‘Maybe they did.’ Neville frowned. ‘Or possibly she knew about them? She could have been someone if not in the loop then close to it. A woman with connections to Gullane. Uncle Matt lived there and his movement would have been restricted during lockdown.’

  Mann offered her a rare smile. ‘Someone like Alex Skinner?’

  ‘That’s a leap,’ she said. ‘But . . . Uncle Matt and Bob were friends so he’d have known her for sure. And Alex . . . well, leopardesses, spots, et cetera. If Uncle Matt did sleep with her, and Bob found out,’ she laughed, ‘then there would be no doubt that’s he’s in that reservoir!’

  Six

  ‘You’re not serious,’ Detective Inspector Noele McClair sighed. ‘Bloody Perthshire? On a Sunday?’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ Detective Constable Tiggy Benjamin said. ‘The message was that the boss is at Black Shield Lodge at a family party. A body’s been found in the grounds, and he wants a full team there as soon as possible.’

  ‘And that includes me?’

  There was a pause. ‘I suppose that’s your call, ma’am, but you are number two in the squad. The message was that we should go straight there, pronto. DS Wright’s picking me up from the office. The SOCO’s are pulling in a team and heading there too.’

  ‘What about DS Singh?’

  ‘Tarvil’s tested positive for Covid. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, that had escaped me. How is he?’

  ‘Asymptomatic but isolating.’

  ‘This is an unusual situation,’ McClair said. ‘Did Sauce go into detail?’

  ‘It wasn’t Sauce who called me. It was Cheeky, his wife. She said the boss is at the scene, but he didn’t have his phone with him. Will you come?’

  ‘Of course I will, Tiggy,’ she replied. ‘I’ll have to drop my son off at my mother’s but that won’t delay me. I just wish I knew more about what we’re going to. On you go now, I’ll see you there. It’ll probably take me an hour and a half.’

  She swung her legs out of bed and made a call. ‘Mum,’ she began tentatively.

  ‘Work?’ her mother asked, each knowing that the question was rhetorical. ‘Drop him off,’ she said, ‘but I have Duncan coming for dinner tonight, so I’d appreciate it if you were back by then.’

  ‘I’ll make sure of that,’ she promised. And for breakfast, you old slapper, she thought as the brief conversation ended. She approved of the relatively new relationship, which had begun on a bird-watching group that her mother had joined in Aberlady, Gullane’s neighbouring village. Until then she would have had trouble telling a magpie from a mallard. For all her daughter knew, she still would, but birds had become of secondary interest. Duncan Hogg was a stockbroker widower in his early sixties. If Noele had gone in search of a partner for her lonely mother, she would have picked him out of any catalogue.

  Her own emotional life was non-existent; it had been hit by a double tragedy that had left her shattered for a year. When she had felt ready, she had ventured into a brief relationship with an older man that had marked her in a different way. In the aftermath she had made a vow to remain single and celibate for the rest of her life.

  She took a thirty-second shower, and dressed quickly, choosing country clothing rather than one of her normal work outfits, then ate a banana and drank milk straight from the plastic bottle as a substitute for breakfast, while giving Harry cereal and toast. Finished, she ushered him outside, locked her door and crossed the yard to her parking place. Having ensured that her son was secure on his booster seat in the back, she buckled herself in behind the wheel and was about to drive out of the steading when she felt her mobile vibrate.

  Thinking that it might be Sauce, she snatched it from her breast pocket, but the screen indicated a text, not a call, from a number that she did not recognise. It had not originated from a UK mobile, but from a Spanish number, if she remembered the country code correctly. She was puzzled and a little annoyed by what she guessed might be a marketing ploy or a scam; nevertheless her curiosity won the day. She opened the message, frowning as she read its ten short words:

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to end like that.’

  She stared at the screen; her eyes were wide, and she felt her pulse race. Him? No, surely. God forbid.

  Noele breathed deeply as she concentrated on regaining her composure and gathering her thoughts. When she was ready she called her office, hoping that Benjamin would still be there. She was relieved when the young detective picked up.

  ‘Tiggy,’ she exclaimed. ‘I need you to do something for me. Take down this number. It’s something that’s just come up.’ She waited for Benjamin to find a pen; when she was ready she dictated the eleven digits. ‘I’ve just had a text from this number, unsigned. I need you to do your best to find out who sent it.’

  ‘How am I going to do that?’ the DC asked. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

  McClair realised that she had no ready answer to the question. She was about to suggest an internet search for the main mobile providers in Spain when she remembered that it was Sunday, and that there was a practical difficulty. ‘True,’ she conceded, ‘and you don’t speak Spanish do you, Tiggy?’

  ‘Not a word, boss.’

  ‘Okay, let me think about this.’ She paused and a course of action presented itself. It carried a risk, but it was one that she was prepared to take. ‘I want you to get hold of DCI Karen Neville. She works in counter terrorism and organised crime in Glasgow, the thing we used to call Special Branch. Tell her this has come from me, give her the number, and ask her if her division has contacts in Spain that might help trace the owner of that phone.’

  ‘I can do, ma’am,’ the DC said, ‘but Jackie’s here and we’re just about to leave for Perthshire.’

  ‘In that case, it’s your lucky day. Tell her to leave without you. This takes priority, over everything.’

  Seven

  ‘You don’t really need me here, Sauce, do you?’ Sarah Grace observed. She wore the disposable blue garments that she always carried in the boot of her car, being liable to be called out at any moment. ‘This is more of a job for a forensic anthropologist, given the age of that skeleton.’

  Haddock smiled, with a nod towards her husband, who was standing on the track a few yards away from the fallen tree. ‘I don’t really need him either but try and keep him away.’

  If Skinner heard the comment, he ignored it. Instead, he gazed intently at the disinterred remains.

  ‘Sarah,’ Haddock said, ‘since you’re the only person here wearing a sterile outfit, would you like to take a closer look, and tell us anything you can?’

  ‘That won’t be much,’ she replied, moving closer to the exposed roots.

  The two men waited as she studied the remains, Haddock fiddling with the zip of the waterproof golf jacket that had been brought to him from the hotel. The detective watched her, but Skinner took out his phone, moving a step or two backwards. He found Mia McCullough’s mobile number and called her.

  She answered on the fourth ring. ‘Bob, what the . . .’ she mumbled, sounding woozy. ‘What time is . . . Jesus! I had an Armagnac when I got back to the house, maybe too big an Armagnac. I should have slept in the hotel. What’s up?’

  ‘The forest to the north of the hotel,’ he said. ‘Who owns it, do you know?’

  ‘We do. I do, I suppose. Black Shield Lodge is just part of a bigger estate. We have a farm. We use our own produce in the hotel as far as we can. Why are you asking this?’

  ‘The wood’s taken a hell of a battering in the storm,’ he told her. ‘You’ve lost quite a few trees.’

  ‘You woke me up to tell me that?’ Mia exclaimed. ‘Bob, one woman’s fallen tree is another woman’s log pile.’

  ‘Not this one.’ He told her about the discovery.

  ‘Do you know when it was planted?’ he asked, when she had absorbed the news. ‘The forest, that is.’

  ‘I have no idea. Ronnie Sexton might be able to tell you’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘The farm manager. He’s responsible for the whole estate apart from the hotel. He’s been here for a lot longer than I have. Find him if you’re that curious; he lives in the farmhouse. You can reach it if you follow the track past the forest, or there’s a separate road that branches off just inside the main entrance. I have to go now, Bob,’ she declared. ‘I need to pee.’ The call ended abruptly.

  Skinner turned and stepped closer to the tree. As he did so, a liveried police car came into view at the end of the track, and approached, rather more quickly than was necessary, splashing rainwater on either side, and sending a wave towards Skinner and Haddock as it drew to a halt. Its occupants stepped out, both constables, both male.

  ‘Right,’ the larger and seemingly the more assertive of the two boomed, ‘what have we got here?’ He gazed at Skinner. ‘Just back off there, sir, will you? And you, lad,’ he added, glaring at Haddock. ‘We’re told this is a potential crime scene that we need to secure so you’d all best be on your way. Before you go though, we were told that a DCI Haddock would be here. Yis havenae seen him, have yis?’

  ‘That would be me,’ Sauce replied, calmly and with a light smile. ‘I’m sorry I’m not carrying my ID. If you insist on me going back to the hotel to get it, I will, but I won’t be very happy when I get back. This is Sir Robert Skinner, by the way. You may have heard of him unless you’re too new in the service.’

  ‘Sorry sir,’ the smaller officer said. ‘I’m PC Ian Richardson, by the way, and this is PC Malcolm Sargent. What would you like us to do?’

  ‘Do you have traffic cones?’ Haddock asked. Richardson nodded. ‘Good. I want PC Sargent to walk back up to the end of the track and block it off just in case anyone thinks to bring a tractor along here.’

  ‘Can I take the car, sir?’ Sargent was frowning. ‘Ah don’t have any wellies.’

  ‘Then try not to walk through any puddles,’ the DCI suggested. ‘PC Richardson, just off this roadway there’s a fallen tree. When you see it you’ll understand why you’re here. I want you to tape off an area twenty-five yards on either side from where we are now and approximately fifty yards into the woodland. I don’t think there’ll be too many dog walkers out this morning, but you never know. Do you have enough tape in the car for that?’

  Richardson nodded. ‘I’m sure we do, sir. We don’t use a hell of a lot of it in this part of Tayside. No’ like the city. Does this place,’ he asked, unexpectedly, ‘belong to Cameron McCullough, the guy they call Grandpa?’

  ‘It did,’ Skinner confirmed, ‘until he died late last year. Now it belongs to his heirs. Why do you ask?’

  ‘My Uncle Rod was in CID in the old Tayside force,’ the young constable explained. ‘He was a DCS by the time he retired. He used to go on about Grandpa McCullough all the time. He was convinced he was bent, but he said that nothing stuck to him.’

  ‘Probably because there was nothing to stick,’ Haddock said, icily.

  ‘Was your uncle Rod Greatorix?’ Skinner asked, swiftly.

  ‘That’s right,’ Richardson exclaimed.

  ‘I knew him,’ he said. ‘What’s he doing now? He’s still with us, yes?’

  ‘Yes and no. He and my aunt live in Portugal. Uncle Rod didn’t play golf until they went out there. Now my auntie can hardly get him off the course.’

  ‘Rod wasn’t alone in thinking what he did,’ Skinner told him. ‘The entire Tayside force was obsessed with Cameron; there was a lot of time wasted on him. Now if they’d gone after his sister instead, they’d have had more joy. Next time you speak to Rod, tell him Bob Skinner sends his best.’

  ‘I will do, sir, thanks.’

  As Richardson returned to the patrol vehicle to fetch the control tape, Sarah stepped out of the clearing created by the falling tree. ‘It’s a boy,’ she announced. ‘That’s to say, it’s a male skeleton, a mature male but relatively young I’d say. There’s no sign of spinal deterioration, for example. Putting an age on it in terms of how long it’s been there, that is indeed one for a forensic pathologist. The mere fact that it’s entangled in the roots isn’t an indicator of when it was buried. Unless they find material in the ground to give us a clue, it could have been placed in a shallow grave a hundred years ago, before there was a forest. I didn’t look in the grave,’ she added. ‘The wrath of the head of the forensic team is something I do not need.’

  Eight

  Skinner followed the track to the farmhouse. The skies were still heavy, but a check of the radar app on his phone indicated that no rain was likely for at least an hour. He had called Mia again to ask for Ronnie Sexton’s phone number, but had been diverted to voicemail. She was either asleep or in the shower, he guessed.

  The muddy pathway narrowed as he reached the end of the ploughed field to his left, beyond which, he assumed, there would be no need for tractors. It continued through another forest, of pine. It seemed to be smaller than the other and had suffered no serious storm damage, possibly because its trees were planted more densely or had deeper roots.

  The path ended at a gate with a simple latch. He opened it and stepped out into what seemed to be the front lawn of the farmhouse, a big two-storey structure built of grey sandstone, similar to that of Black Shield Lodge, but less delicately hewn from its quarry. Its roof was red tile, rather than the black slate of the hotel. Not the original, he surmised, concluding that the house was older and might have fallen victim to nail sickness. Skinner’s first home in Gullane, a cottage, had been similarly blighted not long after he and Myra had moved in. Thirty years on he still winced at the cost of the repair; he had known that his father would have contributed but had been too proud to ask.

  The heavy, weathered oak door opened as he approached; that had to be an original feature. The man who stepped out was white-haired, and of medium height, elderly but still with formidably wide shoulders. Skinner was reminded of a cousin of his father. He had only met him once when his grandfather had taken him to visit but those broad shoulders were his most vivid memory; he had been a farmer too.

  ‘You’ll be Sir Robert,’ the man exclaimed, extending a huge hand. ‘I’m Ronnie Sexton. Mrs McCullough called me a few minutes ago.’

  That’s why I went to voicemail, Skinner thought.

  ‘She told me what’s happened and said that you might be coming to see me. That’s a bit of a shock for a Sunday morning, is it not? Although it’ll take a lot to shock you, I suppose, Sir Robert.’

  ‘A lot to surprise me, maybe,’ he replied, ‘but I can still be shocked by the idea of somebody’s son winding up in an unmarked grave.’

  ‘Indeed. It was male, was it?’

  Skinner nodded.

  ‘An unwanted baby, was it? You hear about that sort of thing.’

  ‘No, this was a grown man. That’s all I know for now. How long have you worked here, Mr Sexton?’

  ‘All my life. I started as a boy, when Lord Lawes owned the estate. I became the grieve, that’s kind of like the foreman, in my late twenties, and manager thirty years ago, after Cameron McCullough, God rest him, bought the place. He pretty much cleared everybody out, apart from the farm staff I told him to keep. It was a right mess by then. Lord Lawes’s son Curtley had been running the place; he had lots of wild ideas but no common sense. He was only focused on building the hotel.’

  ‘It was him who built it? I never knew that. I thought it had been Cameron’s project all along.’

  ‘Oh no, it began as Curtley’s dream, only it became his nightmare. The daft bugger left the farming side of the estate to my predecessor, and he was drunk half the time. The hotel went miles over budget, just when the Scottish banks were starting to take a harder line over lending. He’d have had more time if Lord Lawes hadn’t died when he did. The old man had connections in Edinburgh and London, but when he went, so did they. The head guy of the bank told Curtley straight out, “If you don’t sell it, we will.” And that’s when Cameron came along. He was young then, younger than me, but very successful, with business interests all over the place.’

  Skinner made to speak but Sexton raised a hand. ‘Aye, I know what you’re going to say, and I heard those stories too, but I had no reason ever to believe them.’

  Skinner smiled. ‘Actually, I was going to ask when the forest was planted.’

  ‘Oh that?’ the manager exclaimed. ‘I can tell you that. Whatever age young Miss McCullough is, young Cameron, that’s when it was planted. It would be about a year, maybe two, after Cameron senior took over. His immediate priority was to get the farm running properly again. He finished the building of the first phase of the hotel, then he mothballed it for a while. He told me he wasn’t ready to develop that side of the business, because he was going to take it beyond just being a hotel. The way it is now, with the golf course and the high value houses, that was Cameron’s vision from the beginning. He built a house for himself there . . . not that he lived in it fulltime until he married Mia . . . and put servicing in for all the plots, but he didn’t start selling them off until the golf course was laid out and the clubhouse was built. It was only when that was done that the hotel was opened, and the house building began.’

  ‘And the forest?’ Skinner asked, patiently. ‘You mentioned Cheeky being connected.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’ Sexton paused. ‘I’m sorry, I’m being inhospitable, Sir Robert. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘but I’m good. I need to be heading back soon.’

  ‘I see, I’ll be brief then. Cameron saw forestry as an integral part of the development from the start. There were hardly any trees in Lord Lawes’s day. The land to the east, where we’re standing now, that was prime for arable farming. The rest, that was okay for grazing sheep, but not much else. That became the leisure sector, as he called it. Trees were planted there around the golf course and among the housing plots, but the rest, Cameron saw as strategic, defining and dividing the different parts of the estate, proper woodland barriers. We identified the land that would be used, sectors that we didn’t want to farm or build on. We sat on it for a while until one day Cameron turned up from Dundee. He marched into the office and said, “Ronnie, you’re not going to believe this but I’m a grandfather!”’ Sexton chuckled. ‘Actually, I did believe it because we all knew his daughter was wild; she’d have been fifteen at the time, sixteen at most. I said nothing though because I didn’t know how Cameron would take it. Anyway, that day he was full of it, bursting with pride. “I want to mark the occasion,” he said, “by planting a forest.” And that’s where it went, where the storm hit hardest last night.’