She was murdered.’

  ‘What?’ She swallowed, then added in a smaller voice, ‘Murdered by who?’

  ‘We don’t know. We don’t know why, either. But we know she was phoning a number of people. I need to understand. Now, please, Grace, can you tell me what she asked you?’

  ‘Aye,’ came the quiet, grudging reply. ‘Aye, okay.’ She gave a long sigh. ‘It was about my dad, and that police business before.’

  ‘What police business, Grace?’

  ‘In 2018. When we lost Dad. A woman got in touch a few months after he died, saying she thought her old mum had been murdered. Given an injection of something by her doctor or by a nurse, maybe. She was contacting people who’d lost relatives, in case it had happened to them too. I was shocked. Still grieving, you know? But I talked to her. And the stuff she was saying, some of it made sense.’

  ‘Who was this, Grace? Do you remember her name?’

  ‘Brenda Deegan,’ Grace said. ‘I had her number somewhere. I could probably find it. I went to a meeting she organised in Clarkston – in a function room of a pub. There were maybe ten or twelve of us there. Everyone had lost an older relative in the past two or three years, patients of one of two surgeries, or even in a couple of care homes, here and in East Kilbride. Brenda wanted to get evidence together and take it to the police. She had a lawyer ready to help us and everything. But…’

  ‘But what, Grace?’

  ‘But the more people talked, the more I heard, the more I thought, no, this is nonsense. This is just grief-stricken people looking for someone to blame. I said so, but Brenda didn’t like that. So I left.’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘Well, Brenda kept going, didn’t she? I told her to stop phoning me and she did, but she kept it up. More meetings, with local councillors and even a local newspaper going along. This lawyer of hers too. Then the local MSP started making a fuss. I was glad to be out of it. I didn’t want my dad’s name mixed up in something like that. The police did look into it. Took statements, interviewed doctors, practice managers, managers at the care homes. But they dropped it, like I knew they would. I was glad, to tell you the truth. I felt bad for the people Brenda had strung along, but glad I wasn’t among them. And then, out of the blue, this Ellen rang me.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘To ask who’d been present when dad died. Who was with him? I said, “Not this again.” “Your father was murdered,” she told me – in those very words. “Bog off, love,” I told her. And I hung up. I don’t know how she got my number. I never asked her. Off Brenda, maybe.’

  ‘Grace,’ Anna said, slowly, gently, ‘I have to ask you something now. I absolutely don’t want to cause you any pain, but it’s imperative that I know.’

  A pause, then: ‘Ask.’

  ‘Who was there when your dad died?’

  ‘I was. Only me. Here, in my bungalow, in the back bedroom.’

  ‘Had anyone else been there that day?’

  Another, longer pause, during which Anna could hear the other woman breathing hard. ‘Yes. But I don’t want to believe it. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Who was there, Grace?’

  A sigh that was more of a groan. ‘Our lovely community nurse, that’s who. She was so good with dad and kind to me. I won’t have a word said against her.’

  Anna closed her eyes, praying she was right. ‘What was her name, Grace?’

  She heard a deep, deep breath, then Grace said angrily, ‘Carol Baillie. But she did nothing wrong. Sister Baillie was a pure angel!’

  24

  ‘The code in Ellen’s notebook,’ Anna said to Jo when it was just the two of them in the little meeting room. She spoke calmly, steadily, wanting Jo to hear and understand her every word. ‘I believe it refers to elderly people who were poisoned, possibly with adrenaline, administered by injection. These people were old and frail, and they saw their GP regularly. None of them would have warranted a post-mortem. Their deaths would be put down to heart failure, to old age.’

  ‘But…’ Jo began, perhaps already seeing but not wanting to.

  ‘Here, look,’ Anna said, pointing at the top line. ‘Nick’s auntie died on the second of January last year. She lived in Cairnbaan and her initials were K.L. Now, look at the last code. I believe that’s for Angus McCrae, who died on the 5th of July last year – in Inverneil.’

  ‘No,’ Jo whispered. ‘That’s… horrible.’

  ‘Now look at the middle code,’ Anna said, every muscle tense. She peered hard into Jo’s eyes.

  Jo’s eyes were on the middle line of the code:

  3/6 T. B.B.

  ‘Jo, I’m so sorry to ask this,’ Anna said. ‘What were your granny’s initials?’

  ‘Oh God,’ Jo cried, then stemmed it, both hands clamped to her mouth. Her eyes were huge.

  ‘You told me her first name was Bessie, and she lived in Torinturk. What was her surname?’

  For several seconds Jo couldn’t speak. Anna waited.

  ‘Baker,’ Jo whispered at last. ‘Granny’s name was Bessie Baker. But that says the 3rd of June, so⁠—’

  ‘No,’ Anna said gently but firmly. ‘It says the 6th of March. Ellen wrote the dates that way round – we can see that from the remnants of the notes she made in the library. What date did your granny die?’

  She knew the answer from the horror and misery in Jo’s eyes.

  ‘Jo, I am so sorry,’ she said, and reached for one of the constable’s hands.

  Jo let her take it and Anna squeezed it hard.

  ‘Remember,’ she said, ‘this is only what Ellen believed. It does not mean she was right.’

  ‘But it does, doesn’t it?’ Jo said. ‘Of course it does. Why else would Ellen be killed like that?’

  Anna couldn’t counter that.

  ‘Who, then?’ Jo whispered. ‘Did Ellen know?’

  ‘I think she did,’ Anna said. ‘Those books she borrowed about medical people who killed… She told her niece she knew who’d done it and talked about a “boatman”. I thought she must mean Scott McKellar, but now I wonder if Beth misheard – that she actually said “Shipman”.’

  ‘Who?’ Jo demanded tearfully. ‘Not the doctor? Not Dr MacCorkindale…’