31

Hamish Mackenzie loaded the last box of hand sanitiser into the back of his Land Rover. ‘Nice work, Duncan,’ he said to the man he’d granted the title of Head Distiller. It didn’t matter that he was the only one; experience had taught Hamish that people liked a title. It made them feel their work was important and that made them work harder.

Duncan shut the Land Rover with a grunt. ‘Aye. Teegan said she’d bring a sack of the sweetgall down this afternoon so I can get started on a new batch. It smells a wee bit medicinal, folk will think it’s the business.’

‘It’s going gangbusters down in Edinburgh. Between the hand gel and Shona Macleod’s tweed masks, we can hardly keep up with the demand.’

Duncan gave him a sideways look. ‘Aye. There’s always somebody gets the silver lining from the cloud.’

‘Might as well be us, Dunc.’ Hamish clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘You driving back tonight? It’s supposed to be blowing a hoolie.’

Hamish shrugged. ‘Nothing to trouble the Landie.’ He climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘Or I might just stay the night,’ he muttered, his words lost in the engine clattering to life. In spite of torn-faced Daisy Mortimer.

They walked back to the car park, Ross McEwen leading the way. ‘I wasn’t expecting things to move quite so fast,’ Daisy said.

‘It wasn’t what I’d planned, but it felt like the right decision. When things are moving, it’s always worth sticking to the direction of travel. What do you make of him?’

‘He seems pretty straightforward. Selfish, but then most men are.’

‘To be fair – which always grieves me – he’s the one with something to lose if the trolls turn on him. People are still going to go to Rosalind Harris for their wills and probate, regardless.’

McEwen paused by his car. Neither woman was surprised to see it was a silver Toyota Prius. It seemed that Jake Stein liked to be authentic when it came to detail when he could safely be so.

‘You lead the way, sir. We’ll follow. Give us a minute to get on board.’

They followed him back through the pretty houses of Cramond village and east to the more secluded houses that stood in their own grounds. McEwen led them between tall gateposts up a curving drive to a modern two-storey house with almost as much glass as wall. At one end was a tall white tower whose top storey had windows all round. ‘Looks like somebody dumped a lighthouse in the wrong place,’ Karen said. She drew up behind McEwen. If he decided to make a run for it, it would be slightly harder for him to swing his car round.

When she stepped on to the drive, Karen caught a glimpse of the garage, set back beyond the house. She tipped her head towards it, and Daisy nodded. McEwen led the way round the side of the house to a door opposite the garage twenty feet away. ‘I usually go in through the kitchen,’ he said, hanging cap and overcoat on a hook as they entered. ‘Saves me trailing mud or sand through the house.’ They stepped into the kind of kitchen that features in interiors magazines. Instead of the usual granite and steel, this was all oiled woods and soft lines. Drawers had their uses carved into their faces in cursive script; cutlery, serving spoons, utensils, tea towels. The cupboards followed the trend – cups, plates, wine glasses, tumblers, pasta, sauces, baking, rice & noodles, oils, vinegars, herbs, spices. Handy for those days when you couldn’t remember your own name. A shelf of high-end cookbooks confirmed McEwen’s claims of sharing foodie tendencies with his lover, as well as both an Aga and a gas range cooker.

Daisy and Karen automatically masked up; McEwen didn’t bother. Careful to keep her distance, Karen walked around the perimeter. There was no view of the garage; that wall was where the vast American fridge and the ovens were situated. ‘You can’t see the garage from the house, then?’

Ross looked up from the bench where he was unlacing his boots. ‘It’s not very scenic. There are good views in other directions, so it’s not like it’s a loss.’

‘We’d like to start with the garage,’ Karen said.

A flicker of irritation crossed his face. ‘I’ll just tie my shoes again,’ he said crisply.

‘Thank you.’ They followed him back outside. Karen noted the bulk of what she took to be a large barbecue, equipped with wheels so it could be moved easily. The garage door was controlled by a numeric keypad; it slid up and over with hardly a sound.

It was a space large enough for two substantial cars. But there were no vehicles inside. ‘You don’t put your car in the garage?’

‘I can’t be arsed. It’s not like it’s a magnet for car thieves.’

At one end was a stack of banker’s boxes. McEwen waved a hand at them. ‘Copies of my books, manuscripts.’ A wry smile. ‘The start of my archive, I suppose you could call it.’

Workbenches occupied the near wall. They were fitted with vices and G-clamps that looked dusty. There were pegboards for tools, but the array was hardly impressive. A hammer, a couple of pairs of pliers, a wrench. An electric screwdriver and a hammer drill sat lonely on the bench top. He caught Karen’s eye and shrugged. ‘I’m not much use with my hands. GSI, that’s me.’

‘GSI?’ Daisy asked.

‘Get Someone In. At least these days I can afford it.’

Next to them was the gardening equipment. Ride-on mower, hedge trimmer, tree lopper, as well as the usual assortment of spades, forks and hand tools. Karen had a sneaking suspicion this was another area where Ross McEwen Got Someone In.

Karen pointed to the floor where a panel of chipboard sat flush with the concrete around it. ‘Is that an inspection pit?’

He nodded. ‘The previous owner’s taste for modernity didn’t go further than his house. He was passionate about vintage cars. He used to pick them up as little more than wrecks then restore them. When I looked at the house, there was a beautiful American car sitting here. A Duesenberg Model J sports coupe. Cherry red. It was a work of art. I’d have bought it on the spot, but it wasn’t for sale. I have no interest in cars – you’ve seen what I drive, for heaven’s sake. But this would have been like having a Picasso about the place.’ He grinned, and at once Karen recognised the boyish charm that probably appealed to Rosalind.

‘So, the inspection pit was there so he could work on his cars?’ Daisy broke the moment.

‘That’s right. I got a local joiner to make a proper cover for it, to avoid any chance of an accident.’

Karen approached and studied the cover. There was the narrowest of gaps all the way round. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Nothing. It’s just a void. I mean, there are steps down at one end, but that’s all.’

‘You didn’t think it would be safer to have it filled in?’ Karen sounded absent, but her senses were on alert.

‘Probably, but the plan is when Ros and I officially come out, we’re both going to sell our places and find somewhere together. It might be a selling point, you never know.’ He smiled. ‘Would it be naïve of me to ask what’s so interesting about my garage?’

‘How do you open this?’ Karen tapped her toe on the cover.

‘There’s a crowbar somewhere . . . ’ He looked around and walked to the end of the workbench. ‘Yeah, here it is.’ He pointed at the corner and went to grab the tool.

‘Don’t touch it,’ Karen shouted. Daisy hustled across the garage and stepped between McEwen and the crowbar. She snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

He looked affronted. ‘Seriously? You think I murdered someone with a crowbar? Should I be talking to a lawyer?’

‘At this point, Mr McEwen, you are not the person of interest to us. We need to be sure, however, that any potential evidence is not compromised.’ She looked around and spotted what she thought was a trenching spade. Narrow flat blade that might fit the gap if she was lucky. And for once, Karen was feeling lucky.

‘On you go, Daisy.’ Younger, fitter, and possessed of less dignity to lose, Karen thought. She kept her eyes on Ross McEwen. He was leaning against the workbench, arms folded across his chest, expression mildly curious,

‘Do you mind telling me what has drawn you to my garage so inexorably?’

‘Let’s just say, information received.’

‘Received via a partial manuscript written by a man who hated me, and wanted revenge on his ex-wife for finding happiness elsewhere? I think you’ve been reading too many of our books, Chief Inspector.’

‘I’ll be the first to apologise if I’ve wasted your time, sir.’

Daisy approached, spade in hand, apparently a woman unaccustomed to horticulture. On the edge of the pit, she hesitated, looking to Karen for guidance. Her boss nodded as she gloved up.

‘One of the short sides, if my memory of Higher Physics is correct,’ McEwen said. ‘Levers and fulcrums and all that.’

Daisy stuck the spade into the gap and leaned on the handle. Nothing happened. She shifted the spade a little and tried again. She grunted and heaved, and this time it moved. Karen stepped forward and crouched to get her fingers under the edge. Daisy dumped the spade and together they inched the board sideways. It was lighter than Karen expected; one person could manage it, she thought.

The cover slid aside. McEwen gasped. ‘Fuck me!’

Instead of the void he’d claimed they’d find, they were staring down at an uneven concrete slab that occupied the bottom half of the pit.

McEwen’s eyes were wide, his hands in his hair. ‘I swear to God, I had no idea . . . ’ He looked around wildly. ‘You’ve got to believe me. Whatever’s down there, it’s nothing to do with me.’