Free Bad Blood by Aline Templeton

time, she said.’
    Fleming flickered a smile. ‘More like a shaving brush, really. That was to go under my hat. I was just a PC at the time, so no, I wasn’t really involved.’
    Hepburn was sure that was the truth – apart from anything else, it squared with what Marnie had said – but she was equally sure that it wasn’t the whole truth, or anything near. She was beginning to feel very uncomfortable.
    ‘Did you get any impression of what she is expecting?’ Fleming asked.
    ‘Not really. Just – well, some answers, I suppose.’
    ‘What was her attitude – cooperative or aggressive?’
    Hepburn hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. Tense, certainly. And she seemed very determined not to be fobbed off.’
    ‘Right.’ Fleming thought for a moment. ‘OK, Louise. Have you written up your report?’
    ‘Yes. I can forward it to you immediately, if you want.’
    ‘Fine. Is there anything else came out of the interview that you want to tell me?’
    Hepburn thought for a moment then shook her head. ‘I said I’d get back to her once I’d spoken to you, ma’am.’
    ‘There’s no need for that,’ Fleming said quickly. ‘Have you got a mobile number for her? Good. Leave it with me – I’ll contact her myself. Thanks, Louise.’
    Hepburn recognised dismissal. As she walked back down the stairs she was feeling – yes, shocked. The words ‘cover-up’ were beating insistently in her head.

    There was no Morrison at the Newton Stewart address Marnie remembered when she leafed through the local telephone directory her landlady grudgingly produced for her. That was a blow; it was the only definite contact she had.
    She could go to Newton Stewart, find the house and see if the new owners knew where the Morrisons had gone, but that meant bus journeys and her experience with the unhelpful woman at Clatteringshaws wasn’t encouraging.
    She ran her eye down the list of Morrisons. What had Gemma’s father been called? Obligingly, the scene popped into her head.
    ‘Michael! Where are you?’ Gemma’s mum is saying as she comes into the sitting room where they’re watching TV. ‘Oh, hello, Marnie – you again! I didn’t know you were here.’
    It isn’t said nastily – Gemma’s mum’s lovely, the sort of mum she wishes hers was – but she sort of curls up inside. Gemma never comes out to Clatteringshaws unless Mum isn’t there.
    Gemma’s mum goes out again. ‘Michael!’ she calls. They go back to watching Grange Hill. Tucker’s in trouble again.
    Michael, Michael. She pushed the scene away and went back to the directory. There are quite a lot of M. Morrisons but only twoMichaels, one in Wigtown and one strangely enough in Dunmore, the place she associated with Anita.
    That was a sign. She could find the information centre in town and ask where Dunmore was and how she could get to it.
    The landlady was making pointed clattering noises with a hoover outside her door, obviously trying to dislodge her from her room. Marnie grabbed her tote bag and went out. It was chilly with a brisk wind blowing but at least the sun was shining and the air was so clear and fresh she felt an exhilaration that was close to optimism. This could be the day when she started getting answers.

    There was no alternative, and she couldn’t put it off any longer. Bracing herself, Fleming went downstairs and tapped on Rowley’s door, cherishing the childish hope that she wouldn’t be in – as if that would solve anything.
    When there was, indeed, no answer, she realised how foolish that hope had been. It only gave her longer to agonise over what lay ahead.

    Shelley Crichton’s eyes were still red this morning and her head was aching, a hangover from two days of immersive grief. She always felt like this after Halloween: drained and depressed as if it had all happened yesterday and not forty years before. Indeed, it seemed to get worse as she got older, not better.
    If Grant was more sensitive, she wouldn’t make that punishing phone