Free Evil for Evil by Aline Templeton

already for this particular representative of the breed.
    She’d arranged for the pathologist, photographer and scene of crime officers to be summoned – though how, precisely, you were to secure a crime scene and carry out an effective investigation in a sea cave, and what you could hope to learn from it after so much time had clearly passed, was a whole other question. But at least that was their job, not hers.
    Maybe this was a local missing person and it would all be straightforward. She certainly hoped so, since otherwise you were talking DNA analysis and dental records and forensic anthropology, and with no immediate urgency this would go right down to the bottom of the list. It could take weeks to have any hope of ID, and of course, estimates of time of death would be in years, not hours. They wouldn’t get that information quickly either.
    The only upside was that the press was always impatient. If there was nothing immediately, the story would go cold. Fleming’s main task today would be to quash expectation.
    When she reached the Smugglers Inn she was surprised not to find MacNee there to greet her, only an embarrassed-looking young constable and the journalist who took pleasure in describing her colleague’s problems.
    Eying the distance between island and shore, Fleming felt the irritation of the good sailor who sees
mal de mer
as something of an affectation. Presumably MacNee hadn’t done it deliberately, but really! The press was ready enough to mock the police, without making them a present of choice material.
    There was no alternative to accepting Drummond’s offer to take her across to see for herself, then bring back MacNee. PC Hendry was dripping around like a wet sheet, the concept of initiative being clearly foreign to him. Muttering under her breath, Fleming sent him to investigate boat hire. A fushionless gomeril, as her mother would say.
    Still, at least on the trip out she could fill in on background. She didn’t know this area, and since Drummond lived here, he should be a good source. Journalists always knew the dirt and he might be persuaded to dish it.
    It was, at least, a glorious day, with the sea deep blue and sun sparkles on the waves. As they headed out into the bay, a flight of Manx shearwaters came past, skimming the surface on stiff wings and Fleming had to stifle a cry of delight. This wasn’t a trip round the bay on the
Nancy Belle
.
    ‘Is Lovatt one of the National Trust islands?’ she asked.
    According to Drummond, it wasn’t. The Matt Lovatt who owned it was a relatively recent arrival, from England somewhere. Fleming’s knowledge of decomposition was sketchy, but she would hazard a guess that if he’d only appeared three years ago he could have nothing to do with the case, though she’d have to interview him as owner of the property.
    Drummond was more than ready to outline Innellan society. ‘There are two families of incomers living here year round – we’re one of them,’ he said, pointing out a newish house on rising ground above the village. ‘It was dirt cheap, fantastic views, great place for a kid to grow up and as long as you don’t expect any contact with the locals beyond good morning if they’re in a particularly loquacious mood, that’s fine. Suits us – my wife and I both work, the kid’s at school all day.
    ‘What can I say about the natives?’ He shrugged. ‘Scrambled ashore when the Ark grounded, I reckon. Intermarried, naturally – you never say anything about anyone because they’re all cousins. And if you’re going to be wanting information from them, I can only say good luck. If they think – rightly or wrongly – that one of their own might be involved, you’d get more out of a chat with the deceased.
    ‘And you’d have to think it would be a local crime, wouldn’t you?’ he asked innocently.
    Fleming gave a non-committal smile. ‘No comment,’ she said.
    ‘Just thought it was worth a try.’ He made a rueful face.
    Rather