Enquiries are ongoing to establish full circumstances. Lead investigator Detective Inspector Anna Vaughan has appealed for anyone with information about this incident to come forward.

  Contact Police Scotland on 101 quoting reference 41324A.

  ‘That’s good,’ Anna said. She handed the phone back to Jo.

  ‘I spoke to my colleague in Lochgilphead just now, too,’ Jo said. ‘She’s going to contact people and organise to take fingerprints. She’s offered to help with anything else we might need.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  Anna’s eye was caught by a woman standing over the road, outside the pub, looking over at the car anxiously. She hadn’t been there two minutes ago. She was mid-thirties at a guess with springy black curly hair, and wore black dungarees over a yellow and black stripy top.

  ‘Do you know her?’ Anna asked.

  ‘One of the locals,’ Jo said. ‘I don’t know her name. Husband and two young girls, I think.’

  ‘She wants to talk to us,’ Anna said. She got out and crossed the road, Jo on her heel.

  ‘Hi there. Did you want to talk to us?’

  ‘Hi,’ came the nervous response. It was accompanied by a weak smile. ‘You’re the detectives, aren’t you?’ she asked, looking from Anna to Jo.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m Rosie. Rosie Blake.’ She was English and softly spoken. ‘I live in one of the cottages down the lane there and, erm… I wondered if I could have a word.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Bill Robertson had just emerged from the pub and was making his way to his car, an old Ford Estate. A skinny blonde teenager sloped after him, head bent over her phone. The Robertsons’ daughter Ivy, no doubt.

  ‘Come into the village hall for a chat,’ Anna said to Rosie, and smiled to reassure her.

  They took her through the empty cafe and into the meeting room.

  ‘Okay, Ms Blake,’ Anna said. ‘What did you want to tell us?’

  ‘Call me Rosie,’ the woman said, and looked nervously from Anna to Jo. ‘It’s just… I saw her yesterday afternoon, that’s all,’ she said at last. ‘I saw Ellen. And… well, judging by what I’ve heard, it can’t have been very long before she was killed. I thought it might be useful, you know, what with timings and all that.’

  ‘Tell us,’ Anna said.

  ‘I’d been up to Kilberry on my bike,’ she said. ‘I do that sometimes to clear my head. I’d had a tricky counselling session with a couple in the morning – that’s what I do, online counselling. Things got very heated and one of them sent me an unpleasant email afterwards, accusing me of taking sides. So I went out for a ride. I was on my way back, just coming into the village, when I saw Ellen at the top of Back Lane. You know, the lane that goes down the side of her house to the shore, down to Slipway Cottage.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About two-fifty-five,’ Rosie said, clearly already having thought about it. ‘I know because I got home on the dot of three.’

  ‘Was she on her own?’

  ‘No,’ Rosie said decisively. ‘She wasn’t. Leo Maxwell was there too, with his Labrador. Ellen was yelling at him. Leo was all defensive and yelling back. I slowed down as I passed, partly because I didn’t want the dog jumping up at me, and partly out of interest, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Did you hear what they were saying?’

  ‘I heard Ellen shout something about Leo being “irresponsible”. A “lout”, or something like that. He swore at her. Told her to “eff off”. Then he came marching across the road. We nearly collided. I slammed my brakes on and he got a fright. The dog went running off. He apologised to me. Ellen shouted across the road, telling me he was a stupid boy. Then she shook her head and started off down Back Lane.

  ‘I asked Leo if he was all right. He looked really shaken, poor boy. Winded. “She’s an old cow,” he said to me. I didn’t say anything in response to that, just went on my way.’

  Anna nodded, digesting the information.

  ‘When did you hear Ellen had been killed?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Well, I haven’t heard anything, not officially. It’s just what people are saying. It’s true, then?’

  ‘When did you hear?’ Anna pressed on.

  ‘Yesterday evening,’ Rosie said, but quietly, as if she knew what was coming. ‘Around sixish, I think.’

  ‘Who else have you told about seeing Ellen?’

  Rosie swallowed, anxious again now. ‘Olly, my husband,’ she said in a whisper. ‘No one else.’

  ‘Why have you waited until now to tell us this?’

  The woman’s shoulders sagged and she dropped her gaze to study her hands. ‘I was worried,’ she said. ‘I… I knew Leo had had trouble with Ellen. I mean, Ellen’s caused trouble for lots of people. Following them about, writing things down in that book. I like Leo’s mum Harriet a lot. She’s had a terrible time, before her husband left and after. I didn’t want to cause any more trouble for her. But then… well, Olly made me see it was no good. He was worried we’d be in trouble for withholding information. He said I should come and tell you what I saw.’ She peered up at Anna, genuine regret in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But anyway, now you know.’

  Anna nodded, accepting it at face value.

  ‘Rosie, you mentioned a book,’ she asked now. ‘You said Ellen wrote everything down in a book. What kind of book?’

  ‘A black thing. Ask anyone. She carried it about in her bag. She used to get it out and leaf through it when she knew people were watching.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’

  Rosie thought about it. ‘Just a book. Quite small. Hard cover, shiny. Like an appointments diary, really.’

  ‘Okay, thank you.’

  No one had mentioned a black book before. There’d been nothing like that on Ellen’s body or in her house. It was a lead, and worth looking for.

  ‘Who do you think did this?’ Anna asked Rosie, genuinely curious to hear her view.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Rosie said. Then she took a deep breath and said, ‘She’s upset the wrong person, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Did she upset you, Rosie?’

  Rosie kept her gaze level. ‘Yes,’ she said after a pause. ‘She tried to. I’ve got nothing to hide and I’m sure you’d find out, anyway.’ She swallowed, screwing up her courage. ‘She reported us – me and my husband – to the social services people at the council.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was last year, during the summer holidays. The younger of our two girls, Amy – she’s seven now – she got out into the lane one morning and was sitting in that road, minding her own business, I’ve no doubt. She’s so quiet and content. Anyway, Ellen came by in that clapped-out car of hers, saw her and stopped. She talked to Amy and saw she had a bruise on her leg. Ellen took it on herself to inspect her! She pulled up her T-shirt to look at her torso, only Amy protested – Morag saw it all and told us afterwards. Then Ellen took Amy by the hand and dragged her home and banged on the door. Olly was in.’ She was getting upset now. ‘He hadn’t even realised Amy had got out. Ellen shouted at him. “Who did this?” she wanted to know. “Was it you?” Amy started crying. Olly was in shock. Thank God Morag was there, walking her and Bill’s dogs. She marched over and told Ellen to leave, she was upsetting the child and just what was she trying to achieve? Next day, social services turned up. I was in – we both were. It was horrible. Thankfully we could prove Amy had got the bruise at school, in the playground – there’s a record, an accident form one of the teachers filled in, and the headteacher called me herself to tell me. Social services were satisfied. They must have told Ellen, because she turned up next day. But was she sorry? Was she hell! “I’m going to be keeping an eye on you from now on,” she said. Olly told her to get lost, only he used stronger words than that – and he never swears, not in front of the children, anyway.’

  ‘That sounds horrible,’ Anna said.

  ‘It was. The worst thing was how fast word got round – no doubt as a result of Ellen spreading it herself. Morag was wonderful. She shut people down if they brought it up in here or in the pub.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Not long,’ she said. ‘Four years. We were in London before.’

  ‘Oh, whereabouts?’

  ‘Crouch End. Is that where you’re from?’ she asked Anna. ‘I mean, you’re English too, aren’t you?’

  Anna nodded. ‘I’ve been here three years now. My husband’s from Oban originally. We live in Glasgow.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She seemed to be waiting to hear more, but Anna didn’t speak. ‘Olly worked in TV production,’ she went on, filling the silence. ‘Then the pandemic came and he realised he wanted to be freelance, like me. Except doing TV stuff. He has drones. He films videos for people and does bits of contract work. He’s even done some work for the Kings of Dalriada production people. We’ve never been happier. The girls love it too. Dora’s eight, Amy’s seven.’

  ‘And you said you do counselling?’

  ‘Yes! All online, though the Wi-Fi can be a challenge sometimes. I have contracts with a couple of charities down south and people also book sessions with me direct. I do some work for Morag in the shop and tearoom too. Just a couple of hours on Fridays and Saturdays. I’ll be working in the tearoom this afternoon. I like it. It feels as if I’m part of the community.’ She smiled and seemed to deflate with relief. ‘I’m glad I’ve told you – about Leo, and about what Ellen did to us too. Now you know.’

  ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon between two and four, Rosie?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Where was I?’ She seemed shocked, amused too. ‘Well, like I said, I took my bike to Kilberry. I set off there about – oh, I don’t know – half twelve? I saw Ellen and Leo just before three and got home shortly after that. Olly was out with the girls. He’d left a note saying he was taking them for ice creams. I went into the garden and read but I couldn’t settle. I did some ironing.’

  ‘When did Olly get back?’

  Her eyes moved as she thought about it. ‘Gosh… I don’t know. About three-thirty, I think. I’m sure he could tell you.’ And she smiled.

  Jo checked her messages after Rosie had left.

  ‘Forensics have just left Lochgilphead,’ she said, eyes on her screen. ‘That means they’ll be here in about forty minutes or so.’

  ‘Good,’ Anna said, then fell quiet for a few moments. ‘What did you make of that?’

  ‘It puts Leo Maxwell firmly in the picture, doesn’t it?’ Jo said.

  ‘I’d say so,’ Anna agreed. ‘It helps with timings too. Just before 3 p.m., Ellen McIver had an encounter with Leo Maxwell, then walked down Back Lane towards Slipway Cottage. She might have called at Slipway Cottage, or not, but from there she crossed the dunes to the start of the beach and came through the little gate and into the lane where she was killed. But it raises a question, doesn’t it? If the purpose of her outing was to pay a visit to Slipway Cottage – to meet someone or maybe to root around in the outhouse – then why not return home the same way, by Back Lane? Is Back Lane overlooked, I wonder? I’d quite like to go there just now and take a look. We can even call in on the lovely Mr Clark and take a look at his outhouse.’

  10

  The entrance to Back Lane was just past Ellen’s cottage, almost hidden between the trees and with no sign. Even if you spotted it, you might think it was a private driveway or an old, overgrown bridlepath. Anna bumped the Volvo gingerly along it, unable to mind the potholes pitting the track. After a few metres she stopped and peered back down the way – and there it was, partly hidden by branches: the dormer window at the back of Ellen’s attic, the place where she kept her binoculars and her birding book.

  ‘She’d have had an eagle-eye view of anyone who came up and down here,’ she pointed out to Jo.

  The track improved a little once they were out of the woods and passing between fields. West Loch was a line of glittering sapphire beyond the green. There was a view out to the open sea now. Over to the west, the Paps of Jura were stark and dramatic on the horizon while Islay lay low and emerald-green further south.

  ‘There’s Glen and Tess’s farm,’ Jo said, looking left.

  Anna stopped the car and got out. The wind had strengthened. It whipped Anna’s hair and snatched at her breath. She looked over at the farmhouse and its huddle of outbuildings. The fields were flat, the hedgerows low. She realised Ellen’s house wasn’t the only place with a view of who was using Back Lane.

  She got back in the car and drove on to Slipway Cottage.

  It was a solid little house, white-painted. It stood right on the shore, overlooking the mouth of the loch where it met the open sea. The wind was even stronger here and buffeted the car. The sea was ribbed with white waves.

  Johnny Clark had seen them coming and was waiting for them, wearing a wax jacket and a flat cap. He’d clearly been busy in his garden – he was wearing gloves and had a bucket in one hand and a long pair of tongs in another.

  ‘Finally,’ he said, and put down the equipment.

  ‘Hello again, Mr Clark,’ Anna called breezily.

  ‘I was fishing rubbish off the shore,’ he said, stripping off the gloves. ‘The detritus that floats in, it’s a disgrace.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d show us your outhouse?’ Anna suggested.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said sourly. ‘This way.’

  He led the way to the eastern side of the house where there was an annex built on to the side with a blue-painted wooden door. He stopped and drew a long, old-fashioned key out of his jacket pocket. ‘Usually this sits in the lock,’ he said. ‘Do you wish me to⁠—’

  But Anna had snapped her forensic gloves on and held out a hand to take it. He raised his eyebrows but complied.

  She inserted the key into the lock and turned it. It was stiff and clunked as it turned. Then, holding the handle, she pressed the latch firmly down with her thumb and shoved the door open.

  ‘The light switch is high up on the left,’ Clark said.

  Anna reached in to press it and the cubicle was bathed in dim light.

  She looked about. It was dusty and full of cobwebs. A defunct freezer sat to one side. There were shelves on three walls and garden tools in buckets, a spade propped in a corner.

  She spotted the box of lightbulbs, the one Clark was sure had been moved. It was on a shelf to her left, at shoulder height.

  ‘You won’t find anything,’ Clark said. He stood on the threshold of the doorway and sounded almost gleeful. Anna caught Jo’s eyeroll over his shoulder.

  ‘You asked us to come and look,’ she said mildly over her shoulder.

  ‘What I mean is, nothing’s been taken, nothing’s been added – just moved about a bit!’

  She ignored him and took down the box of lightbulbs. It was full of them, some in their little boxes, some loose, some with bayonet fittings, others screw-in. She put her hand in and shifted them about, peering at the bottom of the box.

  ‘As I said,’ Clark sneered. ‘There’s nothing there…’

  She turned and said sharply, ‘So you were deliberately trying to waste our time?’

  He bridled. ‘I was attempting to be helpful! Someone has been in here and I don’t like it.’

  She made to leave, ready to shoulder him out of the way if he didn’t move – but he did, lips pursed and nose in the air.

  ‘CCTV?’ she asked him.

  ‘No. Why would there be?’

  ‘Did you know Ellen McIver?’ she asked him sharply, catching him off-guard and making him stare.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I didn’t. Why would I?’

  ‘Hers is the house at the end of the lane,’ Anna said.

  He shrugged.

  ‘Have you ever had any unpleasant incidents here?’ she asked.

  ‘Unpleasant incidents? Such as?’

  ‘Mischief, vandalism, damage to the house.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. Someone let the air out of my car’s tyres one time when I was here with my wife. Left them quite flat. I don’t know who did it or why.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘End of last year?’ He frowned as he thought about it. ‘Yes, that’s right. Julia and I were here in November. Hard to let the place at that time of year, so we decided to come for a week.’

  At least a month before Carol Baillie’s jam jars were smashed, Anna noted.

  ‘Must have been during the night,’ Clark went on. ‘I couldn’t believe it. Of course, at first you think you must have driven over glass or a nail or something, but then you realise all four are flat – and not a tear or puncture in sight! Whoever it was had screwed the little caps back on.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I pumped them back up,’ he said. ‘I have a pump in the car. It plugs in and it’s pretty weedy, though. Took me the best part of an hour to get them roadworthy, then I drove along to Tarbert and filled them to the correct values. I wasn’t very happy, but I assumed it was youths. I was relieved they hadn’t actually slashed them. Why do you ask? Has it happened to other people?’

  ‘Not that,’ Anna said. ‘But there have been a number of pranks reported, some of them quite unpleasant, in the past few months.’

  ‘What sort of pranks?’

  ‘Jars of jam being smashed, bird feeders emptied, a shed set on fire, razor blades embedded in a stile⁠—’

  ‘Razor blades? Good God. I didn’t know anything about this!’

  ‘And the cat at the pub was poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned?’ He looked genuinely shocked. ‘By whom?’

  ‘No one knows.’

  ‘But you’re asking questions about it. Is that because you think these pranks are connected to… this business?’ He glanced across the fields towards where Ellen McIver’s body still lay.

  ‘Hard to say.’