Free A Double Death on the Black Isle by A. D. Scott Page B

because Don told him to help select a shot for the front page, Rob met Hec at his studio, also known as his granny’s washhouse.
    Ducking under the clothesline, where negatives and proof sheets were dangling thickly from wall to wall, crisscrossing the tiny space, Rob noted, and was impressed by the custom-built cabinets stretching from floor to ceiling, all neatly labeled according to a classification system known only to Hec. It was then that Rob realized he was in the lair of a true professional.
    â€œHere, take a pew, we’ll sort through these.” Hec handed Rob proof sheets and negatives.
    They looked through dozens of, to Rob anyway, very similar shots of fishing boats, and a harbor.
    â€œI can’t do this, Hec, I can’t tell anything from a negative.”
    â€œFine. I’ll look through the Black Isle negs, you look through the prints.”
    In his own kingdom, Hec was different—not such a pest. He was confident, good company. Rob selected about a dozen of what he considered the best shots, then looked at them again. He stared at one particular photograph. He found another similar shot, but the figure was farther in the distance.
    â€œHec, can you make this bigger? Maybe blow up a part of it?”
    â€œEasy peasy.” Hector looked over the shot. “That one’s no good.” He leaned over Rob, patronizing, a man who knew best. “See, here, the angle’s all wrong, the boat’s only just caught alight, there’s no drama in the composition.”
    â€œSo who’s this then?” Rob pointed to a figure on the left of the frame, running along the canal towpath, away from the fire.
    â€œOh aye, him. I saw him. He was running towards the lock keepers’ house at the end of the canal basin. You know, the locks that lead into the firth.”
    â€œHector!” Rob didn’t realize he was shouting.
    Hector immediately turned defensive, his shoulders hunching, his eyes blinking. “What?”
    â€œDon’t you see?” Rob shook the pictures six inches in front of Hector’s face.
    â€œSee what?”
    â€œI give up. You’re hopeless, helpless, and useless.” Rob knew there was no point trying to get sense out of Hector. Instead he gathered up the prints and the negatives and the magnifying glass and drove back to the office where he dumped everything, including Hector, in McAllister’s office.
    â€œYou can sort this out,” Rob handed the photographs to the editor, saying, “because if I stay, I’m likely to do him damage.”
    McAllister took the prints and the negatives, saw what Rob had seen, then sent Hec home to print out some blowups. It was late afternoon before Hector returned.
    The police station was a short walk from the
Gazette
office. Tucked beneath the castle walls, the too old, too small, too narrow building, its walls imbued with the scent and sound of misery, cast a spell on all who entered. Wee Hec was terrified. McAllister was scared too. Scared that Hec, who was only at the police station because he had been ordered to, would reach up and hold his hand.
    â€œDetective Inspector Dunne, please.”
    They were shown into an office, not an interview room, McAllister noted and approved. This inspector was shaping up to be a huge improvement on the previous detective inspector with whom McAllister had a traumatic history.
    McAllister had already told Detective Inspector Dunne of the photographs. Now he handed them over and he and Hec sat in silence as the policeman examined them.
    â€œThank you for bringing these in.” DI Dunne’s tone was formal, all business. “I’m intrigued by this particular picture,” he pointed to the shot showing a person running along the towpath. “But before we go on to look at these in detail, Mr. Bain . . .”
    Hec took a quick look round to check if there was another Bain in the room.
    â€œ. . . It’s been eight days since